General (POV)
Inside a Lavish Training Facility
The sound of punches reverberated through the air, mingling with the occasional grunt of effort. In the middle of the room, a boxing ring took center stage, where two figures were locked in a one-sided sparring session.
Bang!
An unusual sight greeted anyone paying attention. One of the men in the ring was massive—not just tall, but broad, with a presence that practically swallowed the space around him. And he wasn't wearing gloves or protective gear. Just standing there, calmly absorbing a barrage of blows from his opponent.
To an outsider, it might've looked like an intense training session. But the truth? The smaller boxer might as well have been hitting a brick wall.
"Fisk."
The voice came from the edge of the ring. A sharply dressed young man with gold-rimmed glasses and hair slicked to perfection strode up. His suit screamed luxury, but his tone carried the unmistakable weight of respect—and maybe a little nervousness.
Bang!
The boxer, distracted for a fraction of a second, threw a punch out of sheer reflex. Bad call. His fist connected squarely with the large man's face. Well, "connected" might be an exaggeration—it landed, but the man didn't so much as flinch. Instead, his head turned ever so slightly, his cold, piercing eyes locking onto the offending fighter.
The boxer froze, backpedaling faster than he'd thrown the punch. "Uh, sorry! I-I didn't mean to!" he stammered, hands up in surrender.
A deep, gravelly voice cut through the tension. "Continue."
The boxer swallowed hard, clearly rethinking every life choice that led him to this moment. But there was no mistaking the command.
"Uh... okay..." he muttered, stepping forward.
He threw a punch.
Bang!
Or at least, that was the plan. The moment his glove grazed the big man, Fisk's fist shot out like a wrecking ball.
Pfft—CRACK!
The boxer's eyes bulged as an explosive force hit him square in the chest, launching him clear out of the ring. He landed with a sickening thud, coughing up blood as he lay motionless on the floor. The imprint of a fist was visible on his caved-in chest, a haunting reminder of just how outmatched he'd been.
Back in the ring, the hulking figure stood, calm as ever, pulling back his hand. It wasn't just bulk that made Fisk intimidating—every inch of him screamed raw, unrelenting power.
"Wesley."
The large man descended from the ring, dabbing his forehead with a towel, his presence making even the air seem heavier.
"Fisk, your strength is beyond needing training. Even the underground champions with undefeated streaks can't last more than three seconds against you."
Wesley glanced over at the imposing figure of Fisk, the leader of New York's largest underground crime syndicate. His expression was a mix of admiration and a hint of helplessness.
"With that kind of physique, how many people can even stand up to you?" Wesley asked, adjusting his glasses as he spoke.
Fisk didn't flinch, his broad frame exuding confidence. "I just need them to help me maintain my condition. Have you found anything?" His voice was cold, a reminder that when Fisk spoke, it was a demand, not a request.
Wesley hesitated for a moment before responding. "Unfortunately, no. There's someone... she can fly, appears and disappears like a ghost. Even more elusive than Daredevil. I think she'll keep operating for a while."
Fisk raised an eyebrow, intrigued but not surprised. "Why?"
Wesley continued, "She seems to be targeting human trafficking—it's not just our turf. She's taken down smuggling rings in multiple sectors. Whoever she is, she's making waves."
Fisk's jaw tightened slightly. "Do you think Bullseye can handle her?"
Wesley paused, clearly weighing his words. "Well, based on what I've seen, her abilities are a step above Daredevil's."
In other words, Bullseye, who had trouble handling Daredevil, wouldn't stand a chance against this new threat. Fisk's silence said everything.
Grabbing a towel, Fisk wiped his face and started toward the changing room, his massive frame moving with surprising grace. Wesley lingered by the door, a shadow in the background.
A short while later, Fisk emerged from the changing room, now dressed in a crisp white suit and leaning on a cane. The transformation was striking.
Without turning, Fisk continued walking, his voice carrying a note of quiet authority. "Are there any strong people in the underground lately?"
Wesley considered the question. "There's one. A mercenary. Impressive skills. Rumor is, he's wiped out whole gangs on his own."
Fisk stopped walking, his gaze shifting ever so slightly toward Wesley. "Find him. See if we can work with him."
"Sure, I can. But... his rates are steep," Wesley replied, a hint of concern in his voice.
