Clank!

Two of the guards glanced down the hallway of the abandoned factory, shadows clouding their vision.

Their sight persuaded them that the corridor was empty. And yet the low tone continued to echo through the halls.

"What was that?"

"Come on, man," the other whined. "My shift ends around the corner. Let's just ignore it,"

"Check it out," The larger guard insisted, waving off his partner for the routine check.

His companion sighed, then retraced their steps back to the center of the hall. He glanced around the corner of a large pillar, and then checked the window. "Yep, nothing," he muttered.

His fellow guard nodded, and continued on his way, slowly, so that his partner could catch up.

But a shadow passed the trailing guard's eyes, and then the only sounds to fill the hall were his own footsteps.

The guard glanced back, finding the hallway empty, and the window open.

In times of fear, anything can seem to be the enemy. From the souls he couldn't see, to the darkness itself. Shadows now seemed to crawl along the ground, concealing traps that could be anywhere, and everywhere.

And this man was afraid.

"Richard?" He whispered, glancing around. The guard prayed for an answer so that he didn't have to rely too heavily on his bravery.

But there was nothing.

The scratching of his knife, as he unsheathed it, rang in the hallway.

But still no reply.

The guard turned his chest towards the depths of darkness, and marched forward in determination, keeping an eye peeled for any signs of his comrade. He stepped cautiously towards the window and glanced out.

If only he had been looking in the other direction.

Behind the soldier, hidden slightly behind the large pillar, stood a figure. He was short and muscular, his limbs having seemingly all meat and no bones. He was covered in a jacket with a tall collar on his torso, long, black, pants, and thick soled boots on his feet, providing much needed inches to his stature. His clothes were clean and pressed. Showing an impressive physique that he'd obviously worked long and hard on.

His face, however, was a mystery. It was covered by a mask, made from cloth and carbon fiber. The mouth of the mask was meticulously crafted, to fit the face and jawline it protected. There were two eyeholes, giving clear vision to his intelligent brown irises. And the top of his head was smooth and bald. Once long, shaven to add to his clean appearance.

In one stride, the stranger crossed the hall and jabbed his fingers into the guard's neck with enough force to bust his Adam's apple. Before the guard could so much as gasp, the stranger disarmed him and launched him out the window.

The scariest part? He barely made a sound.

The assassin glanced at the weapons he'd acquired: a long dagger, and a pistol. Then he set the pistol down, in the fresh pool of blood leaking from the body of Richard, now hidden behind the pillar he'd hidden near. It was too loud for his intentions.

The man clenched the dagger in his left hand. And on his right, he had a black glove to conceal his fingerprints.

Without a sound, the assassin continued down the hall, on a mission. He headed for the center of the abandoned factory.

Barely two corridors later, he froze.

"The boss doesn't want to be disturbed tonight," came a voice from the hallway. "But I want guards placed all around the place. The IRSA has been getting nosy and we've been specifically paid to keep them out of his hair,"

"Yes, sir," said a much softer voice.

The hero grabbed a decorative shield off of the wall, wrapped himself up tightly, and covered himself in the corner with its wide body.

"I especially want to know if anything, and I mean anything... looks... odd..." The bodyguard's voice trailed off as he got closer. "Why is that-"

The hero kicked up the shield and sprang from his position, landing on top of it. In a split second, he located the enemy, and flicked his wrist, sending the blade deep into the man's neck from ten yards away.

A second guard, who had just entered the room, roared "It's Interfector!" and ripped out his gun, hard set on filling him with lead. But the assassin was quicker. He kicked out his foot and sent the shield up into the air, deflecting the bullet.

The guard cursed and fired again. Interfector turned his body and took the blow with his padded chest, stepping back from the force, but relatively unharmed. He reached up and took a medal off of his opponent's chest.

The soldier bull-rushed the intruder, slamming him into the wall, then slumped lifelessly to the ground. A badge stabbed deep into his temple.

Interfector flipped up off of the ground like a gravity didn't apply to him, his seemingly invincible form rising up once more. Then he turned his head and looked at who the general had been talking to.

A little girl. A child. Barely the age of nine. She stared at the assassin, nothing but fear shining along with her tears.

Interfector reached down, and seized the little girl's shoulders. He dragged her into a broom closet and set her on the ground.

The little maid cowered and shivered at his touch. She merely sniffled, fearing the outcome of a scream, and stared at him.

The hero reached onto a shelf and drew off a long strand of rope, pulling on it to test its strength. Then he grabbed the girl's foot and dragged her towards him.

