Meanwhile
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The "Rusty Anchor" was the kind of place where the air always tasted like stale smoke and cheap malt. It was a sanctuary for the forgotten, and tonight, a middle-aged man was its most dedicated patron. He sat hunched over a cracked wooden counter, his fingers tracing the condensation on a glass of bottom-shelf whiskey. The atmosphere was oppressive, a heavy shroud of gloom that matched the rot in his chest, but the man was too deep in his own misery to notice the shift in the room.
He didn't hear the door creak. He didn't hear the footsteps. He only realized he wasn't alone when the stool beside him groaned under a new weight. Then, the lightbulb directly above them hummed a sharp, dying note before flickering out, plunging the pair into a private pocket of darkness.
"Tough day?"
The mysterious man asked. His voice was like velvet dragged over gravel, deep, unnervingly calm, and possessing a gravity that seemed to pull the oxygen out of the air.
The middle-aged man glanced over, his eyes straining in the dim light. The stranger was massive, his height imposing even while seated. His figure was shrouded in a heavy coat that seemed to swallow the ambient light, but it was the scent that hit the middle-aged man first. It wasn't sweat or alcohol; it was an odd, nightly scent, like wet earth and the sharp, metallic tang of an approaching thunderstorm.
Unsettled, the middle-aged man hesitated. He felt a primal instinct to get up and run, yet, paradoxically, a strange wave of trust washed over him. It was a magnetic pull, perhaps fueled by the alcohol currently burning in his gut.
"Yeah," the middle-aged man confessed, his voice cracking. "My life is... it's pretty miserable right now."
"That is a plight quite common in this district," the mysterious man replied. He didn't look at his drink; he didn't even seem to breathe. "What's your story?"
The middle-aged man would usually have bristled at the intrusion. He was a private man, a proud man. But the stranger had a presence that acted like a truth serum. The words spilled out like a burst dam. He talked about the pink slip on his desk, the looming eviction notice, and the haunting, rhythmic beep of the heart monitor in his daughter's hospital room, a sound that was costing him more than he could ever earn.
"Why'd you get fired?" the mysterious man asked.
"The CEO... he's a 'Hero' donor. He assaulted a young intern, and I was the lucky idiot who walked in on it. I guess you can figure out the rest. Integrity doesn't pay the medical bills."
The mysterious man fell silent, seemingly weighing the story in the dark. After a long moment, he spoke again. "What is your name?"
The middle-aged man was taken aback by the personal question, but he replied nonetheless. "Kim. Kim Gongja."
"Call me Mark."
The stranger offered a hand. When Kim took it, the grip was like iron—unyielding and ice-cold. Without a word of explanation, Mark slid a thick, cream-colored envelope across the scarred wood of the bar. Before Kim could even process the movement, the stranger stood and vanished into the shadows of the exit.
Kim was confused, but he tore the envelope open anyway. His heart stopped. Tucked inside was a check, the ink still fresh. His eyes blurred as he counted the zeroes. 92,000,000 Yen.
"Wai-"
Kim scrambled off his stool, rushing toward the door to thank him, but the sidewalk was empty. Then, he jumped back as the old TV mounted above the bar suddenly switched channels, the static hissing like a snake.
"BREAKING NEWS," the anchor shouted. "A newly formed supervillain organization called 'The Tombstone' has massacred a town north of Tokyo. While no faces were seen, the apparent leader has been caught on security footage leaving the scene."
The screen shifted to a grainy, night-vision feed. There was no face, just a tall, unmistakable silhouette walking through a field of debris. The coat, the height, and the terrifying, calm gait were undeniable. It was the same shadow that had just been sitting in the dark with him.
Kim looked down at the check. The paper felt like it was burning his skin. He had been saved by a monster.