The night smelled of wet iron and alley grease.
Rai moved through the Bronx with the kind of ease that only came from weeks of repetition. This wasn't instinct—it was practice. Quiet footsteps on cracked rooftops, eyes scanning for light shifts, for patterns. For prey.
The warehouse below was one of three he'd flagged over the last week—an old shell company now suddenly receiving late-night shipments. No paper trail. No noise. Just crates going in and out, carried by men who didn't fit the neighborhood.
He waited.
Then came the sound: trucks rolling in, too careful in their timing. Rai's eyes narrowed as the Sharingan activated—two tomoe spinning slowly, pulling detail from darkness. Chakra threads danced faintly below, revealing the outlines of men and weapons inside.
It was a drop.
He leapt.
No theatrics. Just movement. Like cutting through water.
The two lookouts on the roof never saw him—one asleep, the other focused on his phone. Rai put both down without a sound, a brief flicker of chakra and a twist of momentum. He didn't linger. His target was below.
Inside, crates were being unloadedunder dim lights. AKs. Modified tech. Possibly Stark scraps. Rai crouched in the shadows, watching the layout. Nine men, maybe ten. Not professionals—but dangerous.
He reached into his pouch, pulling out a single flash tag. Low-yield, chakra-triggered. He tossed it across the room, timing his descent with the flash.
Blinding white. Screams. Confusion.
Rai landed like a whisper, fists already moving. He swept the legs of the first man, slammed an elbow into the gut of another. He was precise, not brutal—enough to incapacitate, not kill.
Then he felt it.
A shift. Like a jolt through the spine. Chakra, but wrong.
A figure emerged from the far end of the warehouse—a tall man with pale, uneven skin and dark veins running down his arms. His eyes were jaundiced, glowing faintly green, and when he opened his mouth, his voice crackled with something not entirely human.
"You're the ghost. The red-eyed thing."
Rai didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The man lunged, but it wasn't normal. His arm stretched—actually stretched—like sinew uncoiling, bones popping with unnatural elasticity. Rai barely dodged in time, flipping backward as the mutant's limb slammed into a crate, splintering wood like paper.
A mutant. Enhanced biology. Not on any record Rai had seen.
He weaved through hand signs—Kawarimi. The clone absorbed the next strike, vanishing in smoke as Rai reappeared behind the mutant. A precise strike to the neck—only for the man's skin to ripple and absorb the blow.
I've killed ten of you freaks."
Rai narrowed his eyes. This one wasn't just muscle. He was built for endurance—damage sponge, regenerative, possibly even chakra-reactive.
He pivoted strategy.
Clone Jutsu. Three shadows darted out, drawing attention. As the mutant crushed one, Rai used the distraction to plant an explosive tag beneath a support beam and guided the remaining clone to lure him forward.
Boom
The blast wasn't lethal—Rai had no interest in killing—but it destabilized the ceiling. Beams collapsed, pinning the mutant under debris long enough for Rai to secure the others. Zip ties, pressure points. Efficient.
By the time the dust settled, the mutant was unconscious. Still breathing—but not by much.
Rai stood over him, chest rising steadily. The Sharingan dimmed.
He didn't celebrate. Just took a breath.
Then he heard it—again.
A whir. A lens.
He turned sharply. Nothing there. But it wasn't paranoia—he knew the feeling of being watched. S.H.I.E.L.D., maybe. Or someone else. It didn't matter. Not now.
He dragged the mutant's body to the center of the room and tied a cloth around his arms with a message written in ink:
"You're not ready."
Then he vanished into the night.