The city never truly slept. Even in the dead of night, New York pulsed with life—and now, it pulsed with tension. Alexander Reid knew that his name, though still unknown to the public, had begun to circulate like a whispered curse in the criminal underworld. The bounty on his head had turned the shadows against him. Every alley could hide a killer. Every step could be a trap. He felt it in the air—the city itself seemed to hold its breath, watching to see if he would survive.
But fear was not something he allowed himself to feel. He had chosen this path. Now, he would walk it to the end. He embraced the danger as part of his transformation. The weak would cower; he would grow stronger.
The morning after his encounter with the assassin, Alexander stood before his bathroom mirror. He removed the bandages from his arm, inspecting the wound left by the graze. It was healing faster than expected—another benefit of his growing strength. His skin seemed tougher, his muscles more resilient. He flexed his arm, feeling the power coursing through his veins. Each stat increase had made him more than a man. He was becoming a force.
[Level: 6] [Strength: 33] [Agility: 30] [Intelligence: 15] [Endurance: 25]
His reflection stared back at him, but he barely recognized himself. The man from his past life was gone. In his place stood someone sharper, harder. His eyes were colder. His jawline, once soft with youth, was now cut with determination. Someone who had embraced the darkness.
By midday, the tension in Hell's Kitchen was palpable. Whispers followed him as he walked through the streets. He felt eyes on him—some curious, some hostile. He overheard snippets of conversation. Men exchanged nervous glances when he passed.
"Fisk's pissed. Real pissed."
"They say he's sending his top men."
"Guy who hit those warehouses? Dead man walking."
Alexander smirked under his hood. Let them talk. Let them come. Every threat against him was a challenge, and he welcomed it. He walked with his shoulders squared, his eyes scanning every corner, prepared for an ambush that could come at any moment.
That evening, he trained harder than ever with Marcus. The gym was nearly empty, the sound of fists hitting bags echoing like war drums. Sweat poured down his face as he pushed his body to its limit. Marcus watched him closely, noticing the shift.
"You fighting like there's a war coming," Marcus said, wiping sweat from his brow.
Alexander met his gaze. "Maybe there is."
Marcus chuckled, but there was concern in his eyes. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Just don't let it eat you alive, kid. Strength is good. But control? That's what keeps you standing. You lose that, and you're as dead as any punk on the street."
Alexander nodded, but his mind was elsewhere. Control was important, but right now, power mattered more.
Later that night, the second assassin came.
This one was smarter—a sniper. Alexander noticed the glint of the rifle scope from a rooftop across the street. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but his instincts were honed. He felt the cold instinct of danger settle into his bones. Without hesitation, he darted into an alley, using his agility to scale a fire escape.
The sniper, realizing he had been spotted, attempted to flee. Alexander pursued, his body moving with deadly grace. He leaped between buildings, his feet barely making a sound. The sniper led him through a maze of rooftops, but Alexander was relentless. The shadows were his ally.
He caught the man on a rooftop two blocks away. The assassin turned, drawing a sidearm, but Alexander was already upon him. He struck the man's wrist, sending the gun clattering to the ground. The sniper lashed out with a knife, but Alexander dodged with fluid precision.
The fight was brutal. The sniper was trained—military, perhaps—but Alexander was faster, stronger. Each punch Alexander landed carried the force of his level-ups, cracking ribs and breaking resolve. The man tried to regain distance, but Alexander closed the gap, driving his knee into the sniper's stomach and following with an elbow to his temple.
The man collapsed, blood trickling from his mouth. He groaned in pain, clutching his ribs, but Alexander was already searching him.
Another note. Another bounty.
Sixty thousand dollars.
The price on his head was rising. Fisk was escalating. This was no longer a test; this was a declaration of war.
Alexander stood over the defeated assassin, his heart steady. He was no longer merely defending himself. He was making a statement. He was sending a message to Fisk—every man you send will fall.
He looked out over the city, the lights flickering like stars in the dark. The skyline, once a beacon of opportunity, now felt like a battlefield. Fisk was watching. And Alexander was ready to meet his gaze.
The hunt had truly begun.
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