Chapter 117:
[Steve Rogers POV]
[1 Week Later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City]
It's strange how silence settles after the storm. The serial killings that haunted our nights, the twisted symphony of blood and shadows, are finally behind us. But peace doesn't last in this city—not in our world. I stand by the window on the top floor of Avengers HQ, arms crossed, watching the city breathe beneath the rising sun. It looks peaceful from up here. Deceptively so. The kind of peace that hides rot just beneath the surface. That's the real problem now—the cancer inside the system, protected by bureaucracy, shielded by uniforms and titles. The serial killers were monsters we could punch, threats we could chase down in the night and bring to justice. But this? This is murkier. Slippery. It's harder to fight something that doesn't wear a mask or leave a trail of bodies. Harder still when the enemy hides behind laws and politics. I step away from the window and head toward the conference table, where files are laid out like a battlefield of ink and secrets. Karai's already tapped into several internal servers—police, mayoral communications, even the internal messaging system of the Anti-Crime Unit. What she's pulled so far confirms what my gut's been screaming since day one: there's no single puppet master behind this. There's a whole damned theater. Officials looking the other way. A private military unit dressed like saviors, walking city streets like it's a war zone. EPYON's scans picked up unregistered hardware, encrypted communications, and private black sites hidden beneath the city grid. Spartan flagged it a week ago, but even he admitted it didn't make sense. Not then. Now it does. I sit down slowly, one hand resting on the cool edge of the table. There's a folder marked "OPERATION: BLACK VEIL" in front of me. Karai gave it that name—said it felt appropriate, like something draped over the truth to keep it hidden from public eyes. Inside are photos, timestamps, communication logs, and drone footage. There's a picture of a man in a suit shaking hands with the mayor—a man who's supposed to be retired military, now heading a PMC that's been granted free reign to "assist" in urban crime response. But it's more than that. They're not here to help. They're here to control. Spartan told me what one of their officers said when pressed—something about not asking questions when the paycheck's good and the orders come fast. That kind of thinking gets good people killed. That kind of thinking destroys cities from the inside out. I feel the weight of my shield across my back, not in a physical sense, but in a symbolic one. I was given this role to defend freedom, justice, and integrity. But what happens when the threats aren't alien invasions or Ultron-level catastrophes? What happens when the real war is for the soul of the institutions we're meant to protect? That's where we are now. We're not fighting monsters anymore—we're fighting compromise, corruption, the slow erosion of right and wrong.
Wanda walks into the room; her eyes are tired but sharp. Spartan's not far behind, tapping something into his gauntlet, no doubt syncing new intel into our shared system. They've both been working around the clock, diving deeper into this mess while the rest of the world believes the worst is over. But I know better. The serial killers were a symptom. The real sickness is just now showing its face. This isn't going to be easy. No clear enemy. No battle line to charge. But I'm not backing down. None of us are. This is our city too. And we won't let it fall. Spartan doesn't say anything right away, but I can see it in the way he moves—measured, deliberate, the way a soldier walks when he knows the next mission isn't going to have clean lines or simple victories. He places a drive on the table without a word, and Karai takes it, plugging it into the console built into the wall. Holographic screens flicker to life, filling the room with scrolling data, surveillance footage, internal communications, and what looks like intercepted satellite pingbacks. My eyes narrow as I read the words "TACTICAL AUTHORIZATION GRANTED" stamped across a digital form—dated three months ago. It's signed by a deputy commissioner and greenlit by the mayor's chief of staff. Another screen shows a convoy of armored trucks moving through Queens in the dead of night. No NYPD markings. No public announcement. Just silent movement through a neighborhood that's had an uptick in "unsolved" disappearances.
I grit my teeth. This is worse than we thought. These PMC forces—whoever they answer to—they're not just assisting the police. They're replacing them in areas deemed "too volatile for traditional enforcement." And they're doing it with gear that makes even Stark's prototypes look behind the curve. Spartan points to one of the files—"Unit 09: FENRIS Protocol." My brow furrows at the name. It's always the same with these types—edgelord names, Spartan would call them. But this one sends a chill up my spine. The footage shifts to a helmet-cam feed from one of these so-called Fenris units: infrared vision, audio chatter, and a violent takedown of what looks like a civilian. No warning. No ID. Just boots through doors and screams cut short. Wanda crosses her arms, standing beside me now. Her voice is quiet but firm. "They're testing boundaries. Seeing how far they can go before someone calls them out." She's right. And no one's calling them out. Not the press, not the government, not even the watchdogs. Because they've either been paid off or silenced. This whole thing smells of controlled chaos—something engineered. And the worst part? We don't know how deep it goes. Not yet. Karai highlights another cluster of data. It shows transfer funds between shell corporations and a PMC contractor listed as SableGuard Solutions. I've never heard of them, but Spartan mutters under his breath, "Saw that name once in Madripoor… on a dead drop box near the Jade Serpent District." I shoot him a look, "You think they're tied to someone bigger?" He doesn't answer directly. Just stares at the screen, jaw tight. We're all thinking the same thing, but no one says it aloud. CERBERUS. It's a name we've encountered before—too many times in too many dark corners of the world—but there's no evidence. No direct link. Just smoke. And right now, smoke isn't enough to act on. I feel the pressure building behind my eyes, that tight coil of frustration and determination that always comes when justice feels just out of reach.
