I stepped out of the cab and adjusted the collar of my jacket. The night air of the city always smelled like heat and tension — a cocktail of smoke, sweat, and anticipation. My clothes were just clean enough to pass as "respectable," but not flashy enough to draw attention. At least, that was the goal. Still, something about the way I moved, or maybe the way I watched, made people glance twice.
The bass from the nightclub ahead pulsed like a heartbeat, syncing with my own. I was walking toward the lion's den, but my mind was still pacing a different rooftop.
Last night
The air up here was cleaner — or at least quieter. The kind of quiet that comes right before something breaks. I stood beside Spider-Man on the rooftop of a rundown high-rise, the wind whipping my coat around like I was in a noir film.
Then they arrived.
First was Daredevil, landing with a grace that felt almost too casual. His red suit clung tight to him like a second skin, the horns on his cowl casting a long shadow in the moonlight. No sooner had his boots touched down than I felt him scan me with his senses. The subtle turn of his head. The inhale. The way his fingers twitched. He was reading me like a book — the kind he didn't mind burning.
Right after came Iron Fist — light on his feet, but with the kind of focus that made you feel like every step had a purpose. His fists glowed faintly before dimming. Chi simmering just beneath the surface. Controlled, precise. Like a blade sheathed in cloth.
Daredevil turned his head toward Spider-Man. "Who's the new guy?"
I stepped forward. Kept my voice steady.
"I'm Vigil. New guy on the block. I work in M-Town." I paused, looked at each of them. "Also, I'm the reason Spidey called you here."
Daredevil tilted his head toward me, sensing the tone under the words. "You say that like you've already earned our trust."
"I'm not asking for trust," I replied. "I'm asking for five minutes."
Iron Fist's eyes narrowed. "Your energy's... intense. Unnatural. My chi reacts to people, and right now? It's like standing next to a wild star. I've only felt this once — near a demi-god. And you're not a god, are you?"
I chuckled lightly. "Nope. Just have unique powers."
Spider-Man coughed. "He's also got a flair for drama."
"Must be contagious," Daredevil muttered.
I leaned against the edge of the rooftop, arms folded. "You want the truth? Spidey called you because we've got bombs ticking under the city, and one of them's about to blow."
That got their attention.
Spider-Man stepped forward. "He's talking about Kick.... You've both dealt with it, but what you don't know is how deep it runs in M-Town. They're not just addicting people. They're transforming them. Twisting them."
Daredevil's jaw tensed. "I've taken down street dealers pushing MGH. I've seen what it does. But Kick? That's new."
"It's not just drugs anymore," I said. "It's warfare. Controlled chaos. Some of these users aren't even human by the time they're done."
Iron Fist rubbed his chin. "Luke and I handled a few rampages — users punching through brick walls, one guy tore a car in half. But it never tracked back to a network this big."
"That's just it," I cut in. "This isn't random. The drugs are coming from somewhere, funneled through fronts. Spider-Man's working on finding out about laundromat in Hell's Kitchen. I tracked another line to a nightclub in the East Side. Both seem like surface-level distractions. The real goal?"
I looked at all of them. "A place called the factory. The source. Where they make this stuff."
Daredevil nodded slowly, piecing it together. "So we gather intel. See how the pieces connect."
"We get the intel," I said, "then hit them at the same time. No warning. No way for them to run then find out about where this factory is located and then eradicate it for good"
There was a pause. Tension. The kind that feels like someone loading a gun you can't see.
Daredevil finally spoke. "How do we know you're not working with them?"
I met his gaze — or, more accurately, the place his gaze would have been. "I wouldn't be asking help if I could do it all alone, last time I went alone and created a mess and a lot of people died and it wasn't even reported in the news so I want this problem gone from the place I call home and you guys can't even imagine what a bad batch of kick does because I'm the only one who knows what it really looks like when one of those users lose control. The question is — are you in this to clean up the streets, or just play the usual chess game?"
That struck a chord. Even Spider-Man glanced at me like, tone it down, dude — but I didn't care. They needed to feel it. The urgency. The rot.
Iron Fist stepped forward and offered a hand. "You've got fire. And from what I can tell... you're not lying." He looked toward Daredevil. "We've followed crazier leads."
Daredevil gave a subtle nod. "I'll hear you out. But if this goes sideways…"
"I know," I said. "You'll hear it coming." I shook Iron fists hand and gave him and dare devil a nod.
Spider-Man clapped his hands together. "Alright then. Team awkward rooftop complete.. Two fronts. Two missions. One shot to cut the head off this thing."
