Faro lost everything after his chronic liver failure, but in losing all, he gained back what he thought was gone forever—his family life in Thundarr City. For the first time in years, he was living under the same roof with the fantasy of his boyhood and the lover of his teen. Rita, the woman who haunted his dreams since adolescence, was here. And Ronda, the woman who had loved him steadfastly for four years, was here as well.
The apartment was dim that night, the city’s neon glow bleeding faintly through the curtains. Faro had just left Rita’s bedroom. His body still pulsed with the heat of what had just happened between them, yet his mind was a storm. He moved through the hallway, barefoot, intending to slip into Ronda’s room and fulfill his role as the man she trusted and adored.
But halfway down the hallway, he stopped. His knees weakened, his chest tightened. He slumped against the wall and sat down on the cold floorboards. Tears began to well and run silently down his face. The weight of his choices pressed down like stone.
Then, without warning, a shadow unfurled at the far end of the hallway. The air grew heavy, as though time itself slowed. From the darkness emerged a figure—tall, cloaked, with a single horn jutting from its head. Its form seemed more suggestion than flesh, wavering as though part of the void itself.
“What is wrong, Faro?” the figure asked, its voice like a hollow echo inside his skull.
Faro’s heart thumped in terror. He wanted to believe this was a dream, some fevered illusion brought by guilt and sickness. Yet the presence before him was too sharp, too real. He wiped his tears, took a trembling breath, and forced himself to speak.
“I…” His throat tightened, but he continued. “I just made love to Rita. And now… I am going to do the same to Ronda.”
The horned figure tilted its head, a grin curling in the shadows. “Well then,” it said softly, “that should make you a happy man.”
But Faro shook his head violently, clutching his chest as if to rip out the ache inside. “I am not happy,” he whispered. His tears returned, heavier, bitter. “I am no longer Falcon.”
The hallway seemed to darken further, and the figure’s presence grew heavier, pressing in on him. It crouched, bringing its veiled face closer to Faro’s trembling one.
“Then cast off that broken name,” it whispered. “Join me. Walk the path of shadow. If you do, you shall have immense power. More power than Falcon the Fourth could ever dream of.”
Faro stared at the horned silhouette, his breath unsteady. A part of him recoiled at the offer, but another part—broken, aching, desperate—felt the temptation flare like a flame inside his hollow chest.
The apartment was silent but for his uneven sobs and the voice of the darkness offering him everything his lost self craved.
The horned figure leaned closer, its shadow curling along the walls like smoke. Its voice was low, coaxing, each word vibrating in Faro’s bones.
“Very well,” it said. “You need not decide now. But taste what I offer.”
It raised a clawed hand, black as obsidian, and pressed it against Faro’s chest. A surge of energy coursed through him—raw, unfiltered power. His veins burned green like living Thundranum, his muscles clenched and swelled with renewed vigor, and his mind sharpened as though the fog of sickness and despair had been burned away. He gasped, staggering forward, gripping his ribs as the force filled every corner of him.
“These are temporary powers,” the figure said with a cruel grin. “Go now. Finish up with Ronda. Then return to me and tell me if you wish to keep them. If you do, you will never again crawl in shame. You will never again call yourself Falcon. You will be something greater.”
Faro rose unsteadily to his feet, his tears drying against his cheeks. He flexed his fingers, feeling the tremor of strength beneath his skin—strength he hadn’t known since before his liver failed, before he lost Falcon’s mantle. His body felt alive again, more alive than it had in years.
He glanced toward Ronda’s door. Behind it was comfort, warmth, and the love of a woman who still believed in him. But now, with this new fire in his veins, the weight of guilt twisted into something darker—something dangerous.
Faro wiped his face, his expression hardening. He turned back to the figure. “And when I return… you’ll be here?”
The horned silhouette leaned into the shadows, its single glowing horn the last thing visible before it dissolved into the dark. “I will always be here, Faro. Waiting.”
The hallway was silent once more, but Faro’s heart was not. His footsteps carried him to Ronda’s room, each step heavier than the last, his mind torn between love, lust, and the taste of forbidden power now crackling in his veins.
Faro stood before Ronda’s bedroom door, his hand hovering just above the handle. His chest still hummed with the gift the horned figure had pressed into him, every heartbeat thundering like a drum. For a moment, he hesitated. A part of him—the weary, broken man—wanted to slip inside quietly, lay down beside Ronda, and hold her as if nothing had changed.
But another part, the new part, pulsed with heat and shadow, urging him to claim, to consume.
He opened the door.
Ronda stirred beneath the thin sheets, her small frame curled up in the softness of the bed. Her round glasses rested on the nightstand, the faint glow of the city lights outlining her gentle features. She blinked sleepily, then smiled when she saw him.
“Faro?” Her voice was soft, drowsy. “You couldn’t sleep?”
Faro stepped inside, and she noticed something in his eyes—something sharper, brighter, burning where there used to be weariness. He sat on the edge of the bed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His touch made her shiver.
“I didn’t want to sleep,” he whispered. “I wanted to be with you.”
She reached for his hand, her warmth grounding him for a fleeting moment. But then the power surged again, rippling through his veins, and Ronda gasped as his touch grew firmer, more commanding. His breath came heavier, his hunger unrestrained, and she felt the difference instantly.
“Faro… you feel… different,” she murmured, half in wonder, half in fear.
He leaned close, pressing his forehead to hers. “Do I?” His lips brushed against her ear. “Or is this what I should have always been?”
