Brian woke to the sound of thumping.
Not gunshots this time, just knuckles on wood.
Tok-tok-tok.
He blinked, the morning light leaking through the holes in the Wendy house wall like silver needles. His neck ached. His mouth was dry. One of his feet had escaped the blanket and gone cold in the night.
"Ey, you alive, dog?" came the voice from outside. "You not answering, I'm gonna think the skollies finally got you."
Brian groaned, swung his legs over the mattress, and opened the door.
"Awe, Mark."
"Awe, my ou. You sleep like the dead, ne."
Mark walked in without being invited. Childhood bru. Same age. Short dreads, sharp jawline, eyes that never stopped moving. He wore an old hoodie with Free Palestine on it and Nike slides with no socks.
Mark sniffed the air. "Smells like athlete's foot and bad dreams in here."
"Welcome to the palace," Brian muttered, scratching his chest.
Mark grinned and dropped onto the mattress like he owned it, pulling out a small ziplock and a paper. "Come, let's start this day proper."
Brian raised a brow. "It's 8AM, homie."
"So?"
A few minutes later, the Wendy house smelled like homegrown. Sweet. Thick. Comforting. Brian leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded as the smoke swirled around the cracked ceiling.
Mark scrolled through his phone. "Let's watch something while we trip."
He hooked up his little Bluetooth speaker, propped his phone against a chipped mug, and hit play.
An anime came up, gritty art, dark city, red-eyed gangsters. A lone man in a black hoodie beat the crap out of a gang in an alley. The guy didn't have powers, just fast hands and mad tactics. Like Batman with better music taste.
Brian stared, chewing slowly on a cold chip left in a greasy packet from last night.
They'd gotten burgers and chips from the corner shop. Burger patty like rubber, but with enough sauce and slap chips, it slapped anyway. Two Jive cooldrinks sat sweating on the floor.
As the vigilante onscreen threw someone through a fence, Brian spoke.
"Mark."
"Ja?"
"What if… what if someone actually did this stuff, ne? Like, real life. Out here. Like… started fighting back. Not like a cop, but like that ou. A one-man army."
Mark side-eyed him, joint halfway to his mouth.
"My bru, you are dik gerook. You sober, you won't be saying kak like that."
Brian smiled but didn't laugh. He kept looking at the screen.
Mark exhaled smoke and shook his head. "You wanna end up on a TikTok with your pants off, crying, after the Gutterside Dogs catch you?"
Brian chuckled. "They're not even real, man."
"They are now," Mark said, serious. "That's what they calling themselves, these new laaities in Blikkies. They stabbed a guy for his takkies last week. And filmed it."
Brian's smile faded.
"Ja... I know. I saw something the other day. Skollies robbed a kid at Leiden. People just watched."
Mark puffed. "And you think putting on a mask gonna fix that?"
Brian shrugged. "Maybe it doesn't fix it. But maybe it... stops it. One time. Two times. Like maybe people get scared to do kak when they know someone's watching."
Mark looked at him hard. "You always liked movies too much, bro."
Brian nodded, eyes on the vigilante onscreen.
"Ja. But movies make more sense than this place sometimes."
They sat in silence for a bit. The anime's credits rolled. The Wendy house filled with the hum of township sounds, dogs barking, aunties shouting, taxis hooting.
Mark stood, stretching. "Alright, I gotta bounce. My ma's coming back from work early. Can't be high when she arrives or I'll be homeless again."
Brian laughed. "You basically already are."
Mark pulled up his hoodie. "You walking me, or what?"
"Ja, let's go."
They stepped out into the sharp Cape Flats sun. Brian locked the Wendy house, stuffed his keys in his pocket, and the two walked toward the corner. Kids ran past kicking a deflated ball. The smell of frying polony and paraffin filled the air.
Mark lit a Stuyvie. "You're still thinking about that hero kak, ne?"
Brian didn't answer right away.
Then he said, "Maybe not today. But someone's gotta think about it."
Mark sucked his teeth. "You do it, I'm filming. At least go viral before you die."
They both laughed.
They reached the corner, dapped up, and Mark crossed the road.
Brian stood there for a second, watching him go.
Then he turned and headed back toward the Wendy house.
But the idea… it didn't leave.
That night, the wind blew hot through Delft, carrying the sounds of car alarms, barking dogs, and the occasional boom of a bottle breaking on tar.
Inside the Wendy house, Brian stood in front of his cracked mirror. His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled the red ski mask down over his face.
His reflection looked like someone else now, faceless, nameless. Black hoodie zipped up tight. Black pants. Black Nike Air Forces scuffed at the toes. He looked like a shadow out of a nightmare. A comic book vigilante on a R99 budget.
His heart was hammering.
"It's just a look," he muttered to himself. "You're not fighting a war. Just... watching. Just walking."
He slipped out into the night, moving through narrow passages between houses, keeping to the shadows. The mask itched. His hoodie was too hot. But something burned colder inside him, the memory of that kid at Leiden, the knife, the silence.
He didn't know what he was looking for. Until he heard it.
A scream.
High-pitched. Panicked. Around the corner by the Spar that never opened on time.
Brian broke into a sprint, his soles slapping against the pavement.
As he turned the corner, he saw them, a woman, mid-twenties , coloured, pulling back desperately as a man tried to rip her handbag from her shoulder. Her voice cracked with fear. No one else around.
"Leave me! Help! Help me!"
Brian didn't think. He just charged.
CRACK!
He punched the guy clean in the jaw, sending him stumbling back and falling against the concrete with a dull thud. The bag slipped from his fingers.
The woman gasped, clutching her handbag to her chest.
Brian stood over the skollie, chest heaving, fists shaking.
She looked at him, this masked figure standing between her and danger.
"Jirre... are you Jas?" she asked, voice full of shock and something close to awe.
Brian turned to her, forcing himself to speak in a lower voice.
"No, ma'am. Just someone who's tired of this kak. Get somewhere safe, ne."
But before she could respond...
SCHLICK.
Pain exploded in Brian's side.
He gasped and looked down.
The skollie, bleeding, mouth twisted, had stabbed him with a rusted blade. Deep. Right under the ribs.
Brian stumbled back, grabbing the wound. The red ski mask darkened as blood soaked into his hoodie.
"You think I'm a poes?" the guy snarled. "This ain't a game, you moegoe."
He ran, disappearing into the night.
Brian collapsed onto the sidewalk, gasping, blood pouring through his fingers.
The woman screamed again, louder this time, then dropped to her knees beside him.
"Hey! Hey! Stay with me! Jirre, you're bleeding bad!"
She fumbled for her phone, hands shaking. "Help! Somebody help! He's been stabbed!"
Brian blinked up at the stars.
They didn't look heroic.
They looked cold.
Empty.
His breathing slowed. The night swallowed sound.
The blood kept coming.
But something inside him whispered, through the pain, through the panic...
"Now you know it's real."