Flyah Comics Presents “The Masked Professor of Storm Valley”

 

The Masked Professor of Storm Valley

Page 1: The Clumsy Shell

The air in Storm Valley was a wet blanket, thick with the scent of salt, decaying mango, and distant diesel fumes. Inside the Storm Valley University (SVU) Preparatory High School, the air conditioning was struggling, but Professor Chris Faultly didn’t seem to notice the humidity clinging to his cheap, button-down shirt.  By day, Chris was a study in controlled awkwardness. His glasses constantly slipped down his nose, his short, impeccably neat hair seemed permanently plastered by nerves, and his lanky, muscular frame was hidden beneath ill-fitting slacks and the kind of tweed blazer one might wear ironically, if Chris Faultly knew irony. He was a ninth-grade literature teacher, and his current class—period six, the worst period—was analyzing Shakespeare's Julius Caesar.

"So, class," Chris said, pushing his spectacles up with a quick, nervous motion, "when Brutus says, 'Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more,' what is he attempting to do?"

He coughed, adjusting his grip on a stack of papers. The papers immediately slipped, scattering across the floor like a flock of startled pigeons.  A chorus of sighs and a single, suppressed giggle from the back row followed. Chris bent down, bumping his head on the edge of the desk.  Clumsy. Distracted. Harmless, he thought, forcing a sheepish smile. The persona is solid.

His eyes, magnified by the thick lenses, scanned the room. Though he looked like a man who struggled to open a jar, underneath the ill-fitting clothes and thick lenses, every muscle in his body was coiled steel, and his vision was 20/20, meticulously trained by years of grueling practice. The glasses were just another layer of armor, a disguise as effective as any mask.

Page 2: Dean Brown and the Mischief-Makers

The chaos of the classroom was momentarily interrupted by the sharp, authoritative click of expensive Italian heels outside the door.  Dean Brown, the Prep Division Head, entered. Dean Brown was a study in perpetual irritation, a man whose blonde hair was perfectly styled to frame a face that rarely cracked a smile. He was immaculate, judgmental, and took personal offense to the concept of nine-to-fivers.  "Professor Faultly," Dean Brown’s voice was a low, nasal drone, "I see we have some... artistic expressions on the whiteboard."  Chris glanced over. While he’d been fumbling his papers, a team of ninth-grade delinquents had managed to draw a highly unflattering caricature of him wearing a toga and labeled it "Professor Foully."

"Ah, yes, Dean Brown," Chris stammered, picking up the last paper. "An insightful, if misguided, commentary on the dangers of populism in Roman political life. We were just discussing the nature of public image."  Dean Brown glared at the class, then at Chris. "I want that removed. And, Professor, your late submission rate for attendance reports is unacceptable. If you cannot handle the administrative rigor of this position, perhaps we need to find someone who can. This isn't a jungle, Faultly."  The jungle is waiting for me, Chris thought, his jaw tightening slightly. He forced his body to relax, adjusting his tie. "Of course, Dean. My apologies. It won’t happen again."

As Dean Brown exited, the mischievous students exchanged triumphant grins. Chris simply waited, giving them a slight, knowing nod that contradicted his clumsy posture. They had no idea the man they had just mocked was already plotting his night’s work, a deadly shadow operating in the very jungle Dean Brown despised.

Page 3: The Transformation and the Shadow of Liu Fong

As the sun bled orange and purple over the Storm Valley skyline—a sight both beautiful and perpetually ominous—Chris was in his modest apartment, which overlooked the gritty industrial docks on the east side of the city. This was the territory of his master, Liu Fong.  He shed the pretense: the tweed blazer, the slacks, and the thick glasses. He replaced the lenses with contacts, letting his keen, natural sight take over. The clumsy posture melted away, replaced by the fluid, economical movements of a highly trained martial artist.  He donned his uniform: tailored, reinforced black gear, utility pockets, and a simple, unmarked black mask that covered the lower half of his face, leaving only his focused, intense eyes visible. He wasn't flamboyant; he was precise. The media called him the Masked Professor, though no one connected the clumsy SVU teacher to the silent, brutal vigilante.