[Karai POV]
It's getting worse. I can feel it. Not just in the data feeds or the encrypted chatter we scrape from buried channels—no, this is something deeper. Like the atmosphere shifts when a storm is about to break. I'm standing at the edge of the conference table, arms folded, eyes locked on the holographic wall as more files flicker into view. Civilian surveillance, asset transfer logs, anonymous whistleblower dumps. It all screams the same truth: things are escalating. These mercs masked as police are not just going after heroes anymore. They're making anyone who speaks out against them disappear. Genuine, honest cops, independent reporters, and even a few activists—people brave enough to raise their voices, are now wiped clean from the system like they never existed. The disappearances used to be isolated. Sporadic. Easy to brush it off as a coincidence if you wanted to. But not anymore. There's a pattern now. A sequence. A deliberate purging. And all of it sanctioned from the shadows by cowards with clean suits and bloodless hands. I glance at Steve as he stares down the swirling intel with that same grim stillness he wears when the battle's already started, even if no one's fired a shot yet. He's processing. I can see it. And Spartan? He's steel—quiet, immovable—but I know him well enough to read the tension behind that mask of his. He didn't drop that drive on the table for theatrics. It's got weight. Meaning. We're past suspicion now. We're knee-deep in confirmation. I dig into the new packet—cross-reference the financial transfers with municipal expense reports. The discrepancies stand out like bruises. Phantom consulting fees. Requisition requests for "urban support units" that bypass all traditional approval channels. There's one entry that really sticks: an entire precinct's worth of officers reassigned for "evaluation," replaced by a PMC squad in the same week local news ran a segment questioning the rise in "extrajudicial interventions." That reporter? Gone. Website scrubbed. All social feeds deleted. No forwarding info. It's surgical.
The room feels heavy, pulsing with the tension of minds racing toward the same conclusion. Wanda stands close to Steve now, her presence calm but sharp-edged. She's felt it, too. The shift. The silence before the storm isn't silence at all—it's a tactical lull. A recalibration before the next move. I switch tabs and pull up metadata on that convoy Spartan flagged—no comms, no IFF, no police tags. Just raw force moving through the city like it owns the place. I highlight another alert: a civilian tip about men in black armor dragging someone out of a downtown apartment. No report filed. No 911 call logged. The only reason we know it happened is because someone posted blurry footage to an underground forum two minutes before it got nuked from the net. We archived it before it vanished, but that's not a win—it's a warning. They're watching the flow of information as tightly as they patrol the streets. I move to the edge of the holographic projection and zoom in on a shell company I've been tracking—Graymark Holdings. On paper, they're real estate developers. But the bank trails lead elsewhere. Offshore accounts. Ties to SableGuard Solutions. A PMC we've only seen in whispers and encrypted mentions. Spartan murmured something earlier about spotting the name in Madripoor—he doesn't say it lightly. I connect the company alias to a shipment log: crates moved through Port Liberty under diplomatic cover. Gear manifests redacted. Another layer pulled back. Another piece of the curtain torn. And beneath it? CERBERUS. We don't have proof, not yet. But every data trail we follow starts to point in the same direction. And I hate how familiar it's all beginning to feel.
I turn my eyes toward the others. They don't need to hear me say it—they know. But I still speak because putting it into words makes it real. "This isn't law enforcement anymore. This is an occupation. Disguised. Sanitized. Made palatable for public consumption." No one argues. Because we've all seen the playbook before. Different cities. Different wars. Same lies. And I'm not letting it happen here. Not in our city. Not while I can still hack into their feeds, expose their networks, and pull the rug out from under them. I press another key, and more redlines appear across the map—zones marked "unstable." Civilian populations are being quietly restructured. Entire neighborhoods are monitored, conditioned, and subdued. The next phase is coming. And if we're not ready—if we blink or hesitate—they won't just take the city. They'll erase anyone who ever dared to stand against them.
[Spartan POV]
[Training Area.] The clang of steel echoes through the reinforced chamber as I slam onto the floor, shoulder rolling into a low crouch before springing back to my feet. My breath is steady and controlled, but my muscles are burning in that familiar way that tells me I'm pushing myself into the red. Good. That's where I want to be. That's where I thrive. The training area isn't just some state-of-the-art facility—it's a crucible built to break limitations. And today, I need it to. I need to fight something real, even if it's just hard-light projections and synthetic drones trying to tear me apart. The simulated terrain morphs around me—walls sliding into place, ground shifting beneath my boots to mimic unstable rubble. A warzone conjured out of nothing but code and hard light. I nod toward the central console mounted on the wall, "Level twelve. Live simulation. Override safety buffers." EPYON's voice responds calmly, "Acknowledged. Safety override disengaged. Commencing live simulation." The room explodes into chaos. Enemy projections burst into existence all around me—PMCs in black armor, identical to the ones we've seen patrolling Queens, helmet visors glowing faint red, rifles raised. There's no warning. No countdown. No friendly heads-up. Just sudden violence. I move on instinct, launching myself to the side as rounds hammer the space I stood in a second ago. Bullets tear through the simulation's concrete slab, and I feel the force of the impact ripple through the ground as fragments rain down.
