[Third Person POV]
The corridor opened into a broader, dimly lit room. It looked like a cash-counting area, judging by the long tables stacked with bundled bills.
Fifteen women stood or sat at various stations, frozen mid-motion, their hands hovering over duffel bags filled with money. Their eyes were wide, their bodies tense—like deer caught in headlights.
Then the ambush began.
Four armed men burst from hiding. Two came from behind tall shelving units, and two more rushed in from the sides of the door.
The masked man in black reacted fast.
He dropped low and spun, sweeping one man off his feet in a single, fluid motion. His other fist, wrapped in steel-reinforced knuckle dusters, slammed into the second man's gut with brutal force.
As the man folded, a hidden blade extended from the knuckle guard and slid between his ribs. There was a wet, gurgled gasp followed by silence as the body crumpled.
The third man fired. Three shots rang out and missed. His target was already moving. The masked man caught his wrist mid-trigger, disarmed him with a sharp twist, and shattered his elbow with a bone-snapping crack that echoed through the room.
The fourth attacker lunged from the side.
He was met with a kick to the kneecap, then a slash across the thigh that dropped him screaming to the floor.
Two dead. Two crippled. All four neutralized in under ten seconds.
Then came the stillness.
Fifteen pairs of eyes stared at the masked figure as he rose to his full height.
"Are you being forced to work here?" he asked. His voice was low, distorted through the gas mask.
No one answered.
One woman trembled. Another looked away, blinking back tears. The rest stood in uncertain silence.
"You have sixty seconds," he said, walking toward the table piled with cash. "To make a choice. Escape, or die here with the rest of them."
He paused, then added while pointing to the table, "If you haven't been paid yet, or if you've suffered in any way while working here, feel free to take whatever you can carry. Think of it as compensation."
The moment he stopped speaking, movement exploded.
Some scrambled to grab pre-packed bags. Others snatched loose stacks from the tables. Most followed his instructions in silence, moving quickly with trembling hands.
They understood. No one needed to repeat it.
"Call 911 on the burner," he said, handing an extra phone to the nearest woman. "Make it anonymous. Tell them there was a shootout."
They all nodded.
At the exact same time.
It was unnerving, too perfect. For a moment, he just stared at them.
"Jesus," he muttered, half-amused. "You rehearse that or something? Anyway, is there anything here besides the cash?"
One of the women pointed toward a steel door at the back of the room. "There's a hidden safe. Under the floor."
She left with the others and did not look back.
The masked figure moved toward the door, pushed it open, and stepped inside. The room was sparse, with only a few crates, a rusting metal desk, and a bare concrete floor. His eyes scanned the space until he saw it: a faint seam near the center, barely visible.
He knelt, gloved fingers brushing along the edge.
Then behind him, he heard a soft scuffle.
He turned sharply.
One of the injured men from earlier. Blood stained his shirt, and one arm was pressed tightly to his stomach. He was trying to limp past the doorway, his other hand fumbling along the wall for balance.
Without a word, the masked figure drew his grapnel gun. In one smooth motion, he fired.
The hook buried itself in the man's jacket. A split second later, the cable snapped tight and retracted with brutal force, yanking him backward across the concrete like a rag doll. His scream tore through the air but stopped cold when his body slammed into the wall with a sickening thud.
The masked man walked over and crouched beside the crumpled figure, his head tilted slightly.
"Sir, you seem to be going in the wrong direction."
The man groaned, curling inward.
"Yeah," the intruder muttered. "I thought so."
He turned back to the floor, peeled open the hatch the woman had pointed out, and found exactly what he had expected: cash. Stacks of it. Enough to fill the room twice over.
Damn how in the hell did they even install such a big vault underground?
There were also guns. A few bonds. And more importantly, ledgers.
After clearing out the vaults, the masked man turned his attention to the two gang members sprawled on the cold concrete floor.
One had a bullet wound in his thigh, dark blood soaking his pants with every throb. The other clutched a dislocated arm that bent at an unnatural angle. Both were groaning and twitching, their pain echoing faintly in the room thick with the stench of sweat.
Without a word, the masked man dragged over rusted steel chairs. Its legs scraped against the floor with a harsh screech. He grabbed the two one after the other, hoisting them up and slamming them into the chair with no care for their injuries. They struggled weakly, but resistance was useless.
The sound of duct tape ripping filled the silence. The masked man worked quickly, binding their arms, legs, and torsos to the metal frame with tight, unforgiving layers. When he was done, he stepped back and looked at them. There was no expression behind the mask, no trace of sympathy.
"I do not have time for games," he said, voice low and calm. "Tell me everything. This warehouse. Your operation. Your gang. Names, routes, routines. Talk now and walk away with your bones intact."
The thug on the left, Extra 1, raised his head. Blood streaked his face. He spat in the masked man's direction.
"Fuck you."
The masked man said nothing. He tore another strip of duct tape and slapped it across both the thug's mouth. Then he reached into the side pocket of his cargo pant and pulled out five senbon needles.
Extra 2 watched, his breathing quickening.
The masked man grabbed Extra 1's hand and pinned it to the armrest. The thug thrashed, his muffled protests growing louder, but the tape held him fast.
The first needle slid beneath the fingernail of the index finger.
Extra 1 screamed behind the tape.
The second followed, sliding under the middle fingernail.
Then the third, beneath the ring finger.
Blood seeped slowly from beneath the nails. Extra 1's body trembled violently. His eyes bulged with shock and pain.