I turned away, already planning my approach for the nightclub. But before I left the edge, I glanced back.
Present
I crossed the street slowly, keeping my eyes on the front of the club. Security Mastery kicked in like a low hum in the back of my brain, turning what most people would call a neon blur into a schematic.
There—above the glowing "Blue Orchid" sign—two hidden cameras, cleverly concealed behind the electric blue petals. One across the street, cleverly tucked beneath a rusted air conditioning unit. All three were angled to catch multiple perspectives on the entrance. Subtle, but thorough.
Out in the open, two more cameras perched just above the wide black doors. Red LEDs blinking lazily. Watching. Always watching.
Two bouncers flanked the entrance. Tall. Broad. Dressed like they were wearing the idea of a suit more than the suit itself. Both armed. My senses didn't just tell me they had weapons—it told me where. One had a compact baton tucked inside his coat sleeve, the other had something heavier, a compact pistol in an underarm holster. Professional. Efficient. Not here to intimidate—here to control.
My eyes flicked to the alley that ran along the side of the building. Dark, wet, stinking faintly of last night's vomit and piss. One guard leaning against a dumpster, trying too hard to look disinterested. The other? Perched on a stack of crates like a gargoyle, scanning phones but with an eye on the side door. The back entrance wasn't just for staff—it was for moving things. People. Product. Whatever they didn't want seen.
There's a loading area too, I thought, my mental map expanding. Employee entrance likely further down the alley. Could be monitored internally.
The line moved. Slowly, steadily. People got checked, waved in, denied.
Then it was my turn.
The closer bouncer held out a handheld metal detector and gave me a once-over, lazy but thorough. No beeps. I passed.
"You good to go," he grunted, waving me in with a nod.
I stepped through the doors and into a different world.
Bass hit first—deep and pounding like the beat of a war drum inside my chest. Lights swept the space in rich blues and purples, bouncing off chrome and glass. The floor was a mix of smooth black tile and flashing LED strips, flickering beneath stomping feet. There were three levels—main floor dancing and drinking, upper VIP lounges with one-way glass windows, and a shadowed basement level cordoned off by velvet rope and guarded by a man built like a refrigerator.
Security Mastery didn't sleep once I was inside. It got louder.
There—sprinklers overhead were tampered with. Modified nozzles, probably capable of dispersing knock-out gas or some kind of suppressant. Two more cameras hidden in ornamental orchids above the bar. One in the back corner, behind a mirrored panel that reflected just a little too perfectly.
The bartender was in on something—he wasn't just pouring drinks. Twice in thirty seconds, I watched him slide coasters with subtle symbols on them, passing them to select customers. Drug markers? VIP invites? Either way, a code.
Servers were constantly moving around handing out drinks and to select customers different coloured chips.
There was a back hallway past the restrooms, guarded but unmarked. No signs, no lights. Off-limits for anyone without clearance. That led somewhere important.
The staff was too clean, too precise. Eyes alert. Postures rigid. At least a dozen were more than just employees. Security or something worse.
I walked slowly across the floor, blending in, scanning, observing. The music throbbed around me like a second heartbeat. Everything about this place was curated.
The music hit me like a physical wave as I stepped through the door. Bass-heavy, synth-laced, hypnotic. The kind of beat that makes you forget the outside world exists.
Inside, the club was dim and hazy, lit more by deep blues and reds than anything natural. Moving lights shimmered across the crowd, dancing off glitter, metal, and sweat. It was packed. A river of people moved with the rhythm, bodies pressed close on the dance floor while others laughed and leaned in at sleek, obsidian-glass tables tucked into recessed booths.
I kept my shoulders relaxed, my eyes moving slowly. My security mastery was in overdrive. In the dark, my senses sharpened—looking not just for danger, but for design. This place wasn't just for partying. It was built with intent.
There were vulnerabilities—small ones. The hallway leading to the bathrooms wasn't covered by any cameras I could see. The DJ booth had an exposed wiring panel in its rear wall, probably used for quick access to AV systems. One of the staff-only doors near the bar had a lock slightly misaligned with its frame—used often, maybe in a hurry.
Near the back wall, I noticed a pattern in the movement of a few suited individuals. They weren't staff. Their postures were too rigid, their smiles too thin. Security, maybe. Or worse—watchdogs for whoever ran things in the shadows. They didn't acknowledge me, but I logged their faces. One of them had an earpiece, which flickered with the telltale blue of an encrypted line.
I drifted toward the bar, ordered something cheap, let it sit untouched while I kept my ears open.
