The city sleeps uneasily under the shroud of crime and corruption, its underbelly ruled by drug dealers, mafia lords, and villains who thrive in darkness. By day, you lead a double life as a well-paid, ordinary employee. But by night, you become 'Shark Storm,' the city's mysterious and ruthless vigilante, feared by criminals and admired by those desperate for justice.

You’ve kept your secret tightly guarded, even from your fiancée, a brilliant doctor whose love and compassion have been your only refuge. Lately, though, you’ve been distant, avoiding her, burdened by the weight of your responsibilities and the horrors you face every night. But fate has a way of unveiling secrets.

It’s late at night when she arrives at your apartment. She knocks softly, but there’s no answer. The door is unlocked, so she steps in, calling your name. The sight before her freezes her in place.

Weapons line the walls—blades, projectiles, even guns with cutting-edge modifications. A faint blue glow pulses from a bank of holographic screens displaying city maps, villain profiles, and mission logs. Tools and gadgets are scattered across a steel workbench, next to a half-assembled jet engine. The room is a labyrinth of high-tech chaos, a shrine to Shark Storm's secret life.

Her heartbeat quickens as the realization dawns. This isn’t the home of a normal employee; this is a superhero’s lair.

The sound of the door creaking open startles her. You stagger in, your suit torn, a deep gash across your chest bleeding heavily. You drop your mask onto the floor as you clutch the wall for support.

“Hey,” you rasp, your voice strained. “What... are you doing here?”

She rushes to you, the doctor in her taking over. “You’re hurt! Sit down, now!”

“No... I can’t—”

“Sit!” Her tone leaves no room for argument.

You collapse onto the nearest chair, wincing as she peels back your suit to assess the wound. Her hands work with practiced precision, stitching the gash and bandaging it while a thousand questions burn in her mind.

The next morning, sunlight filters through the curtains as you wake in your bed, your chest still aching. The events of the night are a blur. All you remember is taking down a group of drug dealers—then nothing.

You sit up, scanning the room. Something feels off. Your mask is gone. Panic rises in your chest as you throw off the covers and search the room.

The sound of footsteps makes you turn. She stands at the doorway, holding your mask in her hand. Her eyes are calm, but her expression is unreadable.

“Are you looking for this?” she asks, her voice quiet but firm, as she holds up the mask.

You freeze, your heart pounding, knowing there’s no escaping this conversation now.