Ten minutes later, Scott was perched on the edge of a rooftop, crouched like a wannabe gargoyle.
The wind whipped against his hoodie, the city lights glowing faintly beneath him as he stared down at a small, unremarkable storefront tucked between a pawn shop and a deli. From up here, it looked just like any other old business trying to survive in New York.
But Scott knew better.
This place was important.
His eyes narrowed as he adjusted the strap on his sidearm and began climbing down the fire escape. He moved quietly, effortlessly—his enhanced flexibility and instincts making the descent almost too smooth. He reached the alley behind the shop and slipped through the back entrance, careful not to trigger any noise.
Inside, the space was dim and still.
The air smelled faintly of dust, aged fabric, and something metallic—like old tools. As his eyes adjusted, he made out the shapes around him: mannequins, rolls of fabric, unfinished coats hanging from racks. The layout confirmed it. This wasn't just some hole-in-the-wall clothing store.
It was a tailor shop.
And not just any tailor shop.
This was the shop.
One of the few details Scott remembered clearly after losing so much of his prior world knowledge. A key piece of information that had lodged itself deep in his memory.
Leo Zelinsky.
A name whispered among heroes and villains alike. A tailor to the masked elite. If you needed a custom super-suit that wouldn't rip apart the second you somersaulted through a window or punched a guy through a wall, he was your man.
Just as Scott started to step forward, the lights snapped on with a sudden, clean click.
He flinched slightly, turning sharply—hand halfway to his gun—only to find an old man standing in the doorway behind the counter, arms folded and eyes calm.
"You're new," the man said simply. "And judging by your posture, your outfit, and the fact that you came in through the back… I'd wager I know why you're here."
Scott exhaled slowly, letting go of the tension in his shoulders. He was wearing black pants, matte combat shoes, a plain black hoodie with the hood pulled up, and a standard medical mask covering the lower half of his face. Not exactly the flashiest entrance, but enough to scream rookie vigilante energy.
"Yeah," Scott said, stepping fully into the room. "I'm here for exactly what you're thinking."
Leo gave a slight chuckle. "Never heard of a new hero dressed like a stagehand. What's your name, then?"
"You wouldn't have heard of me," Scott replied. "I haven't exactly made my debut yet."
That made the old man smile faintly. "Then let's make it."
He turned without another word and walked through a side door into the back room.
Scott followed.
The hallway smelled like old leather and machine oil. Faint humming came from sewing machines deeper inside, along with the clinking of metal tools and the soft whisper of fabric being cut.
This is it, Scott thought. This guy's the real deal.
He'd been lucky to remember this place—lucky that this one, specific detail had survived the mental wipe from the Risk Card. If he needed a costume, Leo Zelinsky was the best man for the job.
They entered a cluttered workspace. A notebook lay open on the main table, and Leo picked it up and looked over his shoulder at Scott.
"Alright, let's get to it. What kind of costume are we talking? Loose fit? Skin-tight? Power-specific? Stealth-ready? What's the build?"
Scott didn't hesitate.
He described it clearly, confidently—the vision already formed in his mind from the moment he'd decided to become a hero.
A futuristic black suit, sleek and reinforced, with red accents that highlighted his outline.
A hooded red cloak for mystery and dramatic entrances.
A partial red mask that covered most of his face, revealing only his glowing amber eyes.
Armor focused on the right shoulder, with a glowing circular emblem as a focal point.
A design that balanced between tactical utility and urban style—something that screamed "I operate in shadows", but didn't skimp on protection.
Leo listened carefully, jotting notes like a doctor recording symptoms.
When Scott finished, the old tailor nodded.
"Alright then," he said, already moving to one of the fabric racks. "I can make this in no time."
"Seriously?" Scott asked, surprised. "Thanks."
He turned and made his way back toward the entrance, ready to kill time or head out for coffee or—anything, really.
But Leo's voice stopped him cold.
"Where are you going?"
Scott turned back. "Uh… out? You're gonna need a few days, right?"
Leo glanced at him over his shoulder like he'd just said the sky was green.
"Kid, the kind of VIPs I get in here? They don't have time to wait days. They drop in, ask for something impossible, and expect it by sundown. So I've had to learn to make fast work of complex designs."
Scott blinked. "But… that suit's not exactly simple."
Leo waved a hand. "It's not skin-tight. Do you know how hard it is to make something skin-tight that still allows full flexibility, stretch, resistance to tearing, flame-retardant lining, and hidden storage? Your design's more straightforward. Tactical suits are easy compared to that circus-spandex nonsense."
He grabbed a roll of fabric and tossed it onto the table.
"I'll have it done in an hour."
Scott looked around, mildly stunned. "So… I'm just sitting here?"
Leo motioned to a small armchair near the wall.
"Sit, kid. Wait. And don't touch anything sharp unless you wanna lose a finger."
