It was only 10:30 when Lenny got off work. His feet ached. His scrubs smelled like antiseptic and sadness. San Francisco's night air spped his face as he stepped out of the hospital and crossed into the shadows.
The city had two faces. In the day, it smiled. At night—it bared its fangs.
He ducked into one of the public bathroom stalls that only crackheads use to smoke meth. Careful not to touch the graffitied walls or anything else with his bare hands, he peeled off his scrubs. Underneath: reinforced bck pants, thick brown pads for his shins, gloves with steel cws at the fingertips, and goggles fitted with rge cameras, giving him a slight resembnce to a spider.
Goliath wasn't a costume. It was a skin he couldn't shake. Or rather didn't want to.
He pulled the zipper over his bust, pulled the light brown goggles down over his eyes, and scaled the nearest building like it was nothing. His muscles were already twitching, hungry for the hunt.
Being Goliath was a kind of freedom. No pretense. No compromises. No smiling through veiled insults or pretending he didn't hear whispers about "Marilene wants to be a man who wears makeup." Goliath wasn't polite. Goliath didn't flinch.
And Goliath never begged.
Remmy was already in the air.
Bck cargo pants clung tight to his thighs, a bck and purple denim jacket thrown over his bulletproof vest. His hood shadowed his face, the matte dark purple mask concealing everything but the gleam in his eyes.
He moved fast—silent and smooth—between Market and Mission. Weblines trailed like whispers in the night. Every movement was deliberate. Experienced. He's been trained to be unseen, unheard, and undetected since birth. He was a ghost with fangs.
From above, the city looked staged. Like everything was too neat. Like the people didn't know what they were standing on, but he knew. Remmy has known about the disgusting underbelly of San Francisco his whole life. His family made sure of that.
He spotted it then: a rave in a condemned warehouse on Turk. The kind of pce that looked like freedom but reeked of rot.
He crouched just outside the broken third-story window. Inside: torn lingerie, sweat-drenched bodies, music that hit like a strobe to the brain. Girls danced with loose limbs and foggy eyes.
A few looked dazed. Too dazed. One girl threw up behind the stage but no one looked. No one helped.
Remmy's jaw flexed. His head felt hot and his fists clenched.
He'd seen this kind of party before.
His uncle used to host them. Called them "recruitment opportunities."
Girls like that one, puking in the dark, were always considered expendable.
Mutants too. Especially the pretty ones. Especially the obedient ones.
He'd learned young that monsters weren't always the ones with cws. Sometimes, they wore gold chains and smiled wide. Sometimes they handed you a drink before asking your name. Sometimes they were family.
Not anymore. Now he hunted them.
He inhaled slow, steadying the heat behind his ribs.
Control, Remmy. Don't lose it.
These weren't just parties. They were hunting grounds. And he'd be damned if he let history repeat itself.
Lenny crawled along the underside of the Bay Bridge like a bloodhound. He could hear the city breathe. Hear its pulse skip. That low, uneasy thrum of something going wrong.
Then—screaming.
South of Market. 6th Street.
He unched.
Three men were dragging a teenage girl into a van. Her irises and freckles glowed yellow, a bright desperate beacon begging for help. The fear was radiating off her like heat. The men wore fake "private security" badges clipped to their belts.
They had no idea what they'd caught.
But Goliath did.
He dropped on the van like thunder. Metal groaned as he peeled the roof back like a tuna can.
The first man didn't even scream. His throat vanished between Goliath's cws. His abnormal strength made him feel powerful.
The second raised a gun. Too slow. Goliath crushed his wrist like paper and hurled him into a stop sign. The predator becomes prey.
I can make a difference
The third pissed himself. Dropped to his knees, babbling. Goliath tilted his head.
"You like hurting mutants?" He growled.
The man nodded—confused, shaking.
"Good."
The girl covered her ears.
Bones snapped. Blood painted the side of the van. The third man never got to scream, but the girl did.
Goliath turned. She was still frozen. Her eyes wide, her mouth trembling.
He jumped into the shadows, corpse in tow, hiding the grotesque gore now covering his face. Panic stabbed at him.
"I'm sorry. I didn't want to scare you. We're kind of the same, see? I just wanted to protect you," Goliath rambled. His voice cracked, apologies slipping past the flesh stuck in his teeth. "I'm not going to hurt you."
He fumbled through the dead man's pockets, found a wallet, and tossed it toward her.
"Here. This should be enough to get you home safe."
She scrambled away without touching it.
