To Love a Shadow: A Vigilante’s Tale

Chapter 8: No Half Measures

The silence of the night was shattered by the high-pitched scream of modified exhausts tearing through the tangled streets of the city center. There were four of them, all budget brands—the kind of bikes that are cheap, easy to find, and within anyone’s reach.

Every inch of them was customized. Colored LEDs, reflective decals, and faux-chrome accents glinted even under the dim streetlights. They had been lowered until they nearly scraped the asphalt. One carried a cheap audio system; the speakers spat out distorted reggaeton, barely intelligible, nothing but a muddy bass thumping like a filthy heartbeat in the dark.

They finally pulled over at a nearby corner. Six youths hopped off; none looked older than twenty. They wore oversized clothes, flat-brimmed caps, and visible tattoos. All were gaunt and wiry, save for one—a stocky kid lugging a worn-out backpack covered in patches and graffiti.

They sat on the curb and unzipped the bag. Inside lay a haul of cell phones, chains that looked like silver and gold, several wallets, and loose cash.

“Damn… we actually struck it big. There’s gotta be at least five hundred in small change alone,” one said, pulling a fistful of coins and crumpled bills from the bag.

“Well, at least that covers the booze and some smokes. Go on, Pijas, your turn. Head to the liquor store,” the stocky one said, nodding to the youngest of the group—a short kid in a white flat-brim and shorts so baggy they nearly reached his ankles.

The boy took a handful of cash, but before he could leave, another stopped him.

“Hold up… wait. Look at that guy,” he whispered, pointing toward a silhouette approaching from the distance.

It was another young man. Lean, with a slight gut. He wore a cap with a rooster embroidered on it, slim-fit jeans, a tight polo, and several bracelets that shone like gold under the yellow haze of the streetlamp. He walked with his eyes glued to his phone, completely oblivious to the six pairs of eyes already locking onto him.

He never saw the trap close.

In seconds, they surrounded him, shoving him against a wall. The impact was a dull thud echoing through the alley.

“You know the drill, princess… phone and wallet. Cooperate if you don’t want any trouble,” the stocky one said, pulling out a zip gun—a crudely welded pipe with a rusted metal grip. He lifted it just enough to make the threat clear.

The cornered youth blinked once. Then, instead of cowering, he straightened his posture. He smiled. It was a slow, mocking grin.

“And if I don’t… you little bitch?”

Before the stocky kid could even level the weapon, the roar of an engine sliced through the air. A black Chevrolet Suburban hurtled around the corner. It didn’t brake.

The heavy steel brush guard slammed full-force into the bikes. The crash was brutal. Plastic, metal, and LED lights shattered across the asphalt as the motorcycles toppled like dominoes. A smaller black sedan followed right behind the Suburban, equally aggressive.

The doors swung open simultaneously. Eight men stepped out. They were dressed exactly like the boy against the wall: embroidered animal caps, slim-fit jeans, tight polos. Only the brands and colors differed.

Every one of them held a metal pipe. No warnings were given.

They lunged at the now-disarmed group of six. The boy who had been cornered joined the fray; it was clear now—this had been an ambush.

It didn’t take ten minutes.

The boys who had felt invincible moments ago now lay broken on the asphalt. Blood mingled with dust and oil from the wrecked bikes. Some tried to groan, but their cries were silenced by boots; others were met with insults spat directly into their faces. They were forced to kneel on the sidewalk.

Their faces were swollen, blood staining their baggy clothes. The bravado was gone. There was only fear.

“Alright… which one of you pussies is in charge?” asked one of the newcomers. He wore a Gucci polo and a cap with a panther—an absurdly pristine outfit amidst the violence.

No one answered. The man sighed, reached into his back pocket, and pulled out a handgun. The metallic click of the safety was deafening.

“Either you tell me… or I blow your heads off one by one until someone talks.” He pressed the muzzle against the forehead of one of the kneeling boys.