Scott raised his hands in surrender, shuffled to the chair, and sat down awkwardly.
"…Right."
Exactly one hour later, Leo Zelinsky stepped out from the back room, holding a hanger like it contained a royal relic.
"Alright, kid," he said, "time to suit up."
Scott took the costume carefully, his fingers brushing over the smooth armor plating, the precise stitching, the matte black base layered with subtle yet sharp crimson highlights. It wasn't flashy—it was tactical, stylish, and intimidating. Just as he envisioned.
He went into the changing area and slipped into it piece by piece.
The armor adjusted perfectly to his frame. The shoulder plating with the glowing red circular emblem felt almost natural now. The flexible body suit hugged his form without constriction. The hood draped low, casting just enough shadow over his red-accented angular mask. His gloves fit snugly, and the new belt sat firm around his waist, holding his gear.
When he stepped out and walked over to the mirror across the room, he froze.
His reflection didn't look like someone trying to be a hero.
It was a hero.
(if you want to see the image of the costume, go to the image collection look for Scott Spectre and you will see the costume and how it looks like)
The red highlights under his eyes, sewn into the edges of the mask, gave him a sharp and cunning look. And now, with the muscles he'd gained from his powers, he looked like he was born to wear this.
"…Damn," he whispered.
He stared at himself for a few more seconds, jaw tense with quiet disbelief. Then, with a sigh, he pulled himself out of the fantasy. The high wore off quickly—because now came the part he didn't want to deal with.
He turned back to his old clothes folded neatly on a chair.
Reaching into the pocket of his hoodie, he pulled out a thick envelope. It wasn't much—just a few hundred dollars in bills—but it was everything he had left. A hit like this was going to leave him struggling for food and rent for at least a month.
He held out the envelope with both hands.
"I hope this is enough," he said, his voice serious. "I know it's not cheap. Just looking at this suit—I can tell the materials, the detailing… it's pro-level. I'll probably be broke for a long time after this."
Leo didn't even blink. He just raised his hand and waved it dismissively.
"First costume's on the house," he said.
Scott blinked. "Wait, really?"
Leo gave him the faintest smile. "I can't help but give a little special treatment to young heroes."
Scott narrowed his eyes. "And how do you know I'm not… something else?"
Leo looked at him, eyes calm but piercing. "Kid, if you were a villain, you wouldn't act like one. You wouldn't walk in here with nervous respect. You wouldn't hesitate to throw money on the table. You'd be talking threats or deals. So… if you're a villain, you might as well quit now. It doesn't suit you."
Scott stared for a moment longer.
Then smirked.
"Not bad, old man."
He tucked the envelope back into his pocket and picked up his old clothes, folding them under his arm. With a quiet nod, he slipped back out the way he came—through the back.
⸻
By the time he returned to his apartment, the city had begun to shift. The last grip of night was starting to peel away as the sun crawled over the skyline, casting soft gold and pale orange across the rooftops.
Scott didn't even go inside.
He opened the apartment door just long enough to toss the old clothes onto his worn couch. Then he turned, leapt up the stairwell two steps at a time, and pushed the door to the rooftop open.
The wind hit him first. The city stretched before him, vast and glowing, caught between darkness and dawn. The golden hue reflected off windows and rooftops, and for a moment, it looked… peaceful.
He pulled up his hood, adjusting the cloak around his shoulders. His red mask glinted in the sunrise.
"Damn," he murmured. "That's beautiful."
But the beauty didn't fool him.
This city was dangerous. Beneath every glimmer was a shadow, and behind every building was a threat waiting to crawl out. But now?
Now he was ready.
He smiled under the mask.
"I think it's time I finally try out what this body can really do."
And with that, he jumped.
He leapt off the roof with zero hesitation, twisting midair and grabbing a laundry pole jutting from a nearby wall. He spun himself in a clean arc, launched across a narrow alley, and landed perfectly on one hand before flipping onto his feet again. The rush hit him like a drug.
His movements were flawless. The strength let him leap incredible distances, and his flexibility and instincts made it feel like he'd been doing this his whole life.
For the first time in forever, he wasn't thinking about dying or worrying about the future.
He was just moving—free, fast, and alive.
"This is the best day of my life."
He hadn't done it earlier because he didn't want attention. Didn't want to risk someone seeing him before he was ready. But now that he had a suit?
Now, he could play.
He leapt again, flipping midair and twisting down to a fire escape three stories below—grabbing it with one hand, vaulting over the railing, and landing without a sound.
But just as he prepared to jump again, he stopped.
His body froze.
Because somewhere in the alley below… he heard something strange.
Muffled movement. Dull clanks. A sharp, cut-off shout.
Scott narrowed his eyes.
His fun could wait.
(please check out my novel: Star Island: A Hero's path It's on Royal Road, but The first 102 chapters Are in WebNovel)