Unheroic Life of a Certain Cape-Chapter 45 Five of Hearts & Preparation

Chapter 45
Five of Hearts
& Preparation
March 2, 2025. Sunday. 1:15 a.m.
Dr. Joaquin Bustamante slumped over his polished mahogany desk, his forehead pressed to a scattering of documents stained in red. His blood pooled slowly across the expensive rug, inching toward the legs of the swivel chair like a lazy tide. The five of hearts I had embedded in his throat jutted out obscenely, the playing card slick with blood and catching the soft fluorescent light above.
I stared at him for a moment, silent. Bustamante’s glasses had slipped halfway down his nose, fogged slightly from the fading heat of his breath, though there was nothing left in him now. If I had my way, I’d be disposing of his body right now. But Crow had been clear about the job: leave it messy, and leave it loud. So here I was, a ghost standing over another corpse, my calling card screaming to the world that Eclipse had been here.
It was dangerous, sure. Leaving a mark like this was practically begging the SRC and half the cape community to hunt me down. But contracts were contracts. I followed the rules because they paid well, and because Crow didn’t tolerate loose ends.
The television mounted on the far wall droned on, the anchor’s voice clipped and urgent.
“Breaking news,” the er said, her eyes wide, her makeup too perfect for this hour. “The vigilante serial killer known as Eclipse has officially been upgraded by the Superhuman Regulation Committee. Intangibility rating, up from a four to a six. Enhancer rating, two to three. According to an SRC expert, the increase stems from the frequency, precision, and brazen nature of his killings over the last month.”
The camera shifted to a middle-aged analyst with slicked-back hair and a voice that carried authority.
“Eclipse isn’t just a killer,” the expert explained. “He’s a planner. Every kill is deliberate. Each murder, he leaves a signature and a message. We haven’t seen a cape operate at this level since the early days of post-Registration chaos. He’s not just advertising his kills; he’s telling everyone that rules don’t apply to him. And from what we’re seeing… he might be right.”
I muted the screen.
My fingers drummed against the edge of the desk, quiet, steady, the rhythm a thin veneer over the irritation crawling beneath my skin. My ratings climbing like this wasn’t just inconvenient. It was dangerous. Every jump meant more eyes on me, more cameras, more analysts dissecting my every move, building a profile they could use against me.
“Shit,” I muttered under my breath, slipping my phone from my coat pocket and snapping a quick photo of Bustamante’s body. I sent the image to Crow without a caption or commentary.
As I stood in the silence, the weight of what I’d done this past month dug in. Five jobs. Five corpses. All of them were irredeemable filth, men who preyed on those weaker than them. Bustamante had been the latest in a string of names Crow fed me, each more high-profile than the last. And every time, I told myself it was just business. Just another fix. But the way the media spun it… vigilante hero, punisher of the wicked… grated on me. They turned my feats into heroic headlines, every article painting Eclipse like some righteous executioner. I didn’t do this for justice. I did it because Crow pointed me at a target, and the payout was good.
The worst part? Crow knew my civilian identity. I had been painfully careful, erasing every breadcrumb and trace. Yet somehow, he’d found me, and now he had leverage. Running wasn’t an option. If I vanished, Crow could just reveal my identity regardless.
For a moment, I let the thought of killing Crow bloom in my mind. Ending the problem at the root. But I pushed it away just as quickly. Crow wasn’t Royal. My victory over Royal had been an alignment of chance, desperation, and timing. Crow? He was something else. No one even understood his powers fully, some said he could manipulate shadows, others whispered about psychic influence. Whatever it was, I wasn’t delusional enough to think I could take him head-on and walk away.
The phone buzzed in my hand. I checked the notification.
BunnyBlade:
[Seamark Boss wants to see you. Docks. Tomorrow. Lunch time.]
I stared at the message, brows drawn. Seamark. That was… unexpected. I’d been trying to arrange a meeting with the old man for weeks, sending word through channels, only to be ignored. And now, out of nowhere, an invitation. I exhaled through my teeth, pocketing the phone as I looked down at Bustamante one last time.
“Guess I’ll find out what the hell you want, old man.”
I phased through the office wall and into the night, the cool air of the city brushing against my face as I moved. The alleys were quiet this late, only the distant hum of traffic and the occasional bark of a stray dog breaking the stillness. I reappeared several blocks away, next to the alley where Silver leaned against the hood of my car, phone in hand, her silver hair almost glowing under the dim yellow streetlight.