The stocky kid barely lifted his gaze. His lip was split, one eye swollen shut. “It’s me…” he muttered, barely conscious.

The man with the panther cap gave a humorless smile. “Fine then. Toss him in. And the rest of them? Give 'em another beating. Just so they don’t forget they’re not the big shots they think they are.”

The stocky boy was hauled up roughly. Behind him, the sound of blunt impacts and muffled whimpers continued. He felt weak, powerless. They threw him into the Suburban. The door slammed shut, and the SUV sped away. Slowly, the echoes of the beating faded into the distance, swallowed by the night.

On another, quieter street, the crinkle of a snack bag broke the silence. It mixed with a rhythmic crunching, like glass being crushed under a heavy weight.

It was Morrow.

He walked calmly, carrying his haul from the convenience store. Small shards of glass were still embedded in the treads of his boots; they crunched with every step, marking his progress through the darkness. A black SUV screamed past him, but he didn’t even flinch. In his time in this country, he had learned that people drove that way for three reasons: they were in a hurry, they were angry, or they had something to hide.

A few blocks later, as he approached the warehouse, he saw them.

Clara was leaning against the Camaro, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the street. Abel stood by the facade, also cross-armed but stiff—awkward, as if he didn’t know what to do with his own body. Pablo, meanwhile, was straining to peer through the gaps in the gate, trying to glimpse what Morrow had been hiding for weeks.

Clara saw him first. She pushed off the car and called out.

“About time,” she said. “Are you finally going to tell us what you’ve been up to… or are we going to have to run again?” Her tone wavered between irritation and playfulness, masking her growing exhaustion with the mystery.

Morrow gave a dry, short laugh. “Sure. You can come in today. Don’t worry, there won’t be any running tonight.”

Pablo noticed the bags first. “What’s in those?”

Morrow lifted one slightly. “This? I thought we could eat while I explain how things are going to be from now on.” He paused. “Think of it as a break… after all the running you’ve done lately.”

Morrow said nothing more. He set the bags down, feeling the weight of their expectant stares. He fished through his pockets for the keys. The metallic clack of the lock disengaging broke the silence, followed by the heavy groan of the door sliding open.

The gate retracted slowly, and the mystery of the past few weeks was laid bare. Morrow stepped inside, picked up the bags, and gave a slight wave of his hand.

The three followed him in. Their excitement was palpable, almost childlike. For days, they had seen only an old, abandoned shell. Now, at first glance, the place looked like a high-tech base of operations straight out of a thriller.

The floor, once cracked and uneven concrete, had been replaced with a smooth, glossy black epoxy resin, speckled with white flecks that caught the overhead lights. The area where they used to pile their belongings was now partitioned by drywall. The first section had wide lockers assigned to each of them—organized, professional. In the center sat a solid metal bench; in the back, a simple but functional bathroom.

On the other side of the partition, the atmosphere shifted. Comfort was gone. In its place was gear.

Tasers lined up on a table. A few handguns. Ammo boxes. A shelf stocked with medical supplies: bandages, gauze, tourniquets. It wasn’t an abandoned warehouse anymore. It was a staging ground.

The youths fell silent. Some hid their shock better than others.

At the back of the warehouse was a wide sofa, and next to it, a concrete bar featuring a spacious mini-fridge and a microwave. The bar was coated in the same resin as the floor, but in a brilliant white, creating a clean contrast with the dominant black of the space.

Morrow led them to the stairs. Once rusted and neglected, they were now restored, coated in a deep black paint that shone like new. They climbed.

Above, their new training area awaited. The scent of fresh plastic hung in the air. The floor was covered in smooth blue tatami mats. Heavy bags hung in a perfect line at the back. A tidy shelf held headgear, gloves, and pads. Two pull-up bars were bolted firmly to the wall.

Everything was impeccable.

