Nightwing & Angel - The Legend Untold

A dull ache throbbed in Chris Hilton's head as his eyes slowly fluttered open. The first thing he saw was a familiar face looming over him—Michael Wilson.

Chris blinked, disoriented. His last memory was the brutal impact of Alphonse Capone's monstrous strike sending him crashing into debris. He had felt the pain, the sharp crack of his ribs—then nothing. Darkness.

But now… he felt fine. No pain. No broken bones. His body was completely intact. Confused, he glanced down at himself, running his hands over his torso. No injuries. No bruises.

"What… what happened?" Chris muttered, his voice groggy as he pushed himself upright. He looked around. The ground was littered with debris, the remnants of their battle still fresh in the air. Smoke curled into the sky in lazy tendrils.

Before he could gather his thoughts, Michael gave him a knowing smirk and casually held up a small empty vial between his fingers.

"Before you say anything… You're welcome."

Chris froze for a second, then realization hit him. "You—did you heal me?"

Michael spun the vial playfully between his fingers. "Health potion. Handy little thing, huh?" His voice was light, but his gaze flickered with something deeper—concern, maybe relief.

Chris exhaled, shaking his head as the weight of everything settled over him. The battle, the destruction, the sheer intensity of the fight against Capone. His hands clenched into fists as his mind raced.

He turned his gaze back to Michael. "Where are we? What happened?"

Michael's expression shifted, his usual smirk fading as he glanced toward the horizon. The distant Chicago skyline, usually alive with light and movement, now bore scars of the war they had just fought.

"It's over." Michael's voice was quiet but firm.

Chris hesitated. "You mean…"

Michael nodded. "Alphonse Capone is defeated."

A wave of relief washed over Chris. His shoulders sagged slightly as the tension drained from his body. "So, it's finally done…" He glanced around again, scanning for their friends. "Where is everyone?"

Michael let out a small sigh. "They're still at the site. Recovering bodies. Cleaning up Capone's mess."

Chris frowned, his expression darkening. "Bodies…?"

Michael didn't answer right away. His light blue eyes held a quiet weight as he stared off into the distance.

Chris swallowed hard, pushing down the sinking feeling in his chest. "Then we should help them."

Michael nodded. "Yeah, but… uh, there's a problem."

Chris furrowed his brows. "What?"

Michael pointed at his face. "Your mask's broken."

Chris's eyes widened slightly. He reached up, feeling the torn fabric of his shattered mask. His identity was completely exposed.

"Oh, shoot."

Michael crossed his arms, tilting his head with a smug grin. "Yeah. Kind of a problem, considering you're Chris Hilton. Y'know, heir to one of the wealthiest families in the world? Media loves you. Paparazzi would have a field day with this."

Chris groaned. "Damn it."

Michael's smirk widened as he suddenly pulled something out from behind his back. "Lucky for you…" He flicked his wrist dramatically, revealing a brand-new mask.

It was sleek—midnight black with neon-green LED patterns shaped like jagged teeth, glowing faintly in the dim light. The futuristic design gave it a menacing yet stylish edge, perfect for someone like Chris.

"Tadaa." Michael grinned, holding it up. "Pretty cool, huh?"

Chris's eyes lit up as he took the mask, inspecting the intricate design. "This is… actually sick."

Michael tapped his temple. "Made some upgrades. Lightweight, reinforced, and has a voice modulator. No one's gonna recognize your voice under this thing."

Chris let out a low whistle, impressed. "Man, I love having a genius as a friend."

Michael chuckled. "Yeah, yeah. Now put it on before some nosy reporter shows up."

Chris wasted no time, slipping the mask over his face. The fit was perfect, and as soon as he activated it, the neon-green teeth pulsed faintly, syncing to his breathing. A small display flickered inside the visor, scanning his vitals and surroundings.

"Alright," Chris said, his voice now subtly altered by the mask's filter. "Let's go help clean up."

Michael nodded, his smirk returning. "Now you're talkin'."

With that, the two leaped into action, heading toward the battlefield where the true weight of the aftermath awaited them.

.....

The battlefield was eerily silent now, the echoes of the fight replaced by the heavy weight of loss. The air smelled of blood and smoke, mixing with the metallic scent of destruction. Mark Fletcher and Loe Halloway moved through the wreckage, carefully lifting the lifeless bodies of those who had perished in Alphonse Capone's rampage.

Mindy Williams was nearby, assisting as best as she could. Her telepathic powers had drained her earlier, leaving her physically exhausted, but she refused to stand idly by. She pressed her trembling hands over the bodies they recovered, closing their eyes gently, ensuring that even in death, they had dignity.

The police had arrived in full force, their vehicles lined up along the destroyed Chicago Outfit headquarters. Officers worked in coordination, marking the deceased, securing the crime scene, and helping with the transport of bodies. Yellow caution tape was being put up, but it hardly did anything to contain the scale of the destruction.

Gil Felcoms sat inside an ambulance, his mind racing as a paramedic checked his vitals. A thick bandage was wrapped around his head from a minor injury, but it wasn't the physical wounds that troubled him—it was the chaos unfolding around him. His thoughts churned with disbelief.

(What the hell is going on here? )h e thought, staring blankly at the destruction outside the ambulance doors.

He had arrived at the Chicago Outfit's headquarters with one goal in mind—to establish himself in the business world, to prove that he was more than just a Felcoms by name.

And now… what is this? His eyes flickered toward the flashing police lights. Alphonse Capone is dead?

Nothing made sense. He had been here for a business deal, not a battlefield. He had wanted a chance to negotiate, to build his own influence, but instead, he had become entangled in a war he didn't even understand.

His hands clenched into fists.

"Damn it."