As he strapped a pair of weighted gloves to his wrists, the memory of Liu Fong, the only father figure he had ever known, flashed behind his eyes.  Years ago. The humid back room of Liu Fong's small, legitimate tea shop, which doubled as a secret dojo. Chris, then a young apprentice, had been hiding, frozen in terror. The sound of heavy boots, sharp Italian voices, and then the sickening thud as Liu Fong, his face contorted in pain and defiance, was gunned down.

"Tell Tony Pachino," the man with the scarred face—Frankie "Bones"—had sneered, "that the East Side belongs to us now."

Chris had promised himself two things that night: complete mastery of the art Liu Fong taught him, and absolute, brutal vengeance against the Pachino regime. The teacher was a temporary role; the vigilante was the true mission.

Page 4: The Pachino Heist

Across town, in a gaudy, poorly air-conditioned penthouse, the brothers Pachino surveyed the city like vultures.

Tony Pachino, the elder brother and the brains of the operation, was wearing a blinding white silk shirt and smoking a cigar. He was calculating, quiet, and far more dangerous than his flashy attire suggested.  Frankie Pachino, or "Frankie Bones," was Tony's blunt instrument. A man of pure, coiled violence, Frankie was currently cleaning a knife, not because it was dirty, but because it calmed him.  "So, the details, Tony," Frankie Bones rasped, his voice gravelly. "I want action. This waiting around for shipping manifests is wearing on me."

Tony tapped a long, manicured finger on a map spread across a glass table. "Patience, little brother. This isn't about containers of cheap watches. This is the big one. The Storm Valley University Endowment Fund."  Frankie laughed, a harsh, dry sound. "College money? Boring."  "No, Frankie. Exciting," Tony corrected, leaning in. "They are transferring nearly fifty million in liquid assets from the main downtown vault to a new, undisclosed offshore account tomorrow night. It requires a hard stop in a temporary, highly secured storage unit on the campus itself before the final transfer. That unit… it's ours for forty-five minutes, between the security shift change and the arrival of the armored transport."

"On campus? Full of nerds and kids?" Frankie grinned, liking the idea of chaos. "Who's watching the perimeter?"  "Your boys, Mike and Sal, are doing a dry run tonight on the south docks, checking security flow for a potential diversion," Tony said, puffing smoke. "Once they report back, we finalize the crew and the time."

Page 5: The Vigilante’s Interception

The Masked Professor moved with the silence of a tropical storm approaching. Tonight, he was focused on the south docks, a known staging area for low-level Pachino activity. The information he was looking for was subtle: troop movement, new faces, changes in routine.  He perched on a massive, rusty crane overlooking a collection of dilapidated warehouses. The air was thick with humidity and the smell of saltwater and rot.

Below him, two hulking figures—Mike and Sal—were aggressively questioning a local dock worker. "We just need to know which crate went on which truck, old man," Mike snarled, gripping the worker’s shirt. "Simple logistics." "I told you, I don't know nothin' about no special crates!" the worker pleaded.  This wasn't the endowment heist, but it was related to the Pachino infrastructure—and it was an opportunity. Chris dropped.

He didn’t crash down; he fell, controlled, landing silently on the corrugated iron roof of a shed behind the men. He moved too quickly for the dock worker to even register his presence.

Mike, the larger of the two, turned as he heard a whisper of movement. "Who's there?" Before Mike could fully pivot, Chris had launched himself forward.

Page 6: The Riptide Fight

The fight was less about brute force and more about physics, water flowing against rock. Chris used the close-quarters, chain-reaction techniques taught by Liu Fong—The Riptide Style—designed to dismantle larger, slower opponents.

Chris’s first move was a lightning-fast chop that struck Mike’s wrist, momentarily paralyzing his grip on the dock worker. As Mike roared in surprise, Chris used the momentum to pivot, delivering a precise heel-kick to Sal’s knee joint, collapsing the henchman instantly.  Sal screamed, clutching his leg. "It's the Professor!"

Mike recovered, pulling a rusty pipe from his belt. 