From the snippets of conversation—coded, guarded, half-drunk—I picked up a few things. There was talk of "deliveries" delayed, of "heat from the other side," and someone mentioned the word "stock" in a way that didn't sound like it referred to alcohol.
Then there was a name. Not a full one, but enough: "Zel." Spoke like a ghost. Nobody said it loud, but it carried weight.
I logged it in my phone, disguised as a note for a song request.
My goal wasn't to blow my cover. Not tonight. The main players weren't here anyway. This was just a shell. A place where business was hinted at but never shown. But the cracks were there.
As I made my way toward the restrooms—just to scout the hallway, maybe spot a door that didn't belong—I noticed a bartender speaking into a tiny mic behind the counter. Watching someone. My table.
Time to move.
I turned back toward the crowd, blending in. I didn't make a break for it. That would be suspicious. Just another guy deciding the night wasn't worth the noise.
I made my way out slowly, pretending to answer a phone call. Stepped outside into the alley I scoped earlier, now quiet. Just a smoker or two, heads down. I kept walking. Five minutes later, I was in another cab, riding away with everything I'd gathered etched into memory.
Tonight wasn't about victory. It was recon. I was a shadow in their system.
And shadows don't strike until they're sure.
Then I felt my power surging and the dice wanted to be rolled, so I let the leash of it and heard the sound of dice rolling.
20-12 MHA Iron Soles - The Iron Soles were created by Mei to act as armor or cleats, it maximizes the strength of his kicks whenever Aj will delivers a kick and the soles receive a forceful impact, the toes of the soles spring out in a blowback motion to give AJ's attacks a powerful double impact. This gives AJ's kicks enough force to create shock waves and break through solid surfaces. This also allows him to deal with the recoil from his kicks, lessening the force that rebounds on him.
My boots snapped with energy as the tech flared to life. Originally built by Mei Hatsume—quirky genius, mad inventor—these weren't just armored cleats. They were kinetic weapons.
The soles adjusted in real time, internal servos kicking on. Plates shifted, pressure points realigned, and the springs in the toes locked into a loaded position.
I could feel it. The tension. The potential energy stored up, waiting to explode.
Spider Man POV
I've seen a lot of strange powers over the years.
Magic. Mutants. Tech. Aliens. You name it, I've webbed it.
But there's something about Vigil—AJ—that keeps tugging at the back of my mind. He's not just strong. He's unnaturally strong.
Then there's the fire and ice thing. Two opposite ends of the spectrum, but he uses them like they're just extensions of his body. Fluid. Controlled. One moment he's boiling the air with fire so hot it ripples space, the next he's freezing an entire block like he's auditioning for a role in Frozen 3: Godkiller Edition.
It's not just power. It's precision. Too well-rounded. Like he's had training in everything. Martial arts, tactical movement, magic—hell, he probably brews a great cup of coffee too.
It's not normal. Even among the not normal. And I'm not sure yet if that makes me feel better or worse.
Still, the guy's trying. That much is clear. He's sticking his neck out in M-Town, which is already halfway forgotten by everyone not living there. That earns respect. Or at least attention.
...Anyway. That's one mystery. Another mystery? How the hell I'm supposed to juggle superhero work, science gigs, and not miss dinner with MJ tonight.
Which I will miss. Again.
I sighed and glanced at the faded awning above me: Wash & Shine Laundromat – 24/7 Service. Big neon letters, half-flickering. A lie in twelve letters.
I pushed open the door. Tiny bell above the frame gave a half-hearted ding.
Inside, the place smelled like detergent, but weirdly sterile. Too clean. Like someone power-washed the entire place five times a day. There were washers and dryers lining the walls, most of them humming quietly. Two patrons sat off to the side, flipping through magazines that looked untouched. They didn't glance up when I walked in.
There was a clerk behind the counter—young guy, too well-dressed for a laundromat. Watching me a little too closely. Not enough to blow his cover, but enough that I noticed. Security camera in the top right corner, blinking green, rotating a few degrees every six seconds. I counted.
I made my way to a machine, pretending to fumble with a laundry bag. It was full of old clothes I'd thrown together to make the act look real. I popped open the lid, pretending to inspect the drum, but my eyes were on the floor. The tiles near the back wall were slightly misaligned. Almost invisible if you weren't looking.
Hidden hatch? Smuggling route?
There was also a faint hum—low, mechanical—beneath the surface noise of the dryers. Not from the machines. From below.
Definitely something under this place.
I straightened and walked over to the vending machine. Bought a soda I didn't want, just to linger. Glanced back at the door. Still just me and the clerk. The two "customers" hadn't flipped their pages in five minutes.
I'm not saying they were mannequins. But I've seen more lifelike movement in Times Square Spider-Man knockoffs.
Okay, Pete. You've seen enough. Don't poke the hornet's nest until we're ready.
I checked the time. 8:42 PM. Crap. MJ was gonna kill me.
I gave the clerk a quick nod, tossed the soda in the trash unopened, and stepped out into the cool night air.
I'll come back. With AJ. With a plan. Once we've got both pieces of the puzzle—club and laundromat—we'll find the factory. And then?
We shut it down. For good.
But first, I need to text MJ and come up with a really, really good excuse.
AJ POV
whispered you were alive and that tonight, things were going to change.
I stood still, hands in my pockets, hood up to shadow my face. The club below was alive with pulsing neon and a bass thrum I could feel even from up here. The Blue Orchid. Elegant name for a rotting root.
Then I heard it—the shift in the air. The sound of movement just too fast, too smooth to be from any bird or gust.
A shape swung through the night and landed next to me with a soft thud.
"Nice of you to drop in," I said without looking.
"Traffic was hell," Daredevil replied dryly.
We stood in silence for a minute. Him crouched like a coiled spring, me standing like a shadow. Both of us watching the club below, the security patterns, the rhythm of the place.
"They've cycled out the front guards twice already," I said. "Pattern's tight. No wasted time. Trained."
"I heard it," he murmured. "And the bouncer on the left—the one with the heavy step—he's hiding a prosthetic knee."
I blinked. "You got that from the way he walked?"
"From the sound of it," he said simply, tapping the side of his head. "I hear a lot."
I gave a low whistle. "Guess that radar sense thing isn't just for show."
"And you," he said, turning his head slightly toward me, "have a heartbeat that barely fluctuated when I landed. Most people spike. You didn't. That… tells me a lot."
I shrugged. "I've seen worse things than men in red tights."
A smirk tugged at his lips. "Cute."
We settled back into the silence. I could tell he was listening to the street, tuning in and out of conversations, footsteps, tiny mechanical sounds. I'd learned not to disturb him when he was like that.
Still, something tugged at my brain.
"You ever get tired of this?" I asked suddenly. "The waiting. The planning. Knowing it'll probably get messy anyway."
He turned his head again, and this time, I felt the weight behind the mask.
"All the time," he said. "But it's not about the mess. It's about minimizing it. About making sure when the pieces fall, they fall away from the people who can't afford to be hit."
I looked at him. "You sound like a guy who's had to bury a lot of pieces."
He didn't answer for a moment. "You don't get to do this as long as I have without collecting some ghosts."
That hit harder than I expected.
"You think we can really change anything?" I asked.
"I don't think, Vigil," he said quietly. "I have to believe we can. Otherwise... what's the point?"
I nodded slowly. That was a sentiment I knew all too well.
A long silence followed, both of us returning to the watch.
Then Daredevil spoke again, softer this time. "You're not like the others."
"Others?"
"The ones who show up swinging, yelling about justice, trying to make a name for themselves. You're... quieter. Calculated. Dangerous."
"Dangerous, huh?" I said. "That supposed to be a compliment?"
He tilted his head. "Let's just say... I'd rather have you on this rooftop with me than the one across from it."
I gave a grim smile. "Let's hope Peter and Danny are seeing the same thing on their end."
Across town, Spider-Man and Iron Fist were staking out a laundromat. A front. A cover. A fake business hiding something real and dirty. Same game as the club, just dressed up different.
We'd spent the last week surveilling both locations. Mapping guard rotations. Noting who went in and out and who didn't. We weren't hitting them just to make noise. This was about information. Data. Getting one step closer to the factory where Kick and MGH were being cooked up in this city. Shut that down, and maybe M-Town would get to breathe again.
Daredevil tilted his head suddenly. I could tell he was listening to something through the comm.
"They're in position," he said. "Spidey says—'Laundry's in the spin cycle.'"
I blinked. "Seriously?"
Daredevil's mouth twitched. "At least it's consistent."
I tapped my earpiece. "This is Vigil. Blue Orchid team standing by. Confirming synchronized entry?"
Iron Fist's voice came in. Smooth and steady. "Confirmed. Spider-Man and I are breaching in sixty seconds. Hit your mark at the same time. Quiet if you can. We're here to learn, not light fireworks."
"Copy that," I said, eyes narrowing as I scanned the club's entrance one more time. "We'll take the upper floors. Try to trace whoever's running point tonight."
Daredevil turned to me, his expression unreadable behind the mask. "You good for this?"
I nodded. "Always."
"Let's keep it tight. We don't want them to scatter and warn whoever's in charge."
"No one's getting out the back," I promised. "I already marked the exits."
He gave a quiet nod. "Then let's go."
We moved like ghosts, dropping from the rooftop into the alley behind the club. The hum of the city faded under the thrum of blood and breath and tension. The strike had begun—and somewhere across the city, Spider-Man and Iron Fist were doing the same.
Two fronts.
One goal.
The wind whispered around us, high above the sleeping city. I crouched low on the rooftop ledge, the Blue Orchid's garish neon lights casting long shadows behind me. Daredevil landed beside me in a silent arc of crimson leather, his presence smooth, controlled—like he'd been born in the air.
He nodded. No words needed.
I'd already scoped this place earlier in the week, during my civilian recon. Every blind spot, every angle, every route in or out. Now, all that prep was paying off.
"The rear employee door has a twelve-second lag between the lock disengaging and the inner security cam sweeping the frame," I whispered. "If we time it right, we're ghosts."
Daredevil nodded. "I'll take point on sound. You trigger the bypass."
I pulled out the slim black device I'd prepped earlier. One of my own designs—a universal bypass spoofer that mimicked employee keycard signals. With a silent wave, I activated it and watched the employee entrance's lock blink green.
Click.
We slipped inside.
The first two guards were lounging just beyond the door, half-drowsy and nursing coffee. They barely saw us coming. I moved like mist—my Black Knife set muffling every footstep. The first guard collapsed from a precise palm strike to the throat. The second barely turned before Daredevil's baton snapped out and caught him on the temple. Down. Clean.
We moved deeper into the bowels of the Orchid.
My hands danced across keypads and locks, bypassing internal doors with a mix of tech and finesse. A hidden shutter trap almost triggered—until I rewired the signal flow just in time. Security Mastery pulsed in my mind like instinct.
Eventually, we reached the main floor. It was eerie—silent and dim. The dance floor was barren, its lights cold and still. Only the low thrum of electrical panels filled the space. But we weren't alone.
Three guards patrolled the empty party area. One leaned against the bar; the other two hovered near the back booths. I slipped into the shadows, letting the Black Knife's silence keep me ghostlike. A swift rising kick took one guard off his feet, and I caught him before his body hit the floor.
Daredevil vanished into the darkness as if he was born from it, appearing behind the second guard and yanking him into a chokehold. A final flick of my wrist sent a knife flying, hilt-first into the last guard's skull. He crumpled silently.
Then we split.
Daredevil gave me a nod and ascended the staircase, moving toward the upper floor where the manager's office likely was. I made my way downward—toward the truth buried beneath.
The stairwell twisted into cold stone. Metal doors. Fluorescent flickers. As I entered the basement, a sour chemical tang hit my nose. This was it.
A laboratory.
Rows of metal tables. Cold containment pods. Scientists in lab coats murmuring into recorders, drawing neon-colored fluids into syringes. My heart dropped as I saw labels.
Kick and something worse—mutagenic accelerants.
This was the origin point.
The stuff that killed people in M-Town.
Rage simmered in my chest.
But before I could move—
WEEEEE-OOOOOOO
An alarm howled. Red lights spun. The door behind me slammed shut. Shutters crashed down across exits above. They knew we were here.
Gunfire erupted.
Three guards came around the corner, already firing. I ducked, kicked a table over, and let the Iron Soles do the talking. A shockwave blasted one into the wall. Another got his rifle kicked clean out of his hand before I launched him into a vat of Kick.
But then—they changed.
A squad of guards entered the lab—eyes wild. Syringes in hand.
They stabbed themselves without hesitation.
Their bodies convulsed, skin splitting and morphing. Bulging veins. Massive limbs. Teeth where there shouldn't be teeth. They grew—mutated—roaring with bloodlust.
Behind me, Elecmon leapt from the Digivice in a burst of digital light and dove into the nearest terminal. I touched the screen, giving him access.
"Get the data," I said.
"I'm on it!" Elecmon's voice echoed inside the machine as code flew across the screen. "Downloading everything—files, formulas, shipments. Just hold them off!"
I turned—only to be launched across the lab.
My back cracked into a wall, debris falling around me as one of the mutated guards barreled after me.
Above, I heard crashing.
Then—BOOM!
Daredevil crashed down from the upper floor, landing in a three-point skid across broken tiles. Several mutated enforcers leapt after him, howling, twitching with unstable power.
We stood back-to-back. Bloodied. Breathing heavy.
Surrounded.
Every exit sealed. Dozens of enhanced guards encircling us. All growling like rabid animals.
"You alright?" I asked without turning.
"I've had worse nights," Daredevil grunted. "You?"
The mutated guards encircled us, massive and grotesque, their forms distended from overuse of Kick. I could feel the magic inside me churn—the power wanted out. No dice roll this time. Just me, and everything I had.
Daredevil shifted his footing beside me, chin tilted toward the sounds of heavy breathing and claws scraping tile.
"This many mutations in one spot? This place's worse than we thought."
"No kidding," I muttered, flexing my hands. "We're surrounded."
One of the guards roared and charged.
I blurred forward, faster than they could react. My foot connected with his chest—Iron Soles activating mid-kick. The double-impact ripple cracked his ribcage and launched him into two others like a cannonball. They went down in a mess of muscle and grunts.
The air thickened, heat building in my chest.
Fire God Slayer Magic: Crimson Howl.
I exhaled, and a wave of black-edged flame burst from my mouth, not ordinary fire but cursed fire that ate away at magic itself. It consumed one of the brutes mid-swing, melting the mutated muscle off his bones.
Another came from behind—I ducked and spun, sweeping ice along the ground.
Ice God Slayer Magic: Grave Frost.
The moisture in the air froze in an instant, wrapping around three of them and locking them in jagged frost. Not just cold—absolute zero. They howled, but I dashed past, shattering one mid-run with a punch that cratered the wall behind him.
Daredevil took advantage of the confusion. His batons cracked out, hitting pressure points with machine-like precision. He flipped over a lunging brute, wrapped his cable baton around its neck, and used its momentum to slam the beast into another.
He grunted. "Remind me not to get on your bad side."
"You're holding your own," I said with a grin, drawing in another deep breath.
Another mutant threw a lab table at us—I raised both arms and absorbed the impact, my internal Copper Form reinforcing every bone and tendon. It felt like catching a car, but I stood my ground.
"We're still not at the source," Daredevil said. "We don't even know how deep this goes."
"I do." I stepped toward the stairwell leading even lower, kicking the jammed door aside like it was cardboard. "I saw the lab. They're working on something big. And dirty."
From below and above, more roars echoed. Footsteps. Mutants. Reinforcements.
Then the next wave arrived—and they were worse. Muscle twisted beyond reason, skin blackened with unstable energy. Veins glowing. Some had extra limbs. These weren't just drugged-up guards.
These were experiments.
One of them lunged at Daredevil and sent him flying through the stairwell, crashing down three floors. I turned—too slow—and another hit me like a truck, sending me skidding across the lab.
Pain shot through my side, but I gritted my teeth.
My hand snapped to the Digivice at my hip. I pressed it against a nearby terminal.
"Elecmon. Now."
I saw the screen flicker, lights surge. A pixelated flash zipped into the console.
Elecmon's voice crackled softly through my earpiece.
"I'm inside. Pulling all their files. There's something bad in here, AJ."
"Yeah," I growled, pushing myself up as three mutants stalked closer. "Tell me something I don't know."
They charged.
I raised my hands and let the full force of Fire and Ice God Slayer Magic erupt from me—black flame in one palm, black frost in the other. I clapped them together.
God Slayer Art: Frozen Inferno.
A swirling vortex of cursed flame and void-frost erupted outward, devouring the charging guards in a swirling blaze of anti-magic energy. They screamed as the magic unraveled them on a cellular level—no healing, no regeneration. Just erasure.
But more were coming.
Then I heard it—Daredevil crashing to the lower level, bruised but alive. He rolled to his feet as more mutated guards leapt after him, howling like animals.
We stood back-to-back in the burning remains of the lab.
"You got any more of that freak magic?" he asked, bleeding from the lip.
"Yeah," I said grimly, reaching behind my back.
The fight was turning fast.
Daredevil was holding his own, but I could see it—the rhythm in his movements breaking slightly, his body slowing down with every blow dodged, every baton strike landed. He was too good to get caught easily, but if this kept going… he'd be overwhelmed.
I made the decision instantly.
" Daredevil!" I called out, reaching behind me. My fingers found Clarent's hilt. The sword burned with restrained power. It wanted to be used. But not by me. Not this time.
I hurled it.
It cut through the air with a ringing cry, and Daredevil turned on instinct. He caught it mid-air, and the moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, Clarent reacted.
A flare of red-gold energy pulsed through him. His spine straightened. His head snapped slightly to the side, as if processing something that wasn't sound.
A guard lunged.
And Daredevil moved.