They descended, still in awe. Out of the corner of his eye, Abel noticed the office next to the training area. Strangely, that part looked exactly as it had the day he first arrived: no remodeling, no new paint, no visible changes. He brushed it off. Maybe Morrow didn’t think it was worth the effort, he thought.

The four returned to the ground floor and sat at the bar. The wooden stools, topped with firm white cushions, offered an unexpected comfort. Morrow began pulling out cups, chips, and drinks.

“Alright. Now that I have your attention… and you’ve seen our primary base of operations, I want to have a serious talk with you.”

As he spoke, the crunch of chips and the fizz of soda filled the small silences. Morrow wasn’t smiling.

“What we do from here on out is dangerous. This isn’t a hobby. It’s not a pastime. It’s not something to kill time after school or work.”

He looked at them one by one.

“You will be combatants. And that requires sacrifice. If you have personal projects, a relationship, plans for the future… all of that has to end, or at the very least, take a backseat. I will train you, but for that, I need to know you’re all in.”

For a moment, Abel felt the true weight of those words. A primitive instinct flared within him: the urge to stand up and walk out. Everything Morrow said sounded like a dark fantasy—something too big, too lethal.

But then, like a flash, he remembered the only thing keeping him anchored to this world: Elena.

He chose to stay.

“No half measures,” Morrow continued. “Every day, at seven sharp, we meet here to train.” He exhaled slowly. “And with that said… if anyone isn’t on board, there’s the door.”

His firm gaze shifted toward the exit. Almost simultaneously, the three youths looked at the door, then at each other. No one spoke. They didn’t have to. One by one, they turned back to the massive man.

“Good. For today, relax. Eat. You’ve earned the rest.”

The crunching sound returned, mixed with the low murmur of cans and cups. Suddenly, a sharp, slightly nasal voice cut through the air.

“I have a question.” Clara didn’t sound relaxed. Her tone was heavy with uncertainty. “What exactly are you? What do you do for a living? How did you pay for all this to begin with?”

The crunching of chips stopped for a beat.

“That was more than one question,” Pablo chimed in, mouth half-full. Clara shot him a look—eyes like daggers—and he shrunk back, stuffing another handful of chips into his mouth as his only defense.

Abel, watching the exchange, felt a small internal laugh. He didn’t let it out. Only the corners of his lips twitched almost imperceptibly before he went back to his food.

Morrow’s laughter filled the room. Clara raised an eyebrow while the boys looked on, confused.

“Ah… it’s natural to have doubts,” Morrow said finally. “You see, I’m ex-military. US Army, though my looks might say otherwise. I served for several years, and after leaving the service, I became a contractor. I take jobs both in and out of the country: logistics, protection, recovery.”

Pablo’s eyes went wide with a childlike glint, as if discovering his coach was a real-life superhero.

“Contract work pays well,” Morrow continued. “This place wasn’t cheap.”

He pulled out his wallet and slid it across the bar. Inside was an ID from his military days, a photo of him with other soldiers, and another of him receiving medals. He looked younger in the photos, but just as grim. They read the name on the ID: Esteban Morrow.

“Alright… it’s late. You should go. You’ve got a heavy day ahead of you tomorrow, so get your heads right.”

The group stood up. Abel lingered for a second, taking in the sheer scale of the transformation. It was staggering that one man had pulled this off. He felt a small, but significant, spark of admiration.

At the door, he saw his new teammates: Pablo was struggling to start his scooter, muttering to himself, while Clara stood a few paces away, checking her phone with a pensive expression. Abel felt Morrow’s hand on his shoulder, guiding him gently out.

Pablo, ever the enthusiast, pulled his helmet on. “Does that mean we can call you Esteban?” his voice muffled by the padding.

Morrow looked at him. “No. You’ll keep calling me Morrow.” He shut the door without another word.

“Geez… what a buzzkill,” Pablo grumbled. He hopped on his scooter and sped off with a brief roar.