He used a small length of rope to tie her in place, and dropped the rest next to him. "Stay put," he snarled at her with a small gesture. Then he grabbed his rope and left the closet to continue with his business.

Outside the main office of the factory, he glanced down the hall and saw four guards.

The first one was easy. In a single swoop, Interfector dove into the corridor, threw the rope over his neck, and snapped it. Two of the other guards saw it happen.

"It's Interfector!" One cried. They drew their guns and fired.

Interfector deflected one blow with the body, and the other, with his dagger. Then he leaped off of one guard's shoulder and grabbed onto a beam on the ceiling.

"Get an sniper in here!"

He looped the rope over the beam and jumped back down. Both guards immediately swung at him, and one caught his arm, leaving yet another bruise in his bicep. Interfector collapsed.

The sniper sprinted in, and fired from the end of the hall, aiming for the visible flesh under the criminal's mask.

Interfector's hand shot up, and caught the head of the guard who'd injured his arm, pulling his face down into the path of the bullet. Then he jumped up and put himself to the back of the other guard.

"Fire!" The guard demanded.

Interfector collapsed, this time on purpose, as the bullet plunged into his enemy's neck. Finally, he scooped up the dagger, tied it to the rope, and slung it down the hall, catching the sniper in the face.

Then he yanked the rope back, wrapped it around the final guard's neck, and pounced on the other end, hanging the enemy from the ceiling.

Before anyone else could show up, Interfector opened the office door, stepped in, and locked it behind him.

That's where he found his true victim, evil mastermind Damon Ellis, at a desk, observing a series of screens. Obviously having been witnessing the journey on his own.

"End of the line, Ellis," Interfector snarled, pulling out the gun he'd brought along. It was a small pistol, exactly one bullet inside. A bullet meant for justice.

Damon slowly turned his chair and glanced the hero over, calmly. "Yeah, I guess that's what it looks like. Doesn't it?"

The villain was barely visible, but through the dim light of his monitors Interfector could clearly make out his enemy's lanky form.

Damon Ellis was tall, and fairly young in appearance. His jaw was sharp, and air was soft spoken and composed. A wisp of unkempt hair threatened to fall into his intelligent brown eyes, as he observed his foe.

"I suppose you'd like me to beg for mercy,"

"I'd like you to burn in Hell, you sick bastard," Interfector spat, stepping forward to kick the chair out from under the villain. "Your antics killed Veneno," he choked out. "You murdered a good man,"

"Me, sick bastard?" Damon chuckled, rising up off of his knees. "I murdered a good man? Let's put this into perspective, shall we?"

The villain pressed a button on his computer to rewind the tapes he'd watched. Replaying the hero's journey for them both to see.

"I blew up a training facility of your precious IRSA, and one of your so-called 'heroes' perished in the attempt of stopping me," Damon recalled, completely unwavering by the gun aimed at his temple. "In return, you break into my building, kill eight guards you don't even know the names of, and tie a little girl up in a closet, after she witnessed the onslaught, scarring her for life. Oh, but I'm the sick bastard, am I?"

Interfector spat on the floor in front of the bad guy, signaling his intense disrespect for the man. "I won't let you fuck with my head with your little mind games,"

"My mind games?" Damon whispered. "Recalling reality is a mind game to you, is it, Interfector?" He spat the name back at the hero with equal disrespect. "The actual definition of your name translates to 'murderer, killer and assassin'. Seems your venture is rather hypocritical, isn't it?"

"That's it," Interfector cocked the gun and kicked the enemy's knee, forcing him to the ground. "Give me your last words and I'll write them down when you're gone,"

Damon stared into the barrel with an almost unhinged composure. "All of you heroes are the same. You think you're entitled to destroy simply because you convince yourself that you save at the same time," his tone dropped dramatically. "Newsflash: you're just as much a villain as I am. But since you've titled yourself a hero, we have one main difference. You are forced into the role of caring what the public eye thinks of you... I don't,"

From the tail of his long coat, Damon whipped out his own pistol, pointing it up at the flesh under Interfector's mask. An angle he never would have had if he hadn't been kicked down.

The two guns went off simultaneously. Interfector's misfired. Damon's did not.

Now cloaked in the fresh blood of a so-called "hero", Ellis rose to his feet, and took shallow breaths to calm his heart.

IRSA was sending the dogs after his scent. Fine, let them come. Even if he had to put a bullet in each head that he passed, one way or another he'd burn that organization to the ground.

Damon straightened his clothes and made his way out of the office. After all, there was still a child needing freed.