I draw my stun pistol in a smooth, practiced motion, the safety already flicked off. The first merc catches a shot clean between the eyes, his helmet short-circuiting in a spark of electric discharge before the projection fizzles away. I don't pause. I don't need to. My body's already in motion, closing the distance between me and the next one. He raises his rifle, but I'm too close. I duck under the barrel, grab it with one hand, and slam my knee into his gut hard enough to dent his torso plate. The rifle slips free, and I spin it around, buttstock cracking across his head before I plant a boot into his chest and launch him backward into a wall. Three more flood the hallway behind me, fast and coordinated. I drop the rifle—it's not mine, not tuned to my hand—and go with my blades instead. My right gauntlet ejects the combat knife with a satisfying click, and I lunge forward. The nearest one raises a tactical shield, but I'm already sliding low. I sweep his legs out, twist mid-move, and drive the blade up through his thigh seam as he falls. He lets out a robotic grunt before vanishing like a dying flame. The others open fire. I roll behind a half-wall, then throw a flash charge from my belt—non-lethal, pure blinding heat. It detonates midair with a pop, bathing the area in white light. I'm already moving before their vision returns.
I leap over the debris, driving the edge of my forearm into one's throat and pivoting to twist his body into the other's line of fire. Their bullets hit their own man, buying me just enough time to crush the last one with a quick jab to the temple and a palm strike to the neck. All three fade. The hallway resets, warping into an open warehouse now—stacked crates, scaffolding, catwalks overhead. My visor HUD flickers as EPYON feeds me real-time enemy placements, "Multiple heat signatures inbound. Reinforcements deploying. Warning: new unit designated 'FENRIS PROTOCOL' detected." That name again. I grit my teeth, "Bring it." Something crashes through the far wall like a wrecking ball—twelve feet of mechanized brute force clad in matte-black armor, glowing orange eyes peering out of a skull-shaped visor. This thing isn't a projection. It's real. A training drone built to replicate the new Fenris units. Stark tech fused with military brutality. It roars, not for intimidation, but because it's keyed to overload its internal systems and flood the air with disruptive audio frequencies. My ears ring.
I rush in before it can lock on. Its arm-mounted cannon tracks my position, spooling with a rising hum. I zigzag across the floor, sliding under a catwalk and up onto a crate in a single bound. It fires—too late. The crate explodes behind me, shrapnel spraying across the sim, but I'm already above it. I drop down, slam my elbow into the back of its helmet, and drive my knife between the rear plates. Sparks fly. It doesn't go down. The beast bucks hard, throwing me off its back. I hit the ground with a roll and come up swinging—but it's faster than it looks. Its arm swings out, connecting with my chest and sending me skidding across the floor. My suit absorbs most of the impact, but the breath still punches out of me. I drag myself up, spit blood onto the mat, and laugh under my breath, "Alright. Round two." I toss a sticky EMP charge onto the ground and bait it forward. It charges blindly, and when it hits the trigger zone, I activate it. The blast shorts its sensors for just a moment—but that's all I need. I close the distance in a blur, drive my knee into its torso, then leap up and wedge my blade into the exposed gap in its collar. I pull hard.
The machine stumbles, sparks cascading out of the wound before it topples forward and slams into the floor with a deafening clang. "FENRIS PROTOCOL disabled," EPYON confirms, "Time elapsed: 4 minutes, 38 seconds." My breathing is heavy, my heart hammering in my chest like a war drum. I pull the helmet off my head, sweat dripping down the side of my face. The sim ends, the battlefield dissolving into empty space. Just me, the silence, and the ghosts of what I just fought. I don't move for a long moment. Because even now, with the training done, I know this isn't about reflexes or reaction times anymore. This was preparation. A test run for something we're going to face in the field—real soon. And next time, it won't be projections or Stark-built drones. It'll be the real deal. The real Fenris. The ones out there in our streets. And they won't be pulling punches. Neither will I.
[Drake POV]
[New York City]
[Rooftop.] I watch from my vantage point as the anti-crime unit moves in on their latest target. A masked hero called Nighthawk. He's perched on the edge of an old cathedral tower like he's posing for a postcard—broad shoulders, jet-black armor, silver trim on the wings of his cowl, and that same arrogant stiffness all these street-level vigilantes have. The type that believes a few busted ribs and lofty speeches in back alleys actually change anything. The type that thinks the city wants to be saved. It's pathetic. A self-righteous martyr waiting to happen. And tonight, he gets his wish. The unit moving in on him isn't subtle. They think they are, but they're not. I can see their formation from a mile away—two from the north stairwell, two on the rooftop across from him, and one idiot trying to circle around through the alley below like it's a video game level. I've seen tighter ambushes pulled off by drunk cartel muscle in Guatemala. Still, it doesn't matter. He's already dead. He just hasn't realized it yet. If I'm being honest, these guys are working too slowly for my liking. I don't like slow. I like fast and hard. Efficiency. Brutality. No hesitation, no cleanup, just a body in the dirt and a lesson left behind. But these PMC clowns? They move like they're in a damn training manual—sweep, clear, hold position, wait for confirmation. It's tedious. It's controlled. It's boring. And boring doesn't interest me. I never understood Zemo's obsession with control or the idea of making the world kneel under some carefully engineered vision of order. That kind of ambition bores me to tears. Global conquest, political theater, reshaping civilization from the top down—blah, blah, blah. It's been done. A million times by men, twice as ruthless and half as interesting. What I care about is the rush. The chaos. The snap of bone under my boot and the silence that follows when everyone realizes the rules don't mean a damn thing. That's the real thrill.
I light a cigarette, leaning against the rusted edge of the HVAC system, and take a drag as the wind kicks up around me. This high up, the air's cold and sharp, like a blade dragged across skin. I like it. Reminds me I'm still breathing. Reminds me there's still blood in the veins I haven't spilled yet. The city sprawls beneath me like a dying animal—lights flickering, sirens howling in the distance, smoke curling from some warehouse blaze six blocks south. But up here? It's quiet. Still. The kind of calm that creeps in before something gets torn apart. I don't care about Nighthawk. I don't care about who he saved or what he's investigating. But I do care about what happens when people like him go down. The ripples. The message it sends. The order it establishes. See, people like him stand for hope—and I fucking hate hope. Hope gets in the way. Makes people believe they're more than meat and impulse. Makes them fight harder. Hope builds resistance. And resistance gets loud. But fear? Fear stays quiet. Fear doesn't raise its hand or scream into the void. Fear learns its place. And this unit? They're teaching fear tonight. They don't even realize it, but they're doing my job for me. Nighthawk's death won't just clean up a nuisance—it'll send a signal. A cold, surgical reminder that not even the capes are safe. That anyone can be made to vanish. Even the so-called heroes. Especially them.
He moves suddenly—and tilts his head like he hears something. Too late. The squad on the rooftop makes their move. One drops a net gun, and the other fires a tranquilizer round. It misses and clips the stone wall behind him, but it doesn't matter. The net hits his legs as he tries to leap, dragging him hard into the railing. I hear the crack of a bone from here. Probably dislocated his knee. He struggles and throws a batarang knockoff at one of the soldiers, but they swarm him before he can reach for another. He goes down fast—hard. His face smashed into concrete, arms pinned behind his back. And I just watch. Not because I'm impressed. But because I enjoy it. I enjoy the helplessness in his body as they bind him. The fury turns to panic when he realizes no one's coming to help. That he's alone. I flick the cigarette off the rooftop and grin as it spirals down into the valley below. They're going to blacksite him. Maybe interrogate him, maybe just erase him. Doesn't matter. He'll scream. They all do. And in a week, someone else will be dumb enough to put on a mask and take his place. And I'll be right here, watching. Waiting. Because this city doesn't need saving. It needs pruning.
The moment the net tightens around Nighthawk's limbs and the last of his resistance drains from his battered frame, my phone buzzes. Not the burner. Not the throwaway. The secure one—the line reserved for the man who signs the checks and stirs the pot behind every power play in this city. I don't need to look at the screen. I already know who it is. I slide a finger across the cracked glass, press it to my ear, and let the silence stretch. Zemo never opens with pleasantries. Never waste time. He just speaks, like his words are already in motion long before they reach me. "Drake," his voice is smooth and calculated, but there's an edge beneath it today. A serrated blade hidden under the velvet, "One of our assets has forgotten his role," he says. Calm, like he's reading a grocery list. "A Russian intermediary. Oleg Mirov. He was paid, protected, given a place at the table—and now he's refusing distribution orders, keeping shipments meant for SableGuard and laundering money through his own channels." I exhale, processing the name. Mirov. I've heard of him. Low-tier bratva trash dressed up in designer suits and cheap ego. The kind of man who thinks a gold chain and a couple bodyguards makes him untouchable. He's wrong. He just made himself a target. Zemo continues, voice steady, "He believes his position gives him leverage. That the storm we're cultivating won't touch him if he builds his own ark." There's a pause. Not hesitation—calculation. "Remind him that we are the storm."
A faint smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. That's the part I like. Not the babysitting, not the chessboard maneuvering. But the violence. The punctuation at the end of a sentence Zemo's too refined to write himself. "Make it loud," Zemo adds, finally, "No subtlety. No quiet kill in a back alley. I want a message. Screaming headlines. Blood on the walls. His crew demoralized. His legacy erased. Let the others know what happens when you forget who holds the leash." The line goes dead. No goodbye. No confirmation. Just silence. That's how Zemo operates. No loose ends. Just expectation. I slide the phone back into my pocket, the heat in my blood already rising. Guess I'm going to pay our Russian friend a visit. Make some noise. Maybe turn his steel safehouse into a bonfire with his crew still banging on the inside. I stretch my neck, roll my shoulders, and start walking toward the edge of the rooftop. The night's not over. Not by a long shot. If Zemo wants a message? Then I'll give him a message. Loud. Bloody. Unforgettable.
