[h1]Arc 1 : Umbra[/h1][h2]Chapter One : The Beginning[/h2]

Five days ago, the vigilante named Ditch broadcasted to every device in Millennium City for the first time.

"People of Millennium city," They said, voice garbled and twisted by an audio editing software. You couldn't even see their eyes, it was all completely blocked by the skeletal mask. "My name is Ditch. You all must've heard by now of the new criminal, Umbra. He's killed a few already, and taken abducted the vigilante Suiren. Suiren is known to be one of the most powerful vigilantes among us. If he has the strength to take her, then there's no telling what his plans are next."

"I will not let him destroy this city. I was taught by my father to protect the things I believe in, and I believe in our home. Umbra, you will be stopped. I can promise you that." Though it was obviously not Ditch's real voice, the passion was clear. The screen went black, and then everyone's devices had returned to normal.

Moments after that, you received a text, or an email. It was personalized, riddled with bits of info that this random stranger shouldn't know, but they did. They were contacting your personal phone number or email, and calling your by your vigilante alias. It was clear Ditch knew. They sent an address.

4315 Racket Avenue. Tomorrow, midnight. Come alone. If you're followed it means the end of us all.

---

It was an abandoned warehouse. 4315 Racket Avenue was dirty and filled with trash. It was clear no one had been here in a long time, at least, no one except bums and druggies and the like. The double doors to the warehouse was open just a sliver.

It was unclear what the warehouse had been used for because it was near completely empty. Any sound would easily echo and bounce of the walls. It was eerie, mysterious, and certainly uncomfortable for anyone walking in there without knowing what was to come.

But, as you stepped farther in, you realized it wasn't a warehouse. It was an auditorium. There were no chairs, but a stage at the very end of the room. The wood of the stage was covered in mold and dust, the once red curtains were torn and chewed and a dark muddy maroon color. It was, to put it simply, disgusting.

There was a hanging platform maybe fifteen feet above the stage. When this place might've been running, it looked like it would be used for effects. There was a switchboard attached to the rusty railing, for lights and sound, and a bucket of shredded paper, perhaps to be passed off as snow. It looked very unstable, but that didn't stop someone from resting on it.

Yes, the infamous Ditch, clothed in a black hoodie, jeans, boots, and gloves, and the recognizable skeleton mask. They were obviously not revealing their identity, at least, not yet. Their clothing was loose and baggy, and it was still incredibly hard to tell their gender. A large backpack lay on the floor of the platform. They seemed to be fiddling with the switchboard as if it were a toy, the lights in the warehouse flickering on and off, on and off. They were bored.

Despite the old age of the place, Ditch had somehow gotten both the switchboard and the lights to work. They seemed to care little about the instability of the platform they stood on, in fact, they didn't look like they cared at all. 

Ditch was waiting. Waiting for the people they'd contacted to arrive. The digital watch on Ditch's wrist struck midnight. The coolest hour to meet, after all.