Loving a Shadow: A Vigilante Story

Chapter 7: Under the Amber Light

The chorus of birds heralded a new day. It was roughly five in the morning on Thursday when Morrow woke in his home, situated in the city’s most affluent district.

An old melody—a tranquil tune by Nadine Jansen serving as his alarm—sliced through the silence. Morrow rose, allowing the music to linger as he changed into athletic gear in the lingering shadows of the room. Scars mapped his back; several joints popped with audible protest as he pulled on his thermal shirt.

He stepped out into a run, the morning chill striking his face. He didn’t mind; the bite was pleasant, forcing more air into his lungs. He cruised past sprawling modern estates and pristine showroom cars, the quiet trophies of the neighborhood’s inhabitants.

By the time his pulse slowed, the sun had crested the horizon. Returning home, he was greeted by a neighbor: a man in his fifties, skin flushed crimson by the cold, sporting a modest beer belly and a well-kept beard.

“Freezing out here, isn’t it?” the man remarked, sliding a thermos into his late-model sedan.

“It certainly is. But I like it—helps me wake up,” Morrow replied, flashing the practiced, easy smile of a good neighbor.

“To each their own. I’m a summer man myself… By the way, thanks for the ladder the other day. I’ll have my gardener drop it in your garage later.”

“Don’t give it a second thought. That’s what neighbors are for.”

The man drove off as Morrow stepped inside. He was used to it; whenever someone needed a tool or a hand with a repair, they came to him. He was that kind of neighbor.

Inside, he tossed his hoodie onto the sofa. The decor was Spartan, devoid of luxury: stark white walls, a slate-grey couch, and a kitchen island with minimalist stools. There was no dining table; he had no use for one. He flicked on the news while the coffee started to brew, letting the anchor’s voice fill the hollow space.

“…And in other news, October 10th marks two years since the intervention of U.S. forces aimed at dismantling the cartels. An intervention that, according to President Trump, has yielded the expected results.”

The screen flickered to charts and maps hemorrhaging red ink.

“However, reality tells a different story. In the last six months alone, homicides, kidnappings, and organized crime have surged to their highest levels in decades…”

Morrow ate his breakfast to a backdrop of violence: shootings, cartel skirmishes, the discovery of clandestine graves. Worst of all, thirty percent of the carnage was homegrown, right there in his own city.

He didn’t react. Not a flinch, not a grimace. He simply finished his meal and prepared to leave.

He donned his daily uniform: a neatly tucked olive-drab flannel, straight-cut jeans, brown work boots, and a black trucker hat that concealed his thick hair, now peppered with grey. He climbed into his 2024 Ford Raptor. It was an imposing beast of a truck, though at nearly seven feet tall, he boarded it effortlessly. He adjusted his belt and mirrors, finally catching his own reflection in the rearview.

His dark brown eyes were heavy with weariness and gravity, a sharp contrast to his tanned skin. Faint acne scars and a rugged, prominent nose—slightly crooked from a blow years prior—defined his face.

With Dean Martin crooning through the speakers, he drove to a hardware store. He stocked up on lumber, screws, nails, and foam gym tiles—the raw materials for an improvised training ground. Then came the sporting goods store for heavy bags, mitts, and weights. Finally, he headed toward the city center, to the warehouse that served as their sanctuary.

He swung open the rusted, peeling gate, parking the Raptor beside the battered van they used for their nightly rounds. The warehouse was split into four zones: a dirt-floor entryway for the vehicles, a central hub dominated by a large meeting table, a storage area for their gear—Clara’s bat, low-caliber firearms, and crates of ammunition—and an upper level housing a decrepit office and a large, vacant room.

The place was a wreck—thick with dust, cobwebs, and the scent of oxidizing iron. But after firing up an old speaker and letting Aretha Franklin take charge, Morrow got to work. He cleared nests, scrubbed surfaces, and hauled away bags of glass and grime.

By four in the afternoon, he paused for a meager lunch—a turkey sandwich and sparkling water—before diving back in. By eight, the place no longer looked like a squatter’s den.

The drone of Pablo’s scooter eventually drowned out the music. Morrow, drenched in sweat and breathing hard, opened the door before the first knock faded.

“Pablo. Get in and change. Wait outside for the others. I’ll take care of the scooter,” he panted.

Pablo blinked, confused by Morrow’s disheveled state and the mountain of trash bags. “Uh… what are you doing? Need a hand?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s a surprise. You just worry about your cardio. Go on, change.”

Still baffled, Pablo changed into anime-print shorts and a grey hoodie, pacing outside while he waited. Clara arrived shortly after, already in her gear—twin pigtails, basketball shoes, and a university tee.

“Why are we out here? Where’s Morrow?” she asked.

“He wants us to wait. Says it’s a surprise,” Pablo replied.

