It was nearing midnight in Grit City, and the skyline was cloaked in mist and neon haze. Somewhere far below, the usual chaos of the streets played out—sirens, shouting, the occasional burst of laughter or gunfire—but up here, high above it all, the Blue Boxer was pacing back and forth on a quiet rooftop like a jittery rookie.
He adjusted the straps on his blue boxing gloves for the fifth time in two minutes.
“Relax, man,” he muttered to himself, pacing again. “You’ve fought mutant lizards in sewer tunnels. You took a crowbar to the face from Skulljaw and still made it to brunch the next day. You can handle a little date.”
But this wasn’t just any date.
He pulled out his phone and stared at the profile picture of “MidnightGentX”—the mysterious man he’d met on Undercover Hearts, a discreet dating app popular among masked vigilantes and other “night workers” who didn’t exactly live normal lives. Their chats had started light, full of quips and flirty banter, but quickly deepened into something more meaningful. MidnightGentX got his references to obscure villains. He even seemed to know the exact weight of a standard-issue grappling gun.
The Boxer didn’t know his real name, didn’t know his face. But he did know the feeling that had been building in his chest all week. Excitement. Curiosity. Maybe even hope.
Still, part of him was on edge. What if it was someone he knew? Someone from the hero circuit? A rival? Or worse—an enemy playing a very long con?
He exhaled through his nose, leaned on a rooftop vent, and looked out over the city lights. His domino mask itched slightly—nerves made everything feel tighter.
He glanced at the message on his phone one more time:
“Meet me at midnight. Rooftop of the old Kingston Arms. Come alone. I’ll be the one in black.”
Footsteps. He heard them before he saw anything—light, confident, not trying to sneak. Whoever this guy was, he was comfortable on rooftops. Definitely a pro.
Blue Boxer straightened, trying to look casual, though his heart was thudding against his ribs like a speedbag.
A figure emerged from the darkness near the rooftop entrance. His silhouette was sleek and familiar, his face partially obscured in shadow.
Boxer swallowed hard. “You’re right on time,” he said, voice even but his palms sweating inside the gloves.
The figure stepped into the moonlight, stopping just before his face became fully visible.
“I always am,” the man replied, voice smooth, low, and unmistakably teasing. “Nice gloves. You look nervous, Blue.”
Boxer narrowed his eyes. That voice…
No. It couldn’t be—
He took one hesitant step forward, his breath catching in his throat.
“Wait... you’re—”