Meanwhile, not far from the scene, Lenore Van Ryn stood in front of a group of officers, her sharp eyes cool and unreadable. Despite being surrounded by law enforcement, she remained composed, her posture straight and unwavering.

One of the officers, a middle-aged man with a tired expression, flipped open a notepad. His eyes bore into hers with suspicion.

"Ma'am, what was your relationship with Alphonse Capone?" he asked, his voice steady.

Lenore's lips barely twitched as she responded, her tone flat. "We were in a business relationship. I was merely an executive handling the day-to-day operations of the Chicago Outfit in his absence."

The officer didn't seem convinced. His pen tapped against his notepad. "So you're saying you had no idea about Capone's—" he hesitated before choosing his words carefully, "—activities?"

Lenore let out a slow, measured sigh. (Tsk… How annoying.)

"I didn't know about his experiments," she said bluntly. "I was just representing the Chicago Outfit because he was always too busy. I had no involvement in whatever insanity he was doing in secret."

The officer hummed in thought, exchanging glances with his colleagues.

Lenore crossed her arms, her mind working quickly. She knew how this worked. The police weren't looking for the truth—they were looking for someone to blame. And with Capone dead, she was the highest-ranking figure left in the organization.

(They're going to pin this on me if I don't handle this right.)

Her gaze flickered toward Gil Felcoms, who was still sitting in the ambulance, deep in thought. She had noticed how shaken he was—how lost he seemed.

He didn't come here expecting this either, she mused. Just another rich boy trying to prove himself.

She exhaled, pushing those thoughts aside. She had her own problems to deal with.

As the police continued questioning her, Gil, still inside the ambulance, let his frustration simmer beneath his skin.

(This isn't what I wanted… This isn't how it was supposed to go.)

He clenched his jaw, staring at his reflection in the ambulance's small metal cabinet.

He had come here to build a reputation—to show his family that he was more than just the youngest Felcoms, the overlooked one. His older brother was the golden child, the one destined to inherit the family empire. His sister was a genius, already a force to be reckoned with.

And him?

He had been struggling his entire life to carve out his own path.

That's why he had wanted this business deal. That's why he had come to the Chicago Outfit.

But what now?

What was left of the Chicago Outfit was in ruins. The deal was dead. And worst of all, he had no answers.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly.

"What the hell am I supposed to do now?"

Outside, the city continued its slow descent back into order. But for those who had fought, for those who had lost and survived—nothing would ever be the same.

.......

Meanwhile…

Not far from the wreckage, inside an emergency tent set up by the medical teams, Gustav Van Doren lay on a stretcher, his body covered in bandages from the battle. His wife, Vivian Van Doren, sat beside him, her hands gripping his tightly.

Gustav let out a weak chuckle, looking up at her.

"You look like you're about to yell at me."

Vivian shot him a sharp glare, though the worry in her eyes softened her expression.

"I should," she muttered. "You're reckless. You always throw yourself into danger like you're invincible. One of these days, you're not going to be so lucky, Gustav."

Gustav smirked, his voice low but teasing.

"And yet, here I am. Alive. Mostly in one piece."

Vivian shook her head, gripping his hand even tighter.

"Don't joke about this." Her voice wavered slightly. "You could have died out there."

Gustav's smirk faded as he studied her face. He sighed and reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair from her eyes.

"I know. But I had to fight. If we didn't stop him… if we didn't end this… who knows how many more people would have died?"

Vivian looked away, biting her lip.

"I know that." She exhaled sharply. "But you're my husband, Gustav. I can't just stand by and accept that you're willing to die every time a fight like this happens."

Gustav squeezed her hand, his voice softer now.

"I promised you, didn't I? I'd always come back to you."

Vivian closed her eyes for a moment before opening them again, her gaze locking onto his.

"Then don't ever break that promise."

Gustav chuckled, wincing slightly at the pain in his ribs.

"Yes, ma'am."

Vivian finally allowed a small smile to break through her frustration. She leaned down, pressing her forehead against his.

"Idiot," she whispered.

He smirked again.

"Your idiot."

For the first time since the battle ended, the weight of everything that had happened didn't seem so unbearable.

......

As Mark Fletcher and Loe Halloway moved among the bodies, working alongside the police to retrieve the fallen. The weight of the moment was heavy on them, but they kept moving, refusing to let their emotions get the better of them.

As Mark carefully lifted one of the bodies, he glanced over at Loe, who was working silently beside him. He hesitated for a moment before speaking.

"Loe... Um... are you okay?"

Loe didn't stop what he was doing, his expression unreadable.

"If you're asking if I'm okay after watching Boss Albert's father die, knowing that he regretted everything in the end... then yeah, I'm okay."

Mark swallowed, unsure of what to say.

"Um... okay."

Loe finally looked at him and sighed, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. It wasn't one of joy, but rather acceptance—a silent acknowledgment of everything that had just happened.

Before Mark could say anything else, a voice cut through the heavy air.

"HEY!"

Both Mark and Loe turned toward the sound. They recognized it immediately.

Michael Wilson.

Mark straightened, his eyes narrowing slightly as he spotted him approaching.

"Spider-Man."

It was an unspoken rule. They couldn't reveal their identities here, not in front of the police, not when there were too many eyes watching. That's why both he and Loe still wore their vigilante suits, ensuring their real names remained unknown.

A third figure stepped forward, wearing a sleek black mask with green LED teeth that glowed faintly in the dim light.

"I heard what happened."

It was Chris Hilton. Like the others, he kept his identity hidden behind the mask, his voice steady but laced with concern.

Michael crossed his arms, scanning the wreckage around them before finally speaking.

"It's over."

Mark and Loe exchanged glances, then looked toward the remains of the Chicago Outfit headquarters.

"Yeah," Mark muttered. "It is."

But even as they stood there, surrounded by destruction, they all knew—this was just the beginning.

To be continue