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Within a city, there is the side that most live in; safe, full of light and blissful ignorance. Then there is the side that truly comes alive when everyone else goes to sleep, when they turn their heads to ignore the obvious, when good people do nothing. This is the side of the world that holds the most power, holds the most danger, and holds the most reward. Not many can exist in both worlds and walk the tightrope wire dividing the two. Some try, most fall to their demise. There are those who ignore the thin wire and exist outside of both, forging their own path, moving ahead of everyone else. They are the ones favored by luck, those who can change the world but choose not to. They glide through history, seen but unseen at the same time.

In one of the most thriving metropolises, the winter holiday season gives the usual distractions to the everyday routine. Stores advertised sales, new products and the days left to buy before the holiday. Most citizens of this city walk down the sidewalk with only a vague cognition of their surroundings. They move mainly by memory down the path taken 5 days a week at the same times of the day, surrounded by the same people day after day. Snow floats lightly down from the dark night sky, mostly going unnoticed by the regulars of the city. The sidewalks start to collect the fallen snow, the ground a grayish white while the roads remain a glossy, wet black. In the downtown area, the hum of the city vibrates through each citizen as the massive crowds soon find their destinations or shelter, the buildings stretching to the seemingly limitless night sky.

Breaking from the crowd, one young man steps to the side of the sea of unconscious travelers, staring up at the sky. His scraggly long russet hair hangs over his midnight blue eyes, the fluffs of snow gently landing on him, his height of 6’3 making him more noticeable than most. His baggy sweatshirt cover with a black military surplus jacket and jeans give no hints to his body’s physique, his sneakers worn and par for the course. To those who look carefully though, they see his straight back, the alert eyes, the spring-loaded tension in his limbs, and they become wary. Though his hands remain in his pockets, the young man’s stance portrays confidence and a danger that most cannot put their finger on, and thus most avoid him out of caution.

He stands there, letting the snow pile atop his brow for a few minutes, meanwhile going unnoticed by the moving crowds as he stands in the transition between alley and sidewalk. When he does move, he shakes his head to free the snow into the wind, his eyes looking straight ahead past the crowd and across the street. Like him, there was a person standing apart from the flow of people moving by program, not a part of any monotonous routine. The other figure, a shadow standing in a dim lit alley just stands there, seemingly staring down the raggedy young man.

Finally, after minutes of staring at the shadow, the young man disappears into the crowd, the shadow across the road doing the same. Blocks away, a small locally owned diner thrives with the nightlife, multiple regular customers coming through for their coffee, waffles and over easy-eggs. The waitress moves around the diner seamlessly; refilling coffee cups, scratching down orders in her notepad and calling them out to the gray-haired woman cooking over the grill in the back. As the door swings open, ringing the bell hanging above the doorframe, the waitress looks over to the new customer as he walks through the diner’s main floor and seats himself at the counter. The man sits in the seat, hunching over and leaning on the counter, showing a weariness and need of caffeine.

The waitress walks over and immediately sits a large mug in front of him, pouring a fresh pot of coffee into it as he greets the raggedy young man, as if she had already heard his mental request.

“You drink coffee sweetie? Most people who roll in here drink it like water,” the waitress says with a smile.

The young man nods with a smile, nonverbally giving gratitude. The waitress nods, accepting the thanks as she finishes pouring and setting a small bowl of creamer cups on the table.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes to get your order, so perk up in the meanwhile alright?”

As the waitress goes to attend to the other customers, the young man observes her with calculating eyes behind the strands of hair covering his eyes. Long, loosely vibrant naturally red hair, hazel eyes, slender face with an athletic curved figure in jeans and a t-shirt with an apron is what most would see, but the young man sees beyond the physical characteristics. As she moves, she is aware of not only what is in front, but what surrounds her as well. When a young child sitting with an overworked parent next to the table the waitress is serving knocks over his spill-proof cup, the waitress is aware enough to turn her attention from her order taking just long enough to catch the cup and return it to the child before continuing her original task. When making her rounds, she observes the customers who are still fixating on their cups of caffeine and those who have begun looking around for other things to occupy their time, signaling either a readiness to order or an empty cup.

She works thoroughly in the diner, attending to the needs around her while the young man just observes, occasionally sipping his coffee now mixed with creamer and sugar. After a few minutes of juggling orders from the kitchen and refilling mugs, the redheaded waitress stands in front of the raggedy young man, her pad ready to jot down notes.

“Pair of waffles, side of over easy eggs with bacon please,” the young man says without prompt from the waitress, his voice polite and warm.

The tone of the young man’s order has the waitress eyeing him closely out of curiosity. She had not seen such a disheveled looking man speak with such a contrasting tone of elegance and distinction while saying something so simple. As the waitress nods while jotting down the order, she smiles warmly at the young man before shouting back his order. He smiles back with a polite “thank you” and goes back to sipping his coffee. The next hour proceeds as a normal late night at the diner, the young man sitting at the counter blending in despite his appearance.

However, his camouflage only works against the diner’s customers; the waitress remains interested in the young man’s presence out of intellectual curiosity. Once she turns around to check on him, she notices the empty seat, plate stacked with empty cup and silverware atop, the cash for the meal neatly off to the side. Sighing at the loss prospect of an interesting conversation, the waitress continues through her shift.

At the end of her work day, she dons her coat and waves goodnight to the older woman behind the counter and the replacing waitress, making her way out the back door into the connecting alley. She walks way down the deserted alley with a purpose, crunching the fresh snow beneath her sneakers. A few minutes of navigating the winding paths connecting the backs of all the buildings within the district, the waitress’ phone rings. She answers it as she rounds another corner, something catching her eye briefly as a woman starts talking on the other end. While the woman on the other line continues to chat the waitress’ ear off, the waitress slowly backs up to double check the possible hallucination.

It was no hallucination. What the waitress stumbled upon is a dead-end corridor with walls sprayed red as if they were an abstract art canvas. The snow on the ground pooled with crimson liquid in various puddles. Corpses are piled sporadically across dumpster and handrails, others mutilated and randomly laid across the concrete ground. Standing amongst the carnage is the man from the diner, standing tall while holding a man off the ground by the throat single handed. He twists his hand sharply to the side and a sickening “crack” echoing in the eerily quiet alley. The young man tosses the body as if holding a ragdoll, and it mimics such as it bounces off the wall and lands atop another predisposed corpse.

The young man sighs and rolls his neck, subtle cracking echoing through the alley. He pulls off his gloves, pocketing them before running his hands through his hair, now tied up behind his head while stray bangs hang over his face. His eyes are tired, but not showing any remorse of the massacre before him. As he takes a phone out of his pocket, he hears a crack different than that of snapping bone; the breaking of another phone’s screen on a concrete curb not covered by snow. The young man turns to the source of the sound to find the waitress standing at the corner of the alley, her face frozen in fear and horror.

“Shit,” they both say, the man’s face contorted in anger while the woman’s face is contemplating fight-or-flight.

The young woman pulls out a concealed pistol from her purse with practiced efficiency, aiming at the man. Before she can say anything, he springs into action and darts in to swat the pistol out of her hands with inhuman speed. As the pistol flies away the waitress swings a leg up in a roundhouse kick, causing the man to freeze and wince just long enough for her to break away. She sprints away with practiced speed, as if she was being timed for a 100-meter dash. She runs through the maze of connecting alleyways with the knowledge of a local, turning into the long alley that connects to...