Extra 2 sat frozen. He could not tear his eyes away from his partner's mangled hand. His jaw quivered, his face pale.
The masked man turned his head toward him.
"Your turn," he said quietly, "Talk."
Extra Two spilled like a kicked-over bucket.
"This place is run by Ramón Ortega. He is Dagger's guy. Handles the gang's cash flow in Hell's Kitchen, okay? Okay?"
The masked man said nothing, only stared at him. The silence felt heavier than the air around them.
Extra 2 licked his lips, trying to steady his breathing.
"He is not here. Went to a sit-down with some Russians tonight. Guns, I think. Not sure which crew. He will not be back until tomorrow morning. Swear on my life. I just count cash and move crates when they tell me."
Still nothing from the masked man.
Sweat poured down the thug's face. He pressed on, tripping over his own words.
"They move a lot of product through here. Cocaine mostly, sometimes pills or weapons when things are quiet. There is a ledger in the office."
The masked man stepped forward.
"What about Ortega?"
Extra 2 hesitated, then nodded quickly.
"He is blood. Ramón and Dante Vasquez are cousins. That is why he gets away with everything. Dante trusts him with all the cash."
The masked man tilted his head slightly.
"Victor Ruiz. What do you know?"
Extra 2 blinked. Panic flared in his eyes again. He glanced at the man beside him, still whimpering through the tape.
"Victor? Yeah. He handles nightclub fronts. The human trafficking, the escorts, the money laundering through fake businesses."
The masked man said nothing. He only stared.
Extra 2's voice turned pleading.
"That is all I know. Please. Please, do not kill us."
A dark stain spread across the front of his jeans. The smell of urine filled the air.
The masked man stepped back quickly, his expression unreadable beneath the mask. He let the silence stretch again, letting the weight of the moment settle.
He spoke low and clear.
"Is there anything else?"
Extra 2 shook his head violently, his voice cracking.
"No. That is all. I swear. That is everything I know."
His chest heaved with shallow, panicked breaths. Tears ran freely down his face. He was broken.
Next to him, Extra 1 was still strapped to the chair. Blood had soaked into his pant leg from the bullet wound, and his fingers trembled uncontrollably where the senbons stuck between the nail beds. His mouth was still covered in duct tape, but he was crying through it now. Shaking from the pain.
The masked man said nothing. He simply looked at both of them, eyes cold and steady.
Then a voice crackled quietly in his earpiece.
"David. NYPD en route. Ambulance too. ETA four minutes. You need to leave now."
The masked man stared at the two thugs a moment longer. They were barely holding it together, their bodies trembling and breath hitching. The air reeked of blood, sweat, and urine. Their eyes were glossy with terror and exhaustion.
He stepped behind them.
"Sleep it off," he muttered.
He drew two syringes filled with a fast-acting knockout agent. He jabbed the first into Extra 1's neck, then did the same to Extra 2. Within seconds, both men slumped forward in their chairs, unconscious.
Then he noticed the senbons still lodged between Extra 1's fingers. Carefully, he pulled them free and slipped them into a side compartment on his belt. No reason to leave those behind.
Then he turned and moved.
The corridor outside was littered with unconscious bodies that were either twitching, groaning or broken. He had hit hard. Harder than they expected. He stepped past them, boots crunching on bones and blood.
Bullet-time let him flow through them like water through cracks in concrete. But now...
Now he was dry.
Five men had begun to stir.
He recognized their faces from the information he had obtained from before.
His hands moved without hesitation. Five shots, all to their heads, in a execution style.
He reached the exit.
His pulse hammered in his ears, adrenaline singing through his veins like a war drum. He did not feel the weight of the night yet. Only the heat of it. The way his muscles buzzed from combat. The sting in his ribs, his shoulder, and somewhere deep in his thigh.
The grappling gun snapped into his hand. He pressed the trigger.
Thwip.
The line shot upward, and the metal bit into the edge of the warehouse roof. He rocketed skyward, cloak flaring behind him.
Boots hit concrete. He rolled to break the momentum.
Then his leg buckled.
He crashed against the adjacent rooftop with a thud, rolled once, and slammed shoulder-first into a brick ventilation shaft. The world tipped sideways.
What the fuck.
His breath came ragged. Fingers shook. His vision swam.
Only now did he feel it. The raw, searing ache in his ribs. The burn in his thighs. His jacket was slick with blood. A sharp pain in his side made it hard to breathe.
He cursed.
He dropped from the roof. Crashed into a dark alley. Rolled and landed with a groan beside a pile of trash bags. The shadows closed around him.
He pulled out three syringes filled with glowing fluid from the system inventory, the full potion, in portions.
He stabbed the first into his thigh.
The second into his shoulder.
The third into his neck.
He slumped back against the cold alley wall, breathing like a man who had just crawled out of a shipwreck.
Twenty seconds passed before the pain dulled. Thirty before his vision began to clear. One minute before he could sit up again.
He peeled off the mask. Tore off the balaclava. Steam rose from his skin in the cold March air. His face was pale, streaked with blood and grime.
He looked back toward the warehouse. Its windows glowed faintly with flickering red and blue.
Another job done. Another mess left behind.
He shut his eyes for a moment. Not to rest, but to focus. To breathe. The pain was fading, but the noise in his head never did.
The screaming. The gunshots. The sound of bones breaking under his hands.
They used to bother him. Now they were just background.
None of it mattered. Not really.
And he was far from finished.
To Be Continued...