Hands in the Dark

Northcrest

November 7th – 15th, 1962

It began the way most reckonings do—quietly.

One night. One alley. One gang.

Then it didn’t stop.

It spread.

—

November 7th

Eastport Yard, 3:42 AM

The freight yard was half-asleep, blanketed in fog, the kind that softened noise and dulled color.

A truck idled in the dark, heavy with unregistered weapons and tagged for theft. Three men—coats long, gloves tight—worked the back with practiced hands and little conversation.

They cracked the first lock. The second resisted. The third never came off.

Something moved across the yard—fast, silent, cutting a path between steel crates and idle forklifts.

One man went down with a grunt and didn’t get back up. The other two turned too slow.

A clang rang out—metal slamming flesh—and someone screamed. But only once.

When officers arrived, the three suspects were zip-tied to a lamppost, arms twisted behind their backs. Shoulders dislocated. Bruises blooming like ink under skin.

No blood. No sign of the truck driver. No prints.

Only a knife left behind, stabbed clean into the front tire. The blade bore no initials. Just a faint, fractal pattern. Something impossible to trace.

—

November 8th

Briarwood Heights, 11:19 PM

Councilman Elijah Brandt was not easily rattled. Not until the night he found a ghost in his study.

He came home late, irritated and drunk, ready to scream at his security detail—until he found them sprawled on the entryway tile. One unconscious. The other staring at the ceiling like he’d forgotten where he was.

Inside, Brandt called out. No answer. Then he stepped into the study.

There, standing in the firelight, was a man.

Tall. Motionless. Wrapped in black from collar to boots. The mask he wore—white, smooth, empty—reflected the flames in a way that made it look like it breathed.

Brandt froze.

“I—I don’t know who sent you,” he stammered. “But whatever you want, I can pay it.”

The man didn’t answer. Didn’t move. Just stared.

“I said—”

“You sold the East End,” the man said quietly. His voice sounded like it belonged to the house itself. Dry. Old. Final.

Brandt’s throat worked. “I—I had no choice. That permit was—”

“You had a choice.”

The figure reached into his coat. Brandt flinched—but no weapon came out. Just a single black card.

It landed on the desk without a sound.

“You’re being watched.”

Then he was gone. Not out the door. Not through the window. Gone—as if he’d never been there.

Brandt locked the study behind him and told police he’d been robbed. But he never showed them the card.

—

November 10th

Red Hollow District, 2:08 AM

The dogfighting ring was in a basement off Covert Street. No sign. No doorbell. Just blood and bets and bad men.

Then everything went quiet.

Witnesses heard a bang—like a metal trap snapping shut. Then shouting. Then nothing but silence.

Twelve men were arrested. Two left in stretchers. None of them talked tough afterward.

“We were just watchin’ the fight,” one said, face split with a swollen lip. “Then this… this thing drops outta the rafters. Black coat. White face. No eyes. No mouth. Didn’t say a word. Just moved.”

Another man added, “Didn’t kill us. But he could’ve.”

No one argued.

—

November 12th

The Northcrest Herald Building

The headline ran across the entire front page:

WHO IS THE MAN IN THE MASK?

Crime Falls—Fear Rises

No one had answers. Only stories.

Some said he worked for the city. Others claimed he was ex-military, a black project gone rogue.

The Herald’s editorial didn’t speculate. It warned:

"He’s not a guardian. Not a hero. He’s not here to save us. He’s what happens when nothing else works. A final answer to a city that stopped listening."

That same afternoon, a radio interview aired live with one of the suspects from Furnace Alley.

“I don’t know what he is,” the man rasped. “But it’s the same guy. Coat, mask, moves like smoke. I’ve been shot before. I’ve done time. But nothin’ scared me like him.”

A beat of silence.

“You think I’m scared of cops? I’m scared of him.”

—

November 15th

Northcrest Central Park, 12:00 Midnight

The mugging was quick. It always was.

A man with a knife. A tourist too far from his hotel. A night too quiet to scream.

“Wallet,” the mugger said. “No noise.”

But the tourist didn’t cry out. Didn’t run.

He was staring at something behind the mugger.

A shadow. Moving without sound. A coat catching the wind. A face without features.

The mugger turned, but not fast enough.

An hour later, he was found strapped to a park bench with a belt around his wrists and a note taped to his chest.

“This city is being watched.”

—

By then, it wasn’t just the alleys.

The fear spread—into boardrooms, into bars, into courthouse corridors and corrupt police lockers. Wherever power had festered, the whispers followed.

Criminals began looking over their shoulders. Dirty officers stopped taking bribes so openly. Mid-level enforcers went underground. Even the high towers of downtown locked their windows a little tighter.

He didn’t kill. But he didn’t need to.

Tall. Black coat. White mask. No face. No name. No words.

Just precision. Cold hands. A silence that clung to the room after he left.

Every story was the same.

He didn’t show up until it was too late for talk.

And when he did—he made sure it wouldn’t happen again.

Like the city itself had grown tired of swallowing poison.

And was finally spitting it out.

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