Last Night
Sasuke stared out the window, legs crossed in a meditation position. The school had gone quiet, with only the occasional creak of floorboards from temperature changes. His heightened senses picked up sounds from the distant wing—muffled moans and heavy breathing from Rogue's room. Naruto was there, with her. For Sasuke, it was just another sleepless night. The third this week. He rubbed his eyes—his eyelids felt like sandpaper against his corneas. Exhaustion weighed on his shoulders, but sleep wouldn't come.
Since learning about the destruction of his world, he had barely slept. Training didn't help—his body moved mechanically, without its former vibrancy and power. Food had lost its taste. Even his chakra felt different—as if it belonged to someone else.
Sasuke stood, stretching his stiff neck. Lately, he often caught himself skipping meals, forgetting about training. Everything that had once constituted his life—gaining power, reviving his clan, the ninja way—now seemed meaningless. The world of shinobi was gone. The path of vengeance made no sense. Nothing remained to strive for.
Taking black jeans and a turtleneck from his closet, he dressed mechanically. The fur-lined jacket—his most recent purchase in this world—settled on his shoulders with an unfamiliar weight. Sasuke activated his Rinnegan, opening a portal. November cold struck his face.
The port greeted him with the smell of salt and metal. Abandoned warehouses stretched along the shoreline—a jumble of rusted containers and half-collapsed structures. His footsteps left no traces on the concrete.
Once, he had trained in places like this with Orochimaru. The Sannin had taught him to use urban environments in combat—every pipe, every ledge, every shadow. Now these skills seemed unