Flipping Through the Pages
Copyright© 2026 by Dragonpig
Chapter 33
Prometheus slammed his apartment door behind him, the sound echoing through the cramped space like a gunshot. His hands shook with rage as he loosened his tie, yanking it off and hurling it across the room. Twenty-seven years old, with a doctorate in forensic technology, and they’d treated him like a naive child.
He collapsed into his desk chair, staring at the framed portrait of George Washington that hung above his computer. The first president’s steady gaze seemed to judge him, asking the question that had haunted every Washington for generations: What would you do if you truly could not tell a lie?
“They destroyed it,” he whispered to the portrait. “Your legacy, our family’s purpose—they threw it away because it was inconvenient.”
For a moment, he considered walking away. IBM was hiring. Microsoft always needed smart people. He could take his skills somewhere that would appreciate innovation instead of fearing it. Somewhere clean, corporate, safe.
But then he thought of Vincent Marquez walking free. Three children dead, and their killer is probably celebrating with expensive wine right now.
Prometheus turned to look at his home workshop—a converted closet filled with circuit boards, neural interface components, and half-finished prototypes. Enough parts to build another Truth Ray. Maybe two.
His fingers moved almost without conscious thought, pulling components from shelves, his mind already designing modifications. If he was going to operate outside the system, he needed something more portable, more discreet. The original Truth Ray had looked like a TV remote—hardly intimidating.
This one would look like what it was: a weapon against deception.
The device in Prometheus’s hands bore no resemblance to his original creation. Sleek black metal with silver accents, it looked like something from the future —a pistol designed by someone who understood both form and function. The grip fit perfectly in his palm, the targeting system projected a thin red beam to help with aim, and the power cell could maintain the charge for hours.
He’d test-fired it on himself repeatedly, fine-tuning the frequency until it was perfect. The effects now lasted for approximately thirty to forty-five minutes, depending on the subject’s neural resistance, and were completely reversible and non-violent.
Completely terrifying to anyone who built their life on deception.
But a weapon was only as good as the person wielding it, and Prometheus Washington, forensic technologist, wouldn’t inspire fear in Gotham’s criminals. He needed to become someone else. Someone who commanded respect through presence alone.
The costume hanging in his closet was his masterpiece.
He’d spent hours researching Revolutionary War uniforms, studying portraits of his ancestor, imagining what George Washington might look like as a shadow warrior. The result was striking: a black military-style coat with silver buttons, fitted black pants tucked into knee-high boots, and a black tricorn hat that cast his face in shadow. White gloves kept his hands clean, and a black mask covered the upper half of his face.
It was George Washington as designed by today’s tailor—colonial elegance meets modern intimidation.
Prometheus stripped out of his civilian clothes and began the transformation. The uniform fit perfectly, transforming him from a fired lab tech into something that belonged in Gotham’s darkest corners. He strapped the Truth Ray to his thigh in a custom holster, its futuristic lines contrasting beautifully with his period-inspired outfit.
In the mirror, he no longer saw Dr. Prometheus Washington. He saw the Confessor—a figure who would make Gotham face its sins whether it wanted to or not.
The park was nearly empty, just a few homeless people sleeping on benches and the occasional jogger ignoring common sense. Prometheus moved through the shadows like smoke, his black uniform making him invisible against the trees.
He’d chosen his first target carefully: Marcus Riley, a mid-level drug dealer who operated out of the park’s eastern entrance. Riley sold to kids, claimed to be a reformed man to the parole board, and had walked away from three arrests because witnesses kept disappearing.
Tonight, Marcus Riley would tell the truth.
The dealer sat on his usual bench near the old fountain, counting money from his latest sales. Prometheus stepped out of the shadows, the Truth Ray already in his hand.
“Marcus Riley.”
The dealer looked up, squinting into the darkness. “Who’s asking?”
Prometheus raised the weapon, its red targeting beam painting a dot on Riley’s forehead. “Someone who believes in honesty.”
“What the hell—”
The Truth Ray fired with a soft electronic whine. Riley jerked as if struck by lightning, then blinked in confusion.
“What did you just do to me?” Riley demanded.
“I removed your ability to lie,” Prometheus said, stepping into the dim light cast by a nearby streetlamp. His tall silhouette was imposing, otherworldly. “For the next thirty to forty minutes, you can only speak the truth.”
Riley laughed, pulling out his phone. “You’re insane. I’m calling the cops.”
“Tell them you’re completely innocent,” Prometheus suggested.
Riley opened his mouth to speak, then froze. His face twisted in confusion as he tried again. “I ... I can’t ... why can’t I...”
“Because you’re not innocent, are you, Marcus?”