[Night Club, New York City]
Finding Oleg Mirov was ridiculously easy. The man stored himself away in one of his nightclubs. Not a safe house. Not some high-rise penthouse behind biometric locks and panic rooms. No. A fucking nightclub. Flashing lights, overpriced vodka, and synth-heavy bass lines thumping loud enough to crack ribs. It's arrogance. That bloated kind of self-assuredness you only find in men who think money makes them immortal. He didn't even bother closing the place for the night. VIP booths glowing gold, girls in glitter eyeliner wrapped around necks like accessories, and half his crew lounging in the upper mezzanine like they own the goddamn block. I step out of the alley and approach the main entrance, my jacket zipped up, hood drawn low. Security clock me immediately—two guys in tight shirts with earpieces and bulges under their arms. One steps forward to block the rope line, giving me the usual do-you-know-who-owns-this-place routine. I don't say a word. I just flick my wrist, driving a small carbon blade into his gut. Fast. Silent. The kind of move you only notice when you're already bleeding. His partner reaches for his radio, but I catch him with a left hook to the throat before he can finish a syllable. He crumples sideways, eyes wide, gasping like a fish on dry land. I drag both their bodies behind the trash bins and slip through the front door like a ghost. The inside hit me like a riot—strobe lights cutting the room into fragments, smoke machines pumping out the artificial fog, people screaming with laughter over the music. It smells like sweat and overpriced perfume, cheap cologne, vodka breath, and money. Always money. I move through the crowd, brushing past drunk dancers and swaggering bodyguards who have no clue they're minutes away from death. My eyes sweep the place, and there he is—Oleg Mirov, laughing in a booth surrounded by yes-men and silicone. He's wearing a crimson jacket that probably cost more than the car I blew up last week, gold chains bouncing against his chest as he downs a shot of something expensive. He doesn't see me yet. Doesn't feel the noose tightening around his throat.
I head toward the back hallway, past the bathrooms, and into the staff corridor marked Authorized Only. I kill the lights with a quick swipe of my gauntlet and drop a motion mine behind me on the wall. Insurance. In case someone gets smart and follows. I take the stairs two at a time and hit the upper deck where the private security team is stationed. Five of them, all armed, all bored. One's watching the dance floor through a digital scope, the others scrolling on their phones or talking shit in Russian. I throw a shock blade. It arcs in the air like a silver whisper and lodges into the neck of the man nearest the door. His scream is swallowed by the music. Before the others can react, I'm already on them. A blade in each hand, I pivot and cut through the second man's thigh and finish him with a stab under the chin. The third gets a roundhouse kick to the chest that sends him sprawling across a table. I hurl one of my blades into his eye socket. He twitches and stops moving. The last two manage to draw their weapons, but they're slow. I dive behind an overturned couch as gunfire erupts, bullets chewing into the furniture. I pull a frag charge from my belt, prime it for low yield, and toss it overhead. It bounces once, twice—then explodes with a deafening BOOM, shredding the corridor and hurling both men against the wall. I come out of cover fast, putting a clean bullet through the forehead of one who's still twitching. The silence that follows is sharp. I take a breath, pull the fire alarm just for good measure, and watch the crowd below scatter in a wave of confusion.
Mirov stands up, trying to peer through the chaos. His smile's gone. He knows something's off. I jump from the upper deck, land hard on a table, and crush a bottle of champagne under my boot. He sees me as I rise—really sees me. I see the fear bloom in his eyes like a blossom of blood. He shoves a girl aside and reaches for a gun in his waistband. I shoot him in the shoulder before he finishes the motion. His arm jerks back, body twisting as he crashes through the booth behind him. His security detail scrambles, four men drawing weapons, but they're panicking. One opens fire, but I use a dancing drunkard as a shield and shoot him through the eye a second later. The others try to scatter into the crowd. I don't let them. I pull the flash charge from my belt and hurl it into the air. It detonates above the dance floor, bathing the room in blinding white. Screams echo. People hit the floor. Bodies writhe in confusion. I move like a ghost through the chaos, silenced pistol barking as I put down two more guards. One takes a round in the throat and gurgles his last breath against a shattered DJ booth. The other gets two in the chest and drops near the bar, twitching on the tile.
Mirov is crawling, blood smearing behind him. He makes it to the side door and stumbles out into the alley, gasping, wheezing, and half-limping as he grips his ruined arm. I follow at a walking pace. No rush. He's not getting away. He reaches a car and punches in a code on the door panel. I shoot the console before it can unlock, and sparks spray across his face. He whirls, raising the gun with his good hand. I shoot him again, this time in the leg. He crumples, howling. I step over his body, crouch, and grab him by the jaw, "You were given a seat at the table. And you shat on it." His eyes are wide. I slam his head against the concrete wall once—twice—then throw him into the hood of his own car. I drag him to the center of the alley and open his jacket. Body armor. Not anymore. I rip it off and tape two incendiary charges to his bare chest. He starts screaming, begging. Pleading in Russian. I press my finger to his lips. "No subtlety," I whisper, "Zemo's orders." Then I Parkour to the roof. The fireball hits six seconds later. The explosion rips through the alley, painting the walls in orange flame. The club behind me roars with panic. Sirens wail in the distance. Good. Let them come. Let the whole damn city hear. This wasn't just a hit. It was a message. And I made it loud enough for even the dead to hear.