Fisk didn't even flinch at the mention of price. "As long as he gets the job done, Wesley."
"Understood," Wesley nodded.
....
Sarah (POV)
It was 1 AM, and Hell's Kitchen wasn't just awake—it was pulsing, alive with decay and darkness. 49th Street stretched out, a lonely strip where a five-story apartment building stood like a forgotten relic. Surrounded by abandoned structures, this place was a poster child for urban decay.
This was the slums. No Instagram filters, no silver linings—just grime, chaos, and the sharp tang of despair. Sure, the 46th block still clung to some semblance of life, but here? The rot wasn't just setting in; it was thriving. The people? Hateful. The fights? Constant. And the crimes? About as regular as breathing. Escape wasn't on the menu unless you were rich enough to ghost out of here in an Uber XL. The gangs didn't mind, though. It left the streets wide open for them to play king of the trash heap. And firearms? Yeah, they were just the tool of choice to make sure no one got in the way.
I'd already learned from a few of my previous digs into human trafficking that this building was a hotspot. It was one of the places James had mentioned as a supply channel, where men and women were smuggled through New York's harbor. James, my reluctant informant, had practically circled it on a map for me. He had a little too much intel on this world.
The operation was straightforward—and vile. The women? Shipped to clubs and bars where morals went to die. The men? The ones who looked just right? Auctioned off to fulfill the "special" desires of the city's most repulsive clientele. The rest? They didn't make it to any VIP list. Their organs were carved out and sold for more than their lives ever could've been worth. Yeah, organs were worth more than gold. I haven't been to Gotham, but I suppose I found myself in the Marvel version of it.
For the gangs, human trafficking wasn't just a side hustle—it was their whole damn industry. And every "product" they sold? It was a payday.
I scanned the building, reaching out with my senses and Ava. The guards were buzzing around like ants on spilled soda—armed to the teeth. Pistols, submachine guns, AKs? These guys were ready for war. Nice setup...
My recent raids? Fast, loud, brutal. Get in, get the victims out, and make it abundantly clear that this operation wasn't coming back. If you wore a black suit and pointed a gun at me? Congratulations, you just won a ticket to Hellfire. No return trip.
I locked onto the guards' positions, each one a glowing dot on my computer lenses courtesy of Ava-pod hovering outside, must be good to have infrared. With a quick motion, I shattered a window and dove in, a one-woman wrecking ball. Floor by floor, I worked, cutting through the gang's setup like a scalpel. No wasted motion. No mercy.
This building? Totally taken over by the gangs. The human trafficking victims were held up on the top two floors, so that's where I started. But...but something felt wrong. When I reached the top two floors, where the victims were supposed to be, I found... twenty. Maybe less. I froze, something was off.
Twenty people. That was it. A building this fortified? That was nothing. A joke. My last few raids had rescued hundreds.
I muttered under my breath, the words burning like acid. "Is this it? Or are they all somewhere else? This can't be all that's left."
And there it was—the twist in the pit of my stomach. Where the hell was everyone else?
Suddenly, the screech of tires sliced through the air. I turned, squinting toward the window as three black SUVs rolled up as the mafia had finally decided to throw a block party. Out spilled a crew of men in black suits, each armed to the teeth with machine guns, and—because why not?—a few rocket launchers. Subtlety? Not their strong suit.
Inside the building, the guards who had been scattering like cockroaches under a flashlight stopped running from me. Nope. They were rushing out now, joining their heavily armed friends. Cute.
I scratched my head, letting out a dry chuckle. A setup? My outings were finally paying off. It wasn't every day you earned a welcoming committee this flashy. But hey, heavy weapons and a dozen meatheads wouldn't make a dent. Did they think that'd work?
They didn't. Not even close.
See, the gangs didn't have a clue who—or what—they were dealing with. To them, I was just a ghost in their system. No name, no face, no fingerprints. All their footage? Wiped. The bodies? Ash. Even the rescued victims? Their memories were scrubbed cleaner than a new hard drive. All they knew was some mystery figure was tearing their empire apart. The rest? A total question mark.
And now, because no one loves a question mark, Wesley—Fisk's overworked and underappreciated right-hand man—had decided to throw everything but the kitchen sink at me. He didn't know who I was, but he figured brute force might do the trick. Spoiler: it wouldn't.