Goliath stood there in silence, watching the streetlights flicker overhead. Poisonous guilt coiled in his gut.
Was this justice? Or was it just easier to sh out?
Is this the best I can do? Just throw some perverts lunch money at traumatized victims?
He'd seen activists on street corners with signs. Mutants holding hands and chanting for change. Real hope. Real courage. He admired them.
But he couldn't be them.
He wasn't well-spoken. He wasn't safe.
He wasn't made to beg the system to stop crushing people like him.
The next morning, sunlight hit their room like a bomb—too bright, too early. Lenny woke te, sore and aching, curled next to the only man who ever made him feel seen. He could feel the steady thrum of blood beneath Remmy's dark skin. His mutant gene let him sense things no one else could—blood types, pregnancies, infections hiding in the marrow. Everyone had a fvor. Remmy tasted like warmth and metal and salt. The mutant gene in his DNA tasted richer than any cream or cake Lenny has ever had.
His hand travelled from Remmy's waist and trailed up his spine into the tight coils of his hair.
Remmy was lying on his stomach, shirtless, scrolling through something on his phone.
"You always sleep like that after patrol?" Remmy asked casually.
Lenny blinked, still not fully awake. His fingers pying with Remmy's hair. "Huh?"
"Long shifts. You crash like a corpse."
"Oh." Lenny scooted closer to him on the bed, gripping his torso tighter and burying his face into a shoulder. "Yeah. Mopping blood is exhausting."
Remmy gave him a look. The smallest frown tugged at his mouth—but his eyes were sharp. Knowing. He didn't press, but he knew.
He always knew.
They caught BART around 11. Lenny wore a light blue crop top and a short white skirt, thighs on full dispy, the fabric clinging in all the right ways. He knew he looked good. Another form of power making Lenny feel good as well
He felt better when he looked like this—curves hugged, eyes on him.
Especially Remmy's. There was something different in the way Remmy looked at him. Not just desire or admiration, but reverence. Like Lenny was a masterpiece only he could truly understand. In Remmy's eyes, he didn't have to be brave or perfect or bulletproof—he could just be. Soft and vulnerable.
Remmy never questioned his femininity or masculinity. Never looked at him like he was too much, or not enough. He just... saw him. Every version. Every contradiction. And loved them all.
In that gnce—just a flicker—Lenny felt like the most real version of himself. The only one that mattered.
Remmy vaulted the turnstile like always, casual, practiced. Hands in his pockets. He didn't smile, didn't say anything. He rarely did. His resting bitch face was infamous, but Lenny knew better.
Inside, Remmy burned for him. Yearned for him.
Remmy felt just as seen with Lenny. He understood in a way the world had never offered. They both knew pain. They both knew isotion. They both understood obsession, the kind that lingered behind every gnce, every soft brush of skin.
As they moved through the station, Remmy looked at Lenny, discreetly studying his sun kissed skin and the controlled chaos of long curly hair. A big bck mess that moved like it had its own rhythm, wild and unbothered.
He remembered the beginning. Watching security footage of Lenny following him home in a sweatsuit. Before the costume. Before the blood. Before they built something feral and fragile between them.
Lenny caught that gnce. Just a flicker, but it nded like a spark. They grinned at each other like they were speaking in their own nguage.
The train was more crowded than usual.
"Why so many security guards?" Lenny asked.
A guy nearby piped up: "Some politician's doing a PR stunt. Wants to look like he 'cares about transit.'" He made air quotes with greasy fingers.
Lenny snorted and nudged Remmh "Oh, how noble. Our savior in a suit."
Remmy didn't ugh. His jaw was tight.
Eyes scanning. Clocking movement. Sizing exits.
"Hey," Lenny leaned in, voice low. "You okay?"
Remmy's mouth twitched. "Yeah. Just a bad vibe."
Lenny didn't push, but now he was on edge too
Three stops from Oaknd, the train screeched to a halt. Lights flickered. The car dimmed.
"Typical," someone groaned.
Remmy's abnormal eyes were already adjusting. He saw them clear as day—five men boarding through the emergency door. Smooth movements. Tactical.
His natural night vision gave him shapes: body armor. Guns. Not robbers.
Professionals.
Remmy turned to Lenny. "Baby?"
"I'm gonna check on the conductor," Lenny said, already moving.
"Babe—"
Too te.
God fucking damnit Lenny. You have to think these things through
Remmy ducked. Pulled his mask. Slid it on.
His heart smmed once in his chest—then went quiet.
If anyone hurt Lenny—anyone—he'd make them regret ever stepping into the dark.