Gods and Mortals

#1: I am NightShade

INTRODUCTION ARC

The night air was punctuated by the metallic rattle of spray cans, their sound echoing through the air like a clandestine symphony. The darkness above acted as a protective cloak, shielding his activities from any prying eyes that might have been tempted by curiosity.

This creation was destined to become the cornerstone of his legacy, but he knew that this was a sentiment shared by all genuine artists - an unending aspiration to surpass their past achievements with each stroke of creativity.

As the spray cans unleashed their colorful contents onto the surface, the intensity of the sounds seemed to mirror the fervor within his soul. With each precise movement, he neared the completion of his latest masterpiece. While the location was a common spot for pedestrians, tonight held a unique stillness, an absence of passersby that allowed his artistry to flourish undisturbed.

As the final echoes of the spray cans faded into the night, his creation stood before him - a genuine work of art, a testament to his talent and dedication. However, the emotions that stirred within him were not what one might have expected.

Despite the achievement before him, an undercurrent of dissatisfaction coursed through his veins. A true artist was never truly satisfied, always striving to exceed their own limitations. The knowledge that he could have pushed further, done better, haunted his thoughts. Yet, the constraints of time held him captive, compelling him to etch his signature logo onto the wall, a final flourish.

Seated before his completed artwork, a mixture of admiration and discontent warred within him. He acknowledged the quality of his creation, but the hunger for perfection still gnawed at his spirit. With a sigh, he allowed himself a moment of reprieve, his gaze fixed on the artwork as if seeking answers.

His own murmured words broke the silence as he lay on his back, staring up at the endless expanse of the night sky. "NightShade, huh..." The name, a moniker given by the world, hung in the air. It was a title that carried both accolades and expectations, a paradoxical blend of fame and anonymity.

A mere week had passed since the press had christened him with the moniker "The graffiti artist that only strikes at night." To be honest, he considered it a rather unremarkable feat, given that it was precisely when most artists chose to create. Yet, what set him apart and captured the media's fascination was his canvas - the sprawling urban expanse of the city itself. Remarkably, what might have taken hours for others, he could achieve in the span of thirty minutes, rendering the creative process an awe-inspiring spectacle.

His gaze remained locked on the expanse above, a canvas of stars that seemed to hold both his secrets and the world's. The name that clung to him, "NightShade," carried a duality he couldn't ignore. He wasn't perturbed by the ambiguity it brought, nor the polarized opinions that followed - admiration for his art mingling with accusations that likened him to a terrorist. What truly troubled him was a gnawing sense of incompleteness, an elusive understanding that danced just beyond his grasp.

Despite his abode being a considerable seven miles from his current location, it posed no hindrance to his weekly forays into the city. His reputation had solidified around his unwavering consistency, his creations adorning the cityscape with a frequency that painted him as an icon. Not merely confined to the city's limits, his influence stretched across the entire state of New York.

In the span of a few months, he had metamorphosed into a paradoxical figure, revered and reviled in equal measure. Though he remained unperturbed by the divergent perceptions, it was far from the motivation that fueled his creative fervor.

Yet, even as his thoughts roamed the vastness of the night sky, a subtle shift occurred. The clouds, once obscure and unassuming, seemed to take on an ethereal luminance, casting an otherworldly glow. This transient spectacle jolted him from his reverie, grounding him back to the realm of the present. Swiftly, he retrieved his bag from its resting place in a nearby alleyway. Within the confines of his bag lay his phone, which he reached in for.