He swung it in a wide, powerful arc. Chris ducked under the blow, the wind whistling over his head. He didn't waste energy blocking. Instead, he drove his elbow into the center of Mike’s solar plexus, stealing his breath.  As Mike staggered back, Chris grabbed the pipe, using the mobster's forward momentum to rip it free. He spun, using the pipe as a lever to strike Mike’s jaw with his forearm. Crack!  The fight lasted less than ninety seconds. The dock worker, frozen with terror, watched as the mysterious vigilante left the two goons unconscious on the ground.  Chris knelt by Sal, the one holding his leg. "Storm Valley University," Chris whispered, his voice low and distorted by the mask. "Why were the trucks moving through the campus?"  Sal, through gritted teeth and pain, managed a single, panicked word: "Vault… under... admin..."

Chris nodded, releasing Sal. He vanished back into the shadows, leaving the scene just as the first sirens began to wail in the distance. The Pachinos were targeting his school.

Page 7: Pachino Plotting - Escalation

Back in the penthouse, the news of the docks was met with fury.

"My fifty million!" Frankie Bones yelled, kicking over an expensive ceramic vase. "Mike and Sal are useless! They let that freak, the Masked Professor, get to them!"  Tony Pachino, however, was calm, meticulously peeling an orange. "It means he's getting closer, Frankie. He's smart. He moves on our peripheral activity, trying to piece together the structure." "Why not just kill him?" Frankie growled.  "Because, idiot, killing him would draw too much heat. He’s a nuisance, but he’s also a warning. He’s smart enough to know we are behind Liu Fong’s death, but he has no proof. We let him flail." Tony paused, then smiled, a predatory expression. "But this Vault job is tomorrow night. We move it up. And we use this 'Masked Professor' as a diversion."

Tony motioned to the map. "The university vault is underneath the old Administration building, right next to the high school prep division. Highly secured, yes, but the security team is skeleton crew after midnight. Your job, Frankie, is the extraction. My job is ensuring that when the police respond to the alarm—the diversion we will set—they think they have cornered the Masked Professor on the third floor of the Prep School, while you are already out with the payload." Frankie Bones grinned, his scarred face splitting into a wicked smile. "I like it. Killing two birds with one stone. Get the cash, frame the vigilante. Let me know if I run into him. I'd like to show him how real fighting is done."

Page 8: The Exhausted Professor

The next morning, Chris Faultly looked worse than the ninth graders who had stayed up all night gaming. The adrenaline crash was brutal. His glasses were fogged, his tie was slightly askew, and he had a hard time maintaining his clumsy gait.

He knew. The word Vault and Admin had clicked with the casual knowledge he possessed of the SVU campus layout. The endowment was being moved through the old Administration building—the very building that housed his office and the Prep Division classrooms.  "Professor Faultly!" Dean Brown’s voice cut through his thoughts like a razor blade.  Chris nearly dropped his coffee mug. "Dean Brown! Good morning."

"There is nothing good about a morning that begins with an official inquiry about last night's 'incident' at the docks," Brown said, tapping a document on his desk. "SVU Prep cannot be associated with common thugs and organized crime, Professor. This institution is elite. I want a report on how your class discussed 'civic responsibility' this week."

"We discussed Brutus's civic ideals," Chris mumbled, exhausted.

"Well, you clearly didn't discuss property crimes and public decency. And speaking of which, I saw you on the security camera footage leaving campus nearly thirty minutes late last night. Is there a reason why you’re wasting the university's electricity, or were you perhaps… sleeping in your office?"

"No, sir," Chris replied, pushing his glasses up, trying to look appropriately chastised. "Just grading. Lots of papers."

Brown sighed dramatically. "See to it that you are more presentable, Faultly. You look like you've been fighting a war. We have an endowment board meeting tonight. I expect absolute quiet."  A war, Chris thought, leaving the office. Tonight, I'm bringing the fight to the front door.

Page 9: Preparing the Counter-Assault

The realization that the target was his workplace intensified Chris’s focus. He couldn't risk the lives of the late-shift janitors or security guards, nor could he allow the Pachinos to steal the school’s future.  In his office, while feigning grading, Chris used his laptop to cross-reference security schedules. He found the fifteen-minute gap Tony Pachino had mentioned. He also noted the old, rarely used maintenance tunnel leading from the prep division boiler room directly into the sub-level of the Admin Building. It was a route no one would consider, but perfect for a quick ingress.

