Ghost Owl
But he wasn't alone. A kid in a hoodie huddled against a nearby wall, couldn't have been any older than sixteen. He was shivering, not from the cold - he didn't even feel the cold, not now - but from the shock and horror of what he'd just seen. From the anger of allowing it to happen. You know how this story goes. A good man dies, a bad man lives. A newborn vigilante, angry, screaming, is baptised in blood. An old story, played out a thousand times over. But still, it has punch. It resonates. And you have to make allowances for the classics.
Nevertheless, this time around somebody got bored with the same old script and demanded a twist. A sharp-eyed observer - not that there any other witnesses that night, sharp-eyed or otherwise - would notice the kid was clutching something, staring down at it with the sort of wide eyed disbelief typically reserved for first-time alien encounters. A .45 revolver, five bullets still chambered. A spent shell casing lay at his feet. No prizes for guessing where the rest was.