[Skeith POV]
[Alchemax, New York City]
I stride into the gala venue, swaying my hip. All eyes are on me. Men and women alike. Not to gloat, but I know I'm extremely attractive. Hell, even the slight scar across my nose gives me a bit of flare—something exotic, dangerous, like the promise of violence beneath silk. That's what gets them. The tension. The edge. The idea that I might kiss them or kill them depending on the rhythm of the next song. The chandeliers glitter above like captured starlight, casting fractured gleams across polished marble and champagne flutes. The elite of New York are gathered here tonight—philanthropists, CEOs, crooked senators dressed like saints, and their arm-candy dates who don't ask questions so long as the diamonds sparkle. It's a snake pit pretending to be a garden. And I'm the wolf in stilettos. I don't need a weapon tonight. I am the weapon. My dress is midnight black, custom-tailored, slit high enough to turn heads but tight enough to conceal the micro-blade under my thigh strap. Not that I'll need it. Not unless Tyler Stone tries something stupid. The Alchemax CEO stands near the rear terrace, flanked by sycophants with plastic smiles and eyes that constantly scan the room for people more important than themselves. I already know his routine. He's predictable. Calculated. Obsessed with optics. Everything from his cufflinks to the cubic centimeter spacing of his tie knot is meant to project dominance. But power doesn't come from posture. It comes from control. And tonight, I'm the one holding the leash. I walk past a server carrying a tray of drinks and pluck a glass without breaking stride. Dry champagne. Tart. Overpriced. Tasteless. Like everything about this world. I cross the floor slowly, letting him see me coming. Tyler's eyes lock onto mine before I've even reached the base of the staircase leading to the mezzanine. I see the flicker of recognition behind his smug grin. Not because we've met—we haven't. But because he knows the kind of woman I am. He just doesn't know whose leash I'm on. That's the fun part.
When I reach the top, I pause, take a sip, then tilt my head at him. "Mr. Stone," I say, voice like cool honey laced with cyanide, "You're harder to reach than the Pentagon." He chuckles and offers his hand like he's granting me the honor of touching royalty. I ignore it, step closer instead, and lean in just enough to whisper near his ear, "But far less protected." That gets his attention. His fingers twitch. His smile stiffens. A vein in his neck pulses once. I'm not here to play the game. I'm here to rewrite the rules. "Do I know you?" he asks, straightening his jacket. His tone's casual, but there's an undercurrent now—uncertainty. Good. I step around him and place my drink on the rail, then lean against it, back to the city skyline, looking him dead in the eye. "No," I say, "But you're about to." I pull a black envelope from my clutch and slide it across the polished surface toward him. He hesitates. "What's this?" he asks, not touching it yet. "A proposal," I reply, "From someone who thinks your current investments lack ambition." Tyler's hand hovers over the envelope like he's afraid it might bite him. In a way, it already has. Zemo's seal is etched in wax across the flap—an ouroboros coiled around a shattered crown. A warning, a promise, and a signature. When he finally opens it, I watch his pupils dilate as he reads. Line by line. Carefully. Slowly. Because the terms inside are written in a language only men like him understand: dominion. Resource control. Defense contracts. Off-grid tech networks and private data silos are guarded by mercenaries who don't report to any flag. It's a business deal with the blood scrubbed clean, and the zeroes dialed all the way up. But the subtext? That's where the real power lives. This isn't a partnership. It's a test.
"I'm already engaged with multiple global interests," he says, trying to sound unimpressed, "This… seems disruptive." I smile, slow and sharp, "That's the point, Tyler. Disruption is evolution. You of all people should know that. But don't worry—this isn't a demand. It's an opportunity." I step forward again, just close enough for him to smell my perfume—sweet and smoky, like ash on a rose. "Zemo doesn't beg. He offers. Once," I brush an invisible speck off his lapel and meet his eyes, "You refuse this, you won't hear from us again. But you'll notice. Slowly. You'll lose shipping lanes. You'll lose data streams. Patents will vanish. Stocks will plummet. Employees will disappear. Until all that remains is the question: what if I had said yes?" He stares at me for a long second. Longer. I see the war behind his eyes—the arrogance squaring off with survival instinct. And like every man in his position, he's smart enough to know when he's not the apex predator in the room. Finally, he folds the letter closed and nods once, "Tell your employer I'll consider." I lean in and kiss his cheek, slow and deliberate, "You do that, darling. Just remember—considering too long is also a choice." I walk away, never looking back. Because I already know what he'll do. He'll say yes. They always do. Not out of fear, not exactly. But because deep down, men like Tyler Stone can't resist being part of something bigger than themselves. Zemo doesn't need his loyalty. Just his signature. And if he chooses wrong? Then I'll come back. And next time, I won't wear heels.
