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“Very Darkman”
In a city that forgot what justice looked like, whispers of a man who hadn’t.
They called him Very Darkman.
No one knew where he came from—only that he appeared when the truth disappeared. He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t a villain either. He was what came after you’d run out of excuses.
By day, the city moved on, sweeping scandals under polished shoes, silencing victims with hashtags, and rewarding lies with claps. But at night, when power slept and the streets echoed with the cries of the ignored, he hunted.
He didn’t wear a cape. Just a hoodie. No powers. Just receipts.
It started with a corrupt police chief. A man feared by even the mayor. For years, he’d trafficked young girls, protected by politics and paid-off press. The city thought him untouchable—until one morning, grainy footage surfaced on a hacked billboard downtown. The video showed everything. Names. Dates. Screams. And a voice distorted by static:
“You protect monsters. I expose them. I’m not your law. I’m your consequence.”
By dusk, the chief had vanished.
The media painted Very Darkman as a vigilante. The elites called him a terrorist. But in the slums, where justice never reached, he was a legend. A necessary nightmare.
His next target? An influencer who preached feminism online but secretly abused his interns. Then a priest whose hands weren’t as holy as his sermons. Then a judge who sold verdicts like candy.
Every takedown came with proof—meticulously gathered, ruthlessly broadcasted.
But the darkness he fought wasn’t only outside. He carried secrets, too. No one asked why he always wore black or why he never showed his face. But one day, a journalist named Amaka got close. Too close.
She tracked his online patterns, followed his targets, predicted his moves. And when she finally cornered him in a shadowed alley behind a burned church, she didn’t bring the police. She brought a recorder.
“Why do you do this?” she asked.
“Because nobody else will,” he said.
“Who hurt you?”
“The same people who run this city.”
Then he paused, eyes like storms.
“I used to be like them. Before I knew what silence costs.”
Amaka never released the footage. Instead, she started reporting stories that mattered. Real ones. Ones that threatened her safety. And in the weeks that followed, more citizens stood up, spoke out, stopped waiting for heroes.
One night, someone asked:
“Where’s Very Darkman now?”
A new billboard lit up downtown. Black screen. White words.
“I was never one man. I was a mirror. Now it’s your turn.”
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