Clara knocked, handed her bag to a brief, sweating Morrow, and watched the door click shut again. “That was… weird. What is he doing in there?” She tried to peer through a crack in the gate but saw nothing but the truck.

The roar of a Camaro signaled Abel’s arrival. He stepped out, dressed in navy sweats and gold-trimmed runners, wearing his usual mask of neutrality.

“Evening,” Abel said, his tone flat.

“Hey!” Pablo chirped.

“Jinx! You owe me a chocolate!” Clara joked.

“I didn’t touch wood, so it doesn’t count,” Pablo retorted.

Abel bypassed the banter and knocked. Morrow appeared, repeated the silent ritual of taking the bag, and disappeared back inside.

“What was that about?” Abel asked, genuinely perplexed.

“Your guess is as good as ours,” Clara sighed, stretching her hamstrings. “Whatever. Let’s run before it gets any later.”

The trio set off through the downtown streets. In the glow of the storefronts, the city almost looked beautiful—a deceptive veneer over its rotting core. Minutes in, Pablo’s pace faltered.

“Break! Please!” he wheezed, hands on his knees.

“One more lap, Pablo. Dig deep,” Clara encouraged.

“I don’t get it,” Pablo groaned. “We’ve been doing this for three weeks. I thought we were fighting bad guys, not training for the Olympics.”

“We used to g gas out after one fight,” Clara reminded him. “Our time has dropped from an hour to forty minutes. It’s working.”

“Fine… but I’m going to be the fittest victim in history at this rate.” He straightened up, pouting. “And my headphones are dead. Abel, man, can I borrow one? I need a beat or I’m gonna collapse.”

Abel hesitated, clutching his earbud as if it were a relic. He valued his personal space, but seeing Pablo’s genuine exhaustion, he eventually relented.

As the earbud settled in, the soaring synths of Journey’s “Separate Ways” kicked in. Pablo grinned. “This song is epic! I didn’t know you were into the classics.”

“I found it on an 80s playlist,” Abel admitted, his voice losing its robotic edge for the first time. A small spark of connection flickered in the dark.

As they neared the warehouse, sweat stinging his eyes, Pablo turned to Abel. “Hey… why did you help me up that first day? You know, when I tripped?”

The question caught Abel off guard. He went quiet for a moment. “I guess… I just wanted to say thanks. For saving me in that alley.”

Pablo just smiled.

When they returned to the warehouse, they found their gear sitting on the pavement with a note: Not finished yet. Wait.

“Are you kidding me?” Clara snapped, crumpling the paper. “Fine. Whatever. At least we’re done for the night.”

The week followed that pattern until a message buzzed on Abel’s phone during his shift: It’s ready. See you at 8:00.

At 7:30, Morrow was in a convenience store near the warehouse, picking up sodas and chips—a small reward for the team’s hard work. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two shadows enter.

They were skin and bone, draped in “street” fashion. One wore a bandana and a low-slung cap; the other, a neon green balaclava with an inverted cross—a trend among the local youth.

They approached the counter, where a surly elderly clerk stood. Before the old man could finish a greeting, the bandana-clad boy pulled a zip gun—crude, poorly welded, but lethal nonetheless.

“The register! Empty it or I’ll crack your skull!” the boy yelled, his hands trembling.

Morrow didn’t move. He realized instantly they hadn’t even noticed him. The clerk handed over the cash, and the boys bolted. Morrow let out a slow, calm breath. He set his bag down and followed them out.

The “thieves” weren’t even running. They were basking in the adrenaline, treating the robbery like a game.

“Did you see his face? I told you this piece was worth the money,” one laughed, aiming the gun at the sky.

Morrow closed the distance silently. The boy in the balaclava stopped at a parked car, using the tinted window as a mirror. He posed, preening like a movie gangster.

“Yo, take a picture,” he urged.

They crouched by the glass, flashing signs, the gun held high in a dusty reflection tinted amber by the streetlights. The shutter click of the phone was the last thing they heard.

Behind them, a massive shadow eclipsed the light.

In a blur of motion, Morrow seized the balaclava boy’s head and drove it through the car window. Glass shattered like ice, and the boy went limp instantly.

The second boy spun around, pulling the trigger of his junk-heap gun. Click. Misfire.

Morrow let out a short, dry chuckle.

With insulting ease, he wrenched the gun away, caught the boy by the throat, and slammed him onto the hood of the car behind them. Two sharp cracks to the jaw, and the world went black for him, too.

Morrow reached into the armed boy’s pocket, retrieved the stolen wad of cash, and walked back into the store. The owner was waiting with a wooden club, his face a mask of terror.

“You… what do you want? Take your things and go!”

Morrow said nothing. He placed the stolen money on the counter. The old man dropped the club in shock. Then, Morrow dropped a twenty-dollar bill next to the pile.

"How much for the chips and the sodas?..

…"

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