[CERBERUS HQ, New York City]
Returning back to HQ, I inform Zemo that I delivered his proposal as instructed. He nods. Just a single, curt dip of the chin as he processes the information, filing it away in that war-machine mind of his. The room is dimly lit, all brushed steel and cold LED strips, humming like a beast in slumber. No paintings. No comforts. Just strategy boards, weapon prototypes, and the scent of ozone from the nearby servers. I turn to leave, the heel of my stiletto clicking once on the polished floor, but he grabs me by the back of my neck. Firm. Commanding. His other hand cups my jaw, and he kisses me—no preamble, no warning. Just a sudden, possessive press of lips that steals the breath from my lungs and replaces it with fire. His mouth is like him—calculated, cold, and powerful. There's no softness in it. No affection. But there's heat. Oh yes, there's always heat with Zemo. When he pulls back, his gaze lingers just long enough to feel like a challenge. A test. A dare. I don't blush. I don't play coy. I meet his stare with the same ruthless clarity I'd use to line up a shot through a sniper scope. "Do you have an itch to be scratched, sir?" I ask, my voice low, velvet-lined with razors. There's no seduction in it—just acknowledgment. I know what we are. I'm under no delusion that the man has feelings for me. He doesn't. He can't. The world took those parts of him a long time ago and ground them into ash. But we all have needs. Zemo just dresses his in control, wrapped in precision and ritual. Sex, for him, is a form of dominance. Not intimacy. But I don't mind. In fact, I understand it. It's the same reason I slide my knives into arteries instead of chests. Efficiency. Precision. Message.
He studies me now as if he's dissecting my question for subtext. There is none. I don't flirt. I don't tease. I offer. Direct. Clean. Practical. His hand stays on the back of my neck a moment longer, thumb brushing the edge of my scar. I feel the hum in the room change—not tension exactly, but anticipation. Calculated indulgence. Finally, he speaks—voice calm, measured, as always. "Later," he says, turning from me to review the live feed from the nightclub explosion. Mirov's charred body lies like a statement written in flame, "We have more pressing matters." I nod once and adjust the strap of my thigh holster. I'm not disappointed. I'm not even surprised. Zemo's priorities never shift. That's why men follow him—not because they love him, but because they fear how little he needs love to command loyalty. I step beside him, watching the footage replay from different angles. The blaze. The chaos. The faces frozen in terror. It's art, in a way. And Zemo watches it like a composer listening to his own symphony.
[Wanda Maximoff POV]
[New York City]
I take Ahab, my wolf dog, out for a walk, needing the chill of the evening air more than I care to admit. The city around me buzzes with its usual chaotic rhythm—sirens in the distance, headlights cutting through the low-hanging dusk, and the occasional clatter of a street vendor packing up for the night. But none of it touches me. Not really. It feels like I'm wrapped in gauze, like the world moves just slightly slower than I do, or maybe it's me who's moving slower, dragged down by thoughts too heavy to name. Ahab stays close to my side, his massive paws padding soundlessly against the concrete, his silver-white coat catching the streetlamps in soft, ghostly glints. He walks like a sentinel—head high, tail calm, always scanning, always ready. I didn't train him to be like that. He just is. Protective. Loyal. A creature of instinct and intuition, and some days, I think he understands me better than any human ever could. The leash hangs loosely in my fingers, more of a formality than anything. He doesn't need it. He listens to my voice, to my pulse, to the subtle shifts in my energy. I glance down at him, and he glances up at me, ears flicking slightly like he's waiting for a command. I offer a small smile, and he returns his gaze to the sidewalk ahead, satisfied that I'm fine. Or at least pretending well enough. The air is brisk, not quite cold, but enough to make me tug my coat a little tighter around my shoulders. Autumn's nearly done with us, and winter's waiting just out of sight, sharpening its knives. I breathe in deeply. The scent of the city is a strange cocktail—wet stone, food trucks, oil, and the occasional hint of burnt sugar from the bakery on the 6th, still running late shifts. I used to find it overwhelming when I first came to New York. Now, it just feels familiar. Like the scent of a worn book cover or the way old perfume clings to a scarf.
Suddenly, Ahab's ears straighten, catching something in the distance. A low growl curls from his throat before I hear anything. My hand tightens around the leash—reflex, not control. He doesn't bolt. He never does. But his body tenses like a coiled spring, muscles rippling under his coat. I feel it, too. That subtle shift in the air, like something is off-kilter. Wrong. I follow the line of his focus up the block, past shuttered storefronts and glowing neon signs, and then I hear it—raised voices, the unmistakable edge of fear in the noise. People shouting. Not panicked, but angry. Righteous. My pace quickens, Ahab moving in stride beside me, no longer glancing up for cues. He already knows. We reach the intersection just as the crowd starts to thicken—cell phones raised, people shouting "Back up!" and "That's enough!" over each other. I weave through the bodies, and then I see it. Two anti-crime officers—black armored suits, faceless visors, red tactical lights blinking at their shoulders—stand over a man on the ground. He's curled into a fetal position, arms shielding his head, blood dripping from his brow onto the pavement. The batons the officers carry hum faintly with that sickening charge—stun-augmented. One of them raises his arm again like the man said something that challenged his authority, not that I heard a word from the victim. Just whimpers. Pleas. The crowd surges forward, but no one gets too close. They know the rules. Know what happens when civilians "interfere." But that doesn't stop the yelling. "He didn't resist!" "You already got him down!" "This isn't justice!" The words batter the air, but they don't change anything. The officers don't flinch. They're not interested in de-escalation. Only the show of force.