She looked up when she sensed me, a small smile forming.
“You’re late,” she said, teasing but not accusatory.
“Work, you know,” I replied, already phasing back into the car’s shadow to switch outfits. I stuffed the mask and gloves into the hidden compartment of the trunk and slid into the designer clothes I’d brought along. When I emerged, Silver raised an eyebrow, giving me that look she always did when I switched seamlessly from ghost to gentleman.
“You clean up nice,” she said.
I smirked and motioned toward the car. “Come on. I promised you a date, and I don’t break promises.”
Even though it was well past midnight, I made good on that promise. The city was quieter at that hour, most places shuttered, but there were always twenty-four-hour spots if you knew where to look. We hit a late-night diner first, her eyes lighting up at the sight of greasy pancakes and endless coffee. After that, a drive by the waterfront, just us, the hum of the car, and the city lights reflecting in the water. By the time we got home, she was half-asleep, head resting against my shoulder, murmuring something soft I didn’t quite catch.
Inside, she collapsed on the bed, too exhausted to change, but not enough that she still had energy to tease and provoke me. “Hey, can you kiss me goodnight?” Spoiling her came easily, and she didn’t complain about the kind of attention I gave her. She fell asleep after, breathing steadily, and with a faint smile on her lips.
I let her rest.
The building’s top floor was my workspace, part armory, part prep room, and part safe house. I stepped out of the bedroom, crossing the empty loft and opening the reinforced steel door that led to what was essentially my war room. The walls were lined with shelves, every inch of space used for weapons, gear, or tools of the trade.
The meeting with Seamark’s boss wasn’t until noon tomorrow, but I’d learned a long time ago that being prepared could mean the difference between walking out alive and becoming another cautionary tale. The Captain, the Old Man, wasn’t someone I could afford to underestimate.
By the time the Second World War ended, the Captain was already a legend. A veteran of too many wars, too many battles, with a power that defied classification. SRC’s official records pegged him at a Shifter-9: capable of transforming into a massive serpent the size of a ship, with scales harder than reinforced steel. But there was something else, some ability that kept him alive through decades of bloodshed, leaving him looking no older than his late fifties. Immortal, if the whispers were true.
I moved with purpose, pulling gear from shelves, checking and double-checking each piece before it went into the utility belt.
C4 blocks, enough to blow through reinforced walls or make a clear statement if negotiations turned into an ambush.
Two full decks of playing cards, thin, sharp, and balanced for throwing. They wouldn’t scratch a Shifter-9, but they’d make short work of his men if things went south.
The grappling hook slid into its mechanism within my right sleeve, a significant upgrade from the fishing line trick I’d been relying on. Cleaner, faster, and, more importantly, reliable when phasing through walls or gaining higher ground.
Grenades next. Smoke, flash, and frag, each fitted into the lining of my jacket in such a way that the coat didn’t look bulky. Discretion mattered, even if my arsenal screamed overkill.
The custom explosive vest rested on its rack, the black straps coiled neatly. I hesitated before picking it up, thumb running along the wiring. Nuclear option. If things went to hell, explosives paired with intangibility would be more than just an exit strategy. It would be a statement.
Last came the handgun. Compact. Lightweight. Hidden within the left sleeve with a spring-loaded mechanism for quick deployment. I checked the chamber, loaded it, and holstered it.
“Thanks, Blackout,” I muttered under my breath. Without her, half of this gear wouldn’t exist. She had a knack for crafting tools and connections with arms dealer I could call more than reliable.
The door behind me opened with a soft hiss. I turned, finding Silver standing there, half-naked in one of my shirts, her hair mussed from sleep. She leaned on the doorframe, eyes still heavy-lidded but sharp enough to pin me in place.
“You should sleep,” she said softly.
I allowed a faint smile to pull at my lips. “You know I don’t sleep.”
She crossed the room, closing the distance between us with quiet steps, and pressed a soft kiss to the side of my neck, her arms looping lazily around me. “Then should I come with you?”
I exhaled through my nose, a mix of amusement and something heavier. “I’ve got it handled,” I told her, sliding my hand to her waist. “It’d be better if you stayed out of the cape scene for now. After Royal… Pride’s probably still sniffing around. If they find out you’re a ‘loose product,’ they’ll come looking.”
Her expression softened, but the tension lingered in her posture. I pressed another kiss to her forehead before pulling away.
“Stay,” I said again, more firmly this time.
She didn’t argue.