In a blur, the sword sang once, and an arm dropped to the floor—cleanly severed.
"What the hell is this?" he called over the chaos, his voice shaking—not with fear, but power. Awareness.
"It's called Clarent," I shouted back, fire starting to curl around my fists, ice creeping up my shoulders. "Questions for later. Just know—it's a king's sword."
Daredevil didn't ask again.
He moved like he was born to carry it. Precision and rage married in one deadly rhythm. Clarent blurred with every motion, its light bending around Matt's already unnatural awareness. One by one, the mutants fell before him—hamstrings slashed, arms disarmed, chests cracked open in bursts of violet-tinged gore.
I let the fire go.
My right hand burst into a blazing crimson flare—Flame God Slayer's Magic : Ignition Surge—and I dove into a cluster of mutated guards with a spinning kick, enhanced by the Iron Soles, sending shockwaves rippling through the floor. My left hand froze solid—Ice God Slayer's Howl—and I sent a cascade of freezing mist down the hallway, sealing two mutated guards into jagged tombs of rime.
We were tearing through them.
And then—crack.
A section of the ground buckled beneath us. The combination of Clarent's strikes and my magic finally shattered the structural integrity. The floor collapsed.
"Matt—!"
He was falling toward a large vat of bubbling, neon-green liquid.
Kick.
Unprocessed. Raw.
I grabbed his wrist mid-fall, yanking him toward me and swinging us toward a support beam with a quick blast of compressed flame to alter our trajectory. We slammed into it, hard, but stayed out of the vat.
The same couldn't be said for one of the last mutated guards. He landed squarely in the vat with a disgusting splash.
For a heartbeat, everything went still.
Then the vat began to boil.
Bubbles hissed. The liquid frothed. And from within, the guard roared.
He erupted from the vat, his body nearly twice the size it had been. Mutations piled on top of mutations—his skin a mess of shifting elements. One arm turned to jagged diamond, the other into a grotesque mace of fused bone. Fire danced along his shoulders. One eye glowed like a star while the other was swollen shut. A pulsating growth on his back throbbed with veins of glowing green—the Kick pumping through it like a mechanical heart.
Then it opened its mouth—and fired.
A blast of raw energy screamed toward us.
I stepped in front of Matt and tanked it.
The blast hit me like a truck. Armor cracked. Blood in my throat. But I stood.
"Okay," I spat, wiping blood from my lip. "Now I'm pissed."
Matt turned to me, concern on his face, but he knew better than to argue. "How do you want to do this?"
"We poke the bear. Then let him knock down the cage."
We split.
Matt moved left. I moved right. We hit the beast from opposite ends—quick, surgical strikes. A slice to the tendons. A shard of ice through the knee. A flaming crescent kick to its neck that left it howling. Each hit chipped away at it, but none were killing blows.
It roared, enraged beyond reason, and charged.
We jumped aside.
It smashed into one of the few remaining support beams.
Everything above us groaned.
Then collapsed.
A cascade of steel and concrete fell onto the monster. Dust and debris filled the air.
I didn't wait.
"Ice God Slayer Magic: Eternal Glacier's Judgment!"
I launched a massive frozen spear of divine ice straight into the rubble. The cold spread instantly, locking everything around it in a coffin of jagged frost.
The beast screamed, struggling.
And then Daredevil appeared through the settling dust, Clarent in hand.
One clean swing.
The tumor was sliced off in a single arc, spilling a wave of glowing green fluid.
A follow-up strike—two precise cuts—took off both legs at the knees.
The creature spasmed once, then began to shrink, the effects of the Kick overdose burning out in real time. When it was done, all that remained was a barely breathing, mutated shell of a man.
Matt let the sword fall to his side, panting.
I dropped beside him, clutching my ribs.
He glanced at the blade, then back at me.
"You weren't kidding," he said. "That is a king's sword."
I smirked, despite the blood trickling from my lip.
The rooftop was quiet.
Below us, the Blue Orchid was a mess of broken walls, shattered glass, and the last faint trails of smoke curling from the gaping hole where a drug lab used to exist. Cops and emergency services would show up soon, but for now, the neighborhood was caught in that breathless calm after the storm.
I sat on the ledge, legs dangling over the edge, my armor scraped and dented in places. Daredevil stood at first, silent, still catching his breath, Clarent beside him. Eventually, he joined me, sitting with that calm, almost meditative stillness only Matt Murdock could manage after almost dying.
He didn't say anything for a while. Just listened—to the wind, the distant sirens, the pulse of the city getting its bearings after our chaos.