“No.” The word burst from Riley’s lips like a confession ripped from his soul. “No, I sell drugs to kids. I’ve been dealing for eight years. I’ve never been reformed, I just got better at lying to parole officers.”
Prometheus felt the familiar thrill of vindication. It worked. Even in this new form, even operated by a vigilante instead of law enforcement, the Truth Ray delivered perfect, undeniable honesty.
“Tell me about the witnesses who disappeared.”
Riley tried desperately to stay silent, his jaw clenched shut. But when he finally spoke, the words poured out like water through a broken dam: “I paid my cousin to scare them off. Told him to make sure they knew what happened to people who testified against the Riley family. Mrs. Chen moved to Coast City. The Johnson kid wound up in the hospital with a broken arm.”
Prometheus recorded every word on his phone, uploading the confession to a secure server he’d prepared. By morning, the police would have everything they needed to put Marcus Riley away for decades.
As he melted back into the shadows, leaving the dealer weeping on his bench, Prometheus felt something he hadn’t experienced since his first successful test: pure, righteous satisfaction.
Gotham was full of liars. Politicians, criminals, corrupt cops, false witnesses—all of them hiding behind carefully constructed deceptions.
But the Confessor was coming for them all.
George Washington’s descendant walked through the dark streets of Gotham, ready to burn away every lie in the city.
Truth, he decided, was worth becoming a revolutionary for.
“This is Vicki Vale reporting. In what police are calling a ‘confession epidemic,’ seventeen criminals across Gotham have surrendered to authorities in the past week, all claiming they were compelled to tell the truth by a mysterious figure calling himself ‘The Confessor.’”
The news footage showed Marcus Riley being led away in handcuffs, followed by images of other criminals: a loan shark, two corrupt city council members, a fence who dealt in stolen art.
“Witnesses describe a figure dressed in colonial-era clothing, armed with some kind of futuristic weapon. Police Commissioner Gordon has issued a statement calling the Confessor ‘a dangerous vigilante who threatens the foundation of our legal system.’”
The camera cut to Gordon at a press conference, his face haggard. “This individual is interfering with ongoing investigations and compromising our ability to build proper cases. We urge citizens to report any sightings immediately.”
Father Miguel Santos stood before his congregation of nearly three hundred, his voice booming through the cathedral’s vast space. “Brothers and sisters, we must cast out the demons of greed, the false prophets of materialism!”
The crowd hung on his every word, donations flowing freely into the collection plates. Santos was Gotham’s most beloved preacher, a man who’d supposedly given up a life of wealth to serve the poor.
Prometheus watched from the shadows of the bell tower, the Truth Ray heavy in his grip. He’d researched Santos for days, following the money trail that led from the collection plates to Santos’s private accounts, his expensive apartments where he kept his male lover and his luxury car.
As the service ended and the crowd dispersed, Prometheus made his move. He dropped silently into the nave, his black coat billowing behind him like wings.
“Father Santos.”
The preacher turned, his benevolent smile faltering when he saw the colonial figure emerging from the darkness. “My son, the cathedral is closed for—”
The Truth Ray’s red beam found its target. Santos jerked, confusion washing over his face.
“Tell me about your calling to serve God,” Prometheus commanded.
Santos tried to give his usual speech about divine inspiration, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, truth poured out: “I became a preacher because people are stupid and generous. They throw money at anyone who quotes scripture and looks holy. I’ve stolen over two million dollars from this congregation in the past five years.”
“And your vow of poverty?”
“A joke. I own three cars and a house in the Hamptons. I told them I gave up wealth, but I just got better at hiding it.” Santos fell to his knees, tears streaming down his face. “I don’t even believe in God. I haven’t since I was twelve. This is all performance, all theater.”
Prometheus recorded every word, then uploaded the confession before disappearing back into the night.
By morning, the cathedral was surrounded by police cars and angry parishioners.
The charity gala for “Children of Gotham” was in full swing, Gotham’s elite writing checks and taking selfies to prove their generosity. Prometheus watched from the kitchen, having infiltrated the catering staff.
His target was Isabella Thorne, socialite activist and humanitarian of the year. Her Instagram showed her visiting orphanages, feeding the homeless, championing every fashionable cause. She was Gotham’s sweetheart, beloved by thousands.
She was also a fraud.
As Thorne posed for photographers near the silent auction, Prometheus emerged from behind a decorative column. The Truth Ray found its mark before she could scream.
“Tell everyone why you really do charity work,” he commanded, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent ballroom.
Thorne tried to stay quiet, but the truth erupted from her like a broken dam: “Because it makes me feel superior! I don’t care about poor children or homeless people—they disgust me. I do this because it gets me attention, because people think I’m special, because it makes me feel better than everyone else.”
The crowd gasped, phones capturing every word.
“And the money you raise?”
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.