The Punisher. Former U.S. Marine. A man forged in war and tempered in tragedy. When his family was gunned down in a brutal mob crossfire, he declared his own personal war on crime. One man, one mission: eradicate every last piece of scum infecting the underworld.
At first, the authorities assumed it was a professional hit squad. The sheer number of bodies left in his wake—riddled with bullets, blown apart with military-grade precision—couldn't possibly be the work of one man.
But it was.
Frank Castle, The Punisher. With an arsenal in his van and a death wish behind his eyes, he was a one-man army. But now, someone else had displayed a similar level of destruction—and he hadn't even used heavy weaponry.
Nick Fury stared grimly at the footage. The man was weaving through enemies like a demon on a leash, dual pistols in hand, every shot erupting in a blaze of orange fire.
"No conventional handgun—or even rifle—should be capable of that rate of fire," Fury muttered. "The barrels would melt from the heat alone."
The man in the footage showed no hesitation. No wasted movement. He danced through bullets and ambushes, retaliating with pinpoint precision. His orange flame-tipped bullets carved through enemies like surgical strikes, hitting without killing, disabling without remorse.
"Is it his weapon? His own power? Or some terrifying combination of both?"
"Whatever it is," Maria Hill said, jaw clenched, "he's beyond anything we've seen."
The entire engagement lasted less than three minutes.
Over 600 armed gangsters.
Gone.
Fury ran the numbers in his head. Even if each bullet was a direct hit—which, judging by the footage, it was—that meant the man had fired over six hundred shots in under 180 seconds.
Not with a Gatling gun. Not with an LMG.
With handguns.
"Even if we ignore his fire rate, his reflexes alone are insane," Fury murmured. "Dodging bullets at close range, neutralizing ambushes from his blind spots… and every return shot avoids vital organs. That's more than a marksman. That's a combat genius."
Hill nodded. "Just watching the footage is suffocating. That level of aggression... it's like staring into a hurricane."
Fury leaned back, brows furrowed. "He's not weaker than Lucian Black. In fact, in terms of sheer battlefield pressure, he might be even more dangerous. The Vongola Family is a hell of a lot stronger than we thought."
The screen shifted.
Police sirens wailed in the distance. As law enforcement approached the scene, the Vongola Family members began to retreat in perfect formation. No panic. No disorder. Just clockwork precision.
At the rear, Lucian raised his trident and summoned a thick fog that consumed the block. Cameras whited out. Visibility dropped to zero.
Fury didn't even react. They'd already seen what Lucian could do.
"Status report. Where are they now? Have we confirmed their objective?" Fury asked.
"They've taken over an abandoned cathedral on 10th Street. Renovations are underway. Looks like they're turning it into a headquarters," Hill replied. "As for motive... well, from the Savage Serpents, Gunfire Pact, and Viper Syndicate, we got one consistent answer: they plan to become the kings of the underworld."
Fury blinked. "That's it?"
Hill shrugged. "It might be disinformation. Wouldn't be the first time."
Fury stood, walking to the window. "Put a team on constant surveillance. I want their plans, their movements, and most of all—where the hell they came from."
"Understood."
Hill exited, leaving Fury alone in his office.
He slumped into his chair, rubbing his temple. The Vongola Family didn't just want to be kings. That was too easy for people like them. With their power, they could take over the underworld before breakfast.
"No one sets a goal they've already surpassed," he muttered.
He glanced at the quantum communicator Carol Danvers had left him before leaving Earth. His hand hovered over it—but he pulled back.
Not yet.
Things hadn't spiraled out of control.
But they were close.
"Time to speed up the Avengers Initiative."
Meanwhile.
Otto wiped his bloodied hands with a handkerchief, face calm, eyes clear. Around him, freshly dug dirt concealed the remains of would-be assassins.
He hadn't killed them.
But he had disposed of the corpses. Efficiently. Silently. Earth magic had created the pit, word magic summoned the scavengers, and now nature would handle the rest.
"Now to wash up," Otto muttered, glancing at the blood stains on his sleeves.
"You killed them, didn't you?"
The voice came from behind.
Otto stopped.
"There's a heavy stench of blood down here," the voice continued. "And not from one man."
Otto turned slowly. A man in a tight red bodysuit stood there, half his face masked, his posture tense and aggressive.
Daredevil.
"I didn't kill anyone," Otto said calmly, dabbing at his cuff with his cloth. "I only handled the cleanup."
"So you're an accomplice."
Daredevil stepped forward, fists clenched.
"I take you down, then get the names of the killers."
Otto shook his head. "I work for someone. I can't allow you to detain me."
"You don't get a choice."
Daredevil lunged.
Three meters. That was all it took for him to close the gap.
His punch came fast, precise—aimed squarely at Otto's face.
But just as it was about to land, a massive stray dog leapt out from the shadows, slamming into Daredevil and knocking him off his feet.
"GRAWR!"
The dog barked, snapping at his neck. Daredevil rolled, planted a foot, and kicked it away.
He staggered to his feet—only to find a dozen more strays surrounding him. Mangy cats. Angry dogs. All baring teeth. All blocking the path.
Otto looked on, unbothered.
"You're Daredevil. I saw your name in the papers yesterday. A vigilante who serves justice."
Daredevil ignored the flattery. "You're controlling these animals."
"I fed them for a week. They agreed to help me," Otto said. "Don't worry. I'm not your enemy. These men stormed in, guns blazing. My boss defended us. We were simply acting in self-defense."