"Quick, she's on the third floor! We've got a few men holding her off!" One of the men in black rushed toward the SUVs, frantic. A leader emerged, decked out in tactical gear and radiating that I-micromanage-everything energy.
"Rocket launchers. Third floor," the team leader ordered, as casually as if he'd ordered takeout.
"Wait!" one of his lackeys protested, nervously shifting. "Our men are still inside—" thinking they'd charge in together.
"Open fire," came the reply, cold as a January wind in Hell's Kitchen. The poor grunt flinched but didn't argue. Not unless he wanted to join me on the third floor—via explosive delivery.
From my vantage point above, I watched the chaos unfold. The scene was almost comical. This is what they brought to the table? Rocket launchers? I felt a smirk tug at the corner of my lips.
But no time for jokes. I spun around activated my shield and ushered the few dozen victims—my decoys—into a side room. Pulling back, I quickly raised another shield to protect the victims and prepare for the worst. Then, I braced myself.
Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
And then—BOOM.
The building shuddered with the blast.
The three rocket launchers fired in perfect unison, vaporizing the entire third floor in a blinding instant. Brilliant flames shot out of the windows, casting an eerie glow across the street, and the deafening explosion reverberated down the quiet, decaying block.
The residents, hearing the blast, peeked out from behind their doors and windows. They didn't care about the chaos as long as their homes weren't hit. It was one of the unspoken survival rules in Hell's Kitchen: as long as your corner of the world stayed untouched, keep your head down and stay out of it.
...
General (POV)
Bleep...
"Yoooo, this is Wilson's Discount Hitman Hotline. For all your overkill needs, press one. For refunds—just kidding, we don't do those—press never. How can I chaotically assist you today?"
The voice on the other end was maddeningly casual. Like, beachside margarita casual.
"Your men just fired. If the target's dead, congrats, the deposit, and final payment are non-refundable," Wilson droned, audibly stifling a yawn. "If not, well... sucks to be you, boss-man. I might have to get off my couch and fix this. You owe me snacks."
Wesley pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience circling the drain. "Wilson, this is serious. We need—"
"Oh, I know it's serious," Wilson cut in. "You think everyone's got my level of plot armor? Surviving rocket launcher blasts like it's Tuesday? Nope, you hired the best. And speaking of best... wow, would you look at that! Hey, Wesley, you didn't tell me our target was smoking hot! That figure... chef's kiss. Except, uh, what's with the hoodie? Kinda ruins the vibe. Thumbs down. Oh wait—oh my God! She's got flames! Black flames! Holy fireballs, She really is hot! She's flying! Now I'm REALLY interested."
"Mr. Wilson…" Wesley groaned, the weight of his regret heavier than a sumo wrestler on a trampoline.
"Right, right, the job," Wilson muttered, clearly distracted. "You're paying me to kill her, not date her. Or both? I mean, multitasking is an option. Anyway, quick update: your boys are toast. Like, extra crispy. Not me, though. Still alive. And still waiting for that toilet paper fund you owe me. What? It's important! You ever run out mid-wipe? Life-changing. Scarring, really."
"Wilson!" Wesley barked, his voice edging into a shout. "Can you please focus on the damn task?"
"Relax, boss," Wilson chuckled, the kind of laugh that made you question why you'd ever trusted him with a mission. "I'm just enjoying the show. She's doing this thing with the flames—whoosh! Pyrotechnics! Feels like I'm front row at a rock concert. But don't worry, I'll step in before the encore. Probably."
"Probably?!" Wesley's forehead hit his desk with a thud. "You're gawking while my men are getting annihilated!"
"'Gawking' is a strong word," Wilson quipped. "I prefer 'appreciating the art.' Besides, you should be thanking me. If this lady turns me into a flaming meatball, at least I'll die happy. Oops—hold that thought. Gotta see if she's into dating the guy she's about to murder. YO, BLACK FLAME BEAUTY, YOU SINGLE?"
Click.
The line went dead. Wesley stared at the phone in disbelief before slamming it onto the desk. "F—K!"
How the hell did this guy get anything done? Wilson was more interested in flirting with the enemy than neutralizing her. If this mission failed—and at this rate, it definitely would—he'd make sure the idiot never saw a cent.
No final payment. No toilet paper. Let him suffer.