He prepared his gear. Tonight, he wouldn't just be intercepting; he'd be confronting the core operation. He packed specialized thermal cutting agents, modified smoke pellets, and, most importantly, he practiced the most advanced forms of Liu Fong’s Riptide Style.  You taught me that water doesn't fight the current, Master, he thought, adjusting the custom grips on his gloves. It uses the current's power against itself.  He thought of Tony, the brain, and Frankie Bones, the muscle. Frankie was the one who pulled the trigger. Frankie was the one he truly wanted.

He waited until 11:45 PM. The university was silent, oppressive, and empty save for a few distant lights. 

He disabled the single camera watching the boiler room entrance using an electromagnetic pulse pen—a clumsy invention of a former student, refined by Chris. He slipped down into the damp, concrete tunnel.

Page 10: The Vault and the Bone-Breaker

The tunnel smelled of mildew and old steam. It was tight, requiring Chris to move sideways, but it deposited him directly into the Admin building’s sub-level maintenance access—a few yards from the temporary vault door.  He heard the low, guttural murmur of voices and the sharp metallic ring of specialized tools. They were inside the vault, earlier than scheduled.  Chris moved along the concrete wall, flattening himself against a stack of discarded air filters. He saw them: four figures, three masked goons and one man in a dark, tactical jacket who was clearly directing the operation—Frankie Bones.

Frankie’s face was visible in the harsh emergency light. He was barking orders, impatient, cruel. The scar is still there, Chris thought, his heart hammering not from fear, but from the savage surge of revenge.  Chris initiated his plan. He threw two smoke pellets—one to the left, one to the right—choking the corridor in blinding, white non-toxic smoke.  "Smoke! The Professor!" Frankie Bones shouted, instantly alert.  As the goons panicked, Chris burst through the smoke, moving low and fast. He didn't waste time with the small fry; he sprinted directly toward Frankie Bones.

The element of surprise worked on the three crew members, whom Chris dispatched quickly with blunt force, aiming for pressure points on the neck and ribs.

Frankie Bones, however, was waiting. He was faster than Chris expected, and stronger. As Chris launched a spinning back-kick, Frankie caught the leg, twisting brutally.  "You're the rat, huh?" Frankie Bones snarled, his eyes burning with maniacal enjoyment. "You know what I do to rats, Professor? I break their bones."  Chris wrenched his leg free, tasting blood from the effort. He saw the gleam of the knife Frankie held—the same knife he had cleaned earlier.  Chris launched himself into a flurry of Riptide strikes, forcing Frankie back against the vault door, but Frankie was a brawler, using sheer weight and dirty tactics. He landed a jarring elbow strike to Chris’s temple, making the world swim.

As Chris staggered, fighting the blackness, Frankie Bones seized the moment. He hurled the knife, but Chris dodged just in time. The knife embedded itself in the concrete wall beside Chris’s head.  Then, Frankie Bones launched his own attack, not with a weapon, but with pure body mass, tackling Chris hard into the stack of air filters. The force ripped Chris's mask partly off his face.  

The two men were locked in a desperate, breath-stealing struggle. Chris was disoriented, his arm pinned under Frankie's weight. Frankie raised his fist for a killing blow.  "Tell Liu Fong I said hello, Professor!" Frankie sneered, his face inches from Chris's, his eyes gleaming.  Just as the blow descended, the heavy, steel vault door that Tony's men had breached swung open from the inside, bathing the maintenance tunnel in a blinding white light.  Standing silhouetted in the doorway, framed by the light of the inner vault, was Dean Brown, holding a shotgun. He was not looking at the fighting vigilante and the mobster. He was looking at the briefcase full of cash at Frankie's feet.  "Get off my property," Dean Brown said, his voice calm, chilling, and completely devoid of the usual bureaucratic annoyance. "All of you."  Chris Faultly realized, with sickening horror, that the Pachinos hadn't been targeting the university at all. They had been working with it. And he was trapped between two enemies, his true identity half-revealed, and a shotgun pointed directly at the scene.