Ahab lets out a snarl, and I step forward, threading through the ring of onlookers. The moment my boots hit the open stretch of sidewalk between the crowd and the two officers, I feel the tension shift. One of them turns slightly toward me, his visor reflecting my face back in a distorted smear. The baton lowers half an inch, hesitation in the movement. Not because I'm a threat. Not yet. But because something about me registers in whatever HUD they're using. My signature's flagged somewhere. Not as Wanda Maximoff. Not as an Avenger. But as an anomaly. A problem. "Enough," I say, voice level, even. Calm, but hard. The kind of calm that sits right at the edge of something dangerous. I don't need to raise it. I don't need to glow red. The energy coiled in my chest is already there, simmering just beneath the surface, rippling outward in waves they can't quite quantify but definitely feel. The officer closest to me adjusts his stance, "Move along, ma'am. This is a sanctioned enforcement action." I raise an eyebrow, keeping my gaze locked on him, "That a fact?" I look down at the man on the ground. His lip is split, one eye swollen shut and his breath rattles like he might cough up a piece of lung next. He's barely conscious. Unarmed. No weapons in sight. No aggression. Just pain. "Looks more like a beating," I say.
The other officer steps forward now, "This area's been flagged for subversive activity. Subject resisted arrest." It's a textbook. Empty. Words meant to cover brutality with procedures. I feel my fingers twitch just slightly, the air around my hands flickering with the barest distortion. Ahab snarls again, stepping ahead of me, posture low. Warning. He can tell I'm at the edge of restraint, and he's right. I glance once more at the crowd. People still filming. Still shouting. But no one helping. Because they can't. Not without risking the same fate. And I realize that's the point. That's the power these units operate on. Fear. The message isn't for the man on the ground. It's for everyone watching. Not tonight. I step closer, slowly, until I'm just a few feet away. The air around me hums now, the static of suppressed magic building like a thunderstorm behind a glass wall. I don't lash out. Not yet. But I make it clear with every breath, every pulse, that I could. That I would. "Let him go," I say again, quieter now. But heavier. More final. And this time, they hesitate. Because somewhere, deep inside whatever mechanical programming or PMC conditioning they were given, they know exactly who I am. Maybe not by name. But by presence. And they know what I can do when I stop pretending to play nice.
The standoff lingers for a breath too long. One of them shifts—just slightly—and that's all it takes for the tension to reach a fever pitch. Ahab bares his teeth, growling low and deep, a primal sound that slices through the static hum of unease hanging in the air. The officer facing me clenches his baton a little tighter like he's still weighing the odds, still calculating if asserting control is worth the cost. I see it in the way his stance narrows, how his visor tilts with a fractional twitch—he's reading data, scanning threat profiles, looking for a reason not to escalate. But I give him none. I offer no movement, no violence, no cue to justify what he's itching to do. Just the weight of my gaze and the simmering pressure of a storm held in check by the thinnest of veils. The other one finally steps back. Just one step. But it's enough. Enough for the crowd to breathe again. Enough for me to know the message landed. The one in charge growls through his voice modulator, low and reluctant, "Subject is cleared for medical detainment. Stand down." It's a lie. A bureaucratic retreat masked in procedures. But I don't care. The baton deactivates with a soft hum, and they move away from the man on the ground—slow, mechanical, like puppets whose strings have been jerked. Ahab stays close to my side as I kneel beside the injured man. His breath is ragged, pain etched deep into the lines of his face. I press my palm gently to his shoulder, and he flinches. "It's alright," I whisper, letting a flicker of warmth roll through my fingertips. Just enough to soothe. To steady. I don't heal him. Not fully. That would raise too many questions and draw too much attention. But I take the edge off the pain. Let him breathe without wincing. His eyes flutter open, confusion and gratitude bleeding together. He tries to speak, but I shake my head. "Save your strength."
Behind me, the two officers fade back into the crowd, their presence still a threat even as their backs retreat. They won't forget this. They'll file a report. Tag it with my face. Maybe not my name, but the system will remember the anomaly that made them hesitate. Good. Let it. Let them wonder why their tech pinged a red flag they didn't understand. Let them whisper about the woman who walked into a sanctioned enforcement zone and walked out without bleeding. Fear can be a weapon, too. A siren wails in the distance—ambulance this time, not police. The crowd begins to part as EMTs push through, drawn by someone's call. Maybe one of the bystanders found their courage. Maybe the system just couldn't ignore the noise. I rise, stepping back, letting them take over. The man on the ground will live. Maybe limp. Maybe wake up screaming. But he'll live. And more importantly, he'll remember that someone stood between him and a pair of armored fists. I don't wait for thanks. I just turn and walk away, Ahab falling into step beside me as if nothing happened. But everything did. I feel it. The shift. The undercurrent. Tonight wasn't just another walk. It was a line drawn. A declaration. This city's changing. I can feel it in my bones. In the concrete. In the blood humming just beneath my skin. The people aren't asleep anymore. They're afraid, yes—but fear wakes you up. And when they open their eyes, they'll look for something. Someone. Not a savior. Not a god. Just someone willing to stand where no one else will.