Ronda’s heart raced, but she yielded to him, her trust unshaken. As he kissed her, the energy within him coursed outward, a shadowy heat that wrapped the room in an aura of strange intensity. The night seemed to thicken, as if the horned figure’s presence lingered even here, watching.
For Faro, every sensation was heightened—her touch, her breath, the rhythm of her heartbeat beneath his hand. He felt invincible, unstoppable, like a man reborn. Yet in the back of his mind, guilt twisted like a knife, whispering Rita’s name, reminding him of the betrayal woven into his passion.
But the power silenced that guilt quickly, smothering it with dark ecstasy.
When at last Ronda lay trembling in his arms, drifting back into slumber, Faro stared at the ceiling, his eyes glowing faintly in the dimness. He could feel the strength still alive in his veins, and with it, the promise of more.
Quietly, carefully, he slipped from the bed. He kissed Ronda’s forehead one last time, then stood, his shadow stretching unnaturally long across the floor.
The horned figure would be waiting.
And now Faro knew he had something to confess.
The apartment hallway was silent again as Faro stepped out of Ronda’s room. His body still glowed faintly with the remnants of the encounter, but more than passion pulsed in him now—it was the hunger for more. The shadows seemed to draw him forward, guiding his bare feet across the creaking boards until he reached the spot where he had first seen the horned figure.
And just as before, the darkness rippled and split. The horned silhouette emerged, its single horn gleaming like a dagger in the void.
“You’ve returned,” the figure said, its voice curling like smoke in Faro’s mind. “Tell me… was the taste of my power sweet?”
Faro’s lips curled into a faint smile. He felt no shame now—only the need to press forward. His voice was low, steady, but dangerous.
“It was more than sweet. It made me feel alive again. Stronger than I’ve been in years.”
The horned figure tilted its head, the grin widening in the darkness. “And yet, you’re not satisfied.”
“No,” Faro admitted, his eyes burning with the same glow that haunted his veins. “I’m not satisfied. I want to test it again.”
The figure leaned closer, the shadows deepening around them. “And who shall you test it on?”
Faro’s breath caught, but his desire pushed him past hesitation. “Rita,” he said. “I want to test my powers on Rita next.”
The horned figure’s laughter rumbled through the walls, a sound both mocking and approving. “Ahh… the fantasy of your boyhood. The forbidden flame. You are already walking the path of shadow, Faro. To claim both women under the same roof—your aunt and your lover—and still crave more… yes, this is the hunger I was waiting for.”
It reached out a clawed hand, brushing the air just above Faro’s chest. “Very well. Go to her. Burn your power into her as you did with Ronda. Then return again. And when you do, you will know whether you are mine forever.”
Faro closed his eyes, drawing in a long breath as the dark fire swelled inside him once more. When he opened them, his pupils glowed faintly in the darkness.
He turned toward Rita’s door.
And with every step, the power whispered louder, drowning out the man he once was—the Falcon—and shaping him into something else entirely.
Faro stood outside Rita’s door, his pulse thrumming with dark energy. The walls of the apartment seemed to breathe with him, alive with the same force the horned figure had given him. He hesitated for only a moment, his hand hovering above the knob, before pushing it open.
Rita was sitting up in bed, her long hair spilling over her shoulders, the faint glow of the city catching the curves of her frame. She had been awake, restless, as though she’d felt his approach before he entered. Her green eyes locked on him, sharp and questioning.
“Faro,” she said softly, though there was a tension in her tone. “Why are you here again…?”
Faro stepped into the room, and the power stirred within him, dark fire beneath his skin. His shadow stretched unnaturally across the floor, reaching toward her like grasping fingers. He closed the door behind him with deliberate calm, his smile faint but unsettling.
“I came back,” he said, his voice low and resonant, “because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Rita’s brow furrowed—she had seen Faro broken, fragile, a man torn apart by sickness and guilt. But this was different. There was strength in his posture now, a weight to his presence that felt… otherworldly.
She shifted slightly under the covers. “You’ve already had me tonight,” she whispered. “What’s come over you?”
Faro sat at the edge of the bed, his hand brushing her thigh through the sheets. The energy flared at his touch, and Rita gasped—not from fear, but from the strange, electric heat that surged into her. He leaned closer, his eyes glowing faintly in the dimness.
“I’ve been given something, Rita,” he murmured. “Something that makes me feel alive again. And I want to test it—with you.”
Her breath quickened. She should have resisted, pushed him away, demanded to know what he meant—but when his hand slid higher and the strange warmth spread through her body, her will softened. The dark gift worked on her like a drug, stripping her of hesitation.
Faro kissed her, and the power inside him poured into the kiss—fierce, consuming, intoxicating. Rita clutched at his shoulders, her composure shattering as the intensity of him overwhelmed her.
The encounter grew urgent, every motion of his body amplified by the energy surging through him. He felt like a man remade—his strength unyielding, his endurance unending, his passion edged with something primal. Rita, caught between resistance and surrender, gasped his name again and again, until at last the room itself seemed to hum with the force of it.
When it was over, she lay breathless, trembling against him, her green eyes wide with a mix of awe and fear. Faro, however, was not trembling. He sat upright beside her, his chest heaving steadily, his body still alive with shadow. His glowing eyes stared into the dark corner of the room, where the horned figure’s presence could almost be felt, lingering, watching.
Rita touched his arm weakly. “Faro… what happened to you? You don’t feel like the same man.”
He turned his head slowly toward her, and for a moment, the faintest smile curved his lips.
“Maybe I’m not.”