Diary of a Teen Moon Knight

New York City hummed with its usual chaotic rhythm—horns blaring, street vendors calling out their wares, and footsteps echoing down damp alleyways. Beneath the city's vibrant façade, shadows moved unnoticed. Deals were struck, secrets exchanged, and justice often ignored. But sometimes, the smallest actions could disrupt the flow of corruption. 

A man in a wrinkled gray suit hurried down a quieter street, his posture tense. His left hand clutched a brown envelope tucked deep into his jacket pocket. He glanced at his phone and checked the time, muttering under his breath. His shoes splashed through a puddle as he veered off the main road toward a secluded parking lot.

The boy following him stayed low-key, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease. His dull grey jacket and black mask, along with large round glasses that glinted faintly under the streetlights, gave him an unassuming appearance. People's eyes slid right past him, dismissing him as just another kid exploring the city.

But he wasn't just wandering. He had overheard the man earlier that day at a café, talking in hushed tones on the phone.

"Payment will be ready. You've got the cards, right? No screwups this time."

It didn't take a genius to put it together—credit card fraud. The man's rushed demeanor and cautious glances were enough to pique the boy's curiosity. Now, as he trailed him, the boy's heart pounded with excitement. He didn't have superpowers, not yet anyway, but he'd learned how to make a difference in other ways.

The man turned a corner sharply, nearly slipping on the slick pavement. The boy seized the moment, deliberately speeding up and bumping into him.

"Hey, watch it!" the man snapped, his voice low but irritated.

"Sorry!" the boy mumbled, raising his hands in apology. His fingers, however, had already brushed against the man's pocket.

In one fluid motion, the boy slipped the man's phone into his pocket and backed away, melting into the crowd before the man could register what had happened.

The boy darted into a side street and pulled out the phone, quickly swiping through it. The messages confirmed his suspicions: names, addresses, and even stolen card numbers were stored in the text history.

"Jackpot," he whispered to himself.

The man, oblivious to his missing phone, entered the dimly lit parking lot where a sleek black car waited. Its engine idled softly, the exhaust curling into the cold night air.

"Do you have it?" asked a gravelly voice from inside the car.

The man nodded, pulling out the brown envelope. He handed it over to a hand that emerged from the window—thick fingers adorned with gold rings.

"What's this?" the voice asked, pulling out the envelope's contents. Inside were several credit cards, each bearing different names but suspiciously pristine magnetic strips.

"Fresh cards, untraceable. As good as cash," the man said, his tone full of confidence but tinged with nervousness.

The person in the car examined them carefully before handing the man a stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills.

"Pleasure doing business," the man muttered, pocketing the money.

But the transaction was far from over. As the man began to walk away, red and blue lights flooded the parking lot.

"Hands up! NYPD!"

Police officers swarmed in from the shadows, their guns drawn.

The man froze, the cash still in his hand. "Wait! I can explain!"

The black car's tires screeched as it peeled out of the parking lot, leaving the man to face the cops alone.

On a nearby rooftop, the boy crouched behind a vent, watching the scene unfold. He grinned as he pulled out his phone—the real one, not the stolen one—and tapped the screen. A police tip line was still open on it.

"You're welcome," he whispered, watching as the officers cuffed the man and secured the stolen credit cards.

Satisfied, he slipped the stolen phone into an evidence bag he'd brought along—an old ziplock from his kitchen—and tucked it into his jacket. He couldn't let the police trace it back to him. As much as he enjoyed helping out, he preferred to remain a shadow.

The streets were quieter now as he made his way home, taking the long route to ensure he wasn't being followed. The boy lived in a modest apartment on the Lower East Side, the kind of place where fire escapes were more reliable than the elevators. He approached his building cautiously, scanning for any signs of movement.

Once he was sure there were no on-lookers, he climbed onto the fire escape, his sneakers scuffing against the metal as he ascended toward his bedroom window on the third floor.

Inside, the faint glow of a television illuminated the living room. He paused, his heart sinking. His father was still awake.

Carefully, the boy slid open the window and slipped inside, landing softly on the worn carpet. He froze when he heard footsteps in the hall.

"Edwin?" his father's voice called out, laced with suspicion.

The boy's heart raced. Thinking quickly, he dove into bed and pulled the covers over himself, feigning sleep. He even let out an exaggerated snore as the door creaked open.

His father stood in the doorway for a long moment, his silhouette outlined by the hall light. Edwin's heartbeat sped up, pounding away at his rib cage. He awkwardly adjusted his palm to his chest and counted After what felt like an eternity, he sighed and closed the door.

The boy waited another five minutes before daring to peek out. The coast was clear.

He glanced at the watch on his bedside table. The time read 2:00 a.m.

"Perfect," he muttered, pulling his mask off and tossing it onto the desk. "Four hours of sleep is good for a teen, right?"

With a tired grin, he closed his eyes, hoping to cram 7 hours of sleep in the available four.