Devil's Wrath

Part 1

All was quiet. Well... almost quiet. A dysfunctional couple could be heard shouting their lungs out in an apartment block, until a loud smack! sounded out, followed by a cry. A cry of pain, A cry of fear.

A cry for help.

Luckily for her, It's answered. Just not in the way they expected. A glass window shattered, startled yelps were heard, followed by vicious thumps of a padded fist against a skull, the distinctive crunch of a nose soon followed. Inside, a man in all-black was pummeling the abuser, leaving behind welts, bruises, and blood staining the man's face and the bandage wrap's around the black-clad man's hand's and forearm. The wife watched on in horror, mixed with shameful satisfaction and relief that slowly crept into her gut, though she all but shouted to the man to stop. The man in black abruptly stopped mid-punch and look's at the husbands face. His nose was smashed in, his right eye was swollen shut completely and his left wasn't far off. The man was missing his front teeth, mostly likely swallowed, along with the blood coming out of the gums. Then the man in black spoke, his voice low and gruff, like sandpaper running against someones face, "If you even lay a finger against her, I'll be back.. and it'll be worse." The wife's eye's widen, The man's voice was so... young. No more older than nineteen, or twenty.

He leave's through the window as suddenly as he arrived, The wife was slowly gathering her courage and called the police, and told them everything that happened. The abuse her husband dealt out to her and the beating he took.

* * * * *

A man was held at gunpoint, begging for his life. The mugger was almost incoherently shouting at the top of his lung's for the man's wallet. Then in the span of three seconds, the mugger fell to the ground, unconscious, a white oak Eskrima stick close to his head. The victim looked to his right and saw nothing, then left, nothing again. He looked down at the mugger and saw the Eskrima was gone. He heard the scuffing of boots against brick, and dust slowly rained down on him as he looked up, catching only but a glimpse of his savior. He didn't know who this person was. But nonetheless he was grateful nonetheless.

* * * * *

Five men, each with card's in their hand's, huddled around a wire spool in a warehouse stacked with shipping containers, a small pile of cash in front of them. Each of them were hoping to get lucky, one of them hoped to use the money to buy that new used car they've been eyeing, another hoped to use it to get his next fix, another hoping to get a new apartment... "maybe something out in the suburbs?" He thought.

They'll only get lumps, bruises, and broken bones.

The man in black hanged upside down by his knees in the rafters, a hand scratching at his two-day stubble. His hand receded from his face, fumbling with the strap that held one of his pouches closed. He got it opened, then pulled out a Shuriken, it's edge was sharpened to a scalpels edge. He took in deep lungfuls of air, helping with the subtle shake in his hand. He drew his arm back, and threw. It cut through the metal loop like butter, the metal loop giving out from the weight of the light, and it smashed into the makeshift table, plunging the screaming goon's into darkness. None of them knew how to react. Except for one, who tried to bolt to the front door. He was met with a punch to his larynx and a swift kick to his face. The other's heard what happened, and they grappled out for whatever weapon's they had. The first had a pistol, an old M1911; in dire need of maintenance. The second pulled a kitchen knife, the third grabbed a baseball bat out of the wreckage of their table, and the last didn't bring one so he just used his fists.