Then he finally spoke.
"You know," he said, "I've fought my share of monsters. Some human. Some… not so much. But that one? That was something else."
"Yeah," I exhaled, glancing down at the wreckage. "That wasn't just a drug lab. That was a science project gone wrong. A weapon factory disguised as a nightclub."
Matt tilted his head slightly, like he was reading me more than hearing me. "And you knew. When you saw what was happening down there—you got angry. Not just the kind of mad that pushes you to fight harder. The kind that digs deeper."
I didn't respond right away. I couldn't. He was right.
"Those deaths in M-Town weren't random," I said quietly. "People were being used as test cases. That Kick variant down there—it's not just a drug anymore. It's a mutagen. A weapon. And someone's refining it."
Matt didn't respond immediately. Just nodded slightly.
Then he gave me a sideways glance. "Spidey never mentioned a magic sword. Or that under all that armor… your skin turns to copper."
I couldn't help but chuckle. "That's because Spidey didn't know."
Daredevil raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
"Yeah," I said, leaning back a bit. "I haven't told anyone. Not everything. Not yet. There's a lot going on under the surface with me, Some of it I'm still figuring out. But I'll explain. I will. Just… not on this rooftop."
Before he could say anything else, my Digivice buzzed softly. I checked it. A message flickered across the small display.
[Spider-Man]: All clear on our end. Just low-level muscle. Laundromat was already scrubbed clean. No real evidence left. Hope you guys had better luck.
Daredevil glanced toward me as I read it aloud.
He smirked faintly. "Tell them we definitely found something."
I grinned, tapping out a reply. "We sure did."
Then I stood, offering Matt a hand.
"Come on. Let's rendezvous at the regroup point," I said, tightening the straps on my armor. "I've got a lot to show you."
Matt took my hand and stood.
"Looking forward to the explanation," he said, almost like a threat—but there was a smile behind it.
We leapt off the rooftop into the dark, the broken club behind us, and a bigger storm still waiting ahead.
The hum of fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound in the room. Even in luxury, Sublime preferred sterile spaces—clinical, white walls, minimalist black furniture, nothing unnecessary. Distraction bred weakness. And he had no tolerance for weakness.
The soft buzz of an encrypted line interrupted the silence.
He didn't hesitate.
He pressed the receiver. "Talk."
A voice filtered through—raspy, low, but steady. One of his field operatives.
"It was as you expected. He took the bait. But… he didn't come alone."
Sublime raised a brow.
The monitor embedded into the sleek wall ahead of his desk flickered to life. A video began to play, grainy security footage from the Blue Orchid's internal systems—routed through multiple failsafes, scrubbed clean of any metadata.
The image showed chaos.
Explosions. Ice. Fire.
A figure in black armor tore through mutated guards with brutal efficiency. A red-suited man danced between attacks with acrobatic grace. Two others in different parts of the city—the webslinger and the martial artist.
Sublime leaned forward, watching as he appeared.
The armored one. The one who called himself Vigil.
"He's more powerful than we estimated," Sublime murmured, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
He watched the ice erupt from Vigil's hands. The same boy who had clashed with Random had been holding back.
"So," Sublime said softly, his voice cold and amused. "This is the gnat that's been buzzing around my operation."
He let the footage play on for another few seconds, watching as the intruders stormed the lab. The mutated guards going berserk. The floor collapsing beneath them. The wild, frenzied resistance—and the utter destruction of it all.
Then he cut the feed.
"How much of value was lost?" he asked.
A pause.
"Roughly one-hundred and twenty million dollars," the voice replied.
Sublime didn't react. He simply stared at the now-blank monitor.
"Did they get the data?"
"Yes."
A slow smile curled across Sublime's lips. One that never reached his eyes.
"Good."
He stood and turned to face the massive window behind his desk. It overlooked a skyline glowing with greed and indifference—his kind of city.
"They'll be coming for the factory soon," he said. "It was only a matter of time. The bait worked. It flushed them out."
There was a pause. Then his voice dropped to a whisper sharp enough to cut steel.
"I'm sending backup. If the other heroes are involved… we don't hold back."
He turned his head slightly.
"End this gnat. Crush him. Break his friends. Burn their hope to ash."
His voice was silk over razors now.
"And make sure you don't fail me. You know what happens to people who disappoint me."
There was silence on the other end. The line disconnected.
Sublime sat back down.
He opened a secure terminal and typed a single word into the encrypted command line:
ACTIVATE: SLEEPER ASSETS.
A red confirmation blinked on-screen.
Operation XTERMINATION had begun.