Abel watched him go. When he turned back, Clara was facing him, her shoulders tense. “Ugh… damn it. It’s late and the Uber is charging a fortune. I guess I’m walking.”

Abel heard her. For a moment, his mind suggested the easy path: say goodbye and leave. Don’t get involved. But he remembered. She was the one who had patched him up when he was on the verge of death. She hadn’t asked for a thing in return.

He swallowed hard. For him, the next words were a titanic effort.

“Um… do you want a ride?”

Clara turned, confused. To her, the guy in front of her was just a weird, somber, quiet type. “Um… I don’t want to take you out of your way,” she said, scratching her neck.

“Where do you live?”

“In the Las Dianas district.”

Abel knew it instantly. The Red Light District. Picturesque at a glance—vibrant facades, neon lights flickering at dusk, music bleeding through half-open windows. But behind that colorful mask lay the city’s deepest rot.

He froze for a second, trying not to react too quickly. Saying something judgmental—or even something too familiar—might offend her.

“Oh… yeah, um… I know where that is,” Abel stammered, his nervousness betraying him as he fidgeted with his fingers.

“Yeah. The neighborhood for the hookers,” Clara interrupted firmly, without a trace of shame.

The silence that followed was heavy. Abel took a slow breath, regaining his composure. “Well… it’s on my way. Come on, get in.”

They both climbed into the car. An awkward silence reigned as they drove. Clara stared out the window at the city lights while Abel gripped the steering wheel with tense hands. It had been a long time since anyone had been in his car.

At a red light, Clara sighed with boredom. “Don’t you have music or something?”

Abel blinked. “Well… my phone’s dead, but…” he gestured toward the glove box, “I have some CDs. If you see something you like, put it on.”

Clara opened the compartment and began sifting through the jewel cases, reading the titles under her breath. “Let’s see… Life Is Peachy… Revolution Revolución…”

She stopped. One case caught her eye. The plastic was worn, but the colors on the cover were still vibrant: red, green, orange, yellow. In the center, the title stood out: Daltónico by Enjambre.

“You like Enjambre?” Clara asked, her voice carrying a genuine trace of excitement for the first time.

Abel was surprised by the intensity of her reaction. Sharing something like this—something he had always kept to himself—felt strange. Vulnerable. “Um… yeah. I used to listen to them a lot in high school. That… that’s my favorite album.”

His voice was lower than usual, almost as if he were admitting a secret.

“Well, we definitely have to play this one,” Clara said, carefully sliding the disc into the stereo.

A faint hum preceded the hazy synths that filled the car. Clara turned the volume up gradually, letting the melody take over. The drums set the pace, followed by the lead singer’s melodic, soulful voice.

Clara began to sing—not loudly, but with the confidence that only comes when a song truly means something. She didn’t look at Abel. She looked straight ahead.

Abel recognized every note. This was his favorite track. He didn’t speak, but for the first time, the silence wasn’t heavy. Involuntarily, he began to hum along. His leg tapped the rhythm against the floorboard. He didn’t seem like the same rigid boy from moments ago.

Clara glanced at him—a fleeting look, but long enough to realize that this “shady, weird kid” might not be exactly who she thought he was. At the song’s peak, she sang out with force:

“¡La más grande maravilla!”

Her voice rose above the music. A few songs later, the atmosphere now much lighter, they reached her home. Clara hopped out, thanking him for the ride with a brief but sincere smile.

Abel pulled away. The streets were empty, and his driving felt smoother, lighter. It had been a strange experience, but not a bad one. Now alone, he began to sing softly to the music still playing.

He stopped at a red light.

And then he felt it.

The familiar chill crawling up his spine. The pressure in his head. That sensation that something else was there. The presence intensified, as if it were crawling slowly from the back seat. The sharp pain behind his eyes confirmed the inevitable.

Then came the voice. Sweet. Damned.

“And who was she?.. Don’t tell me I have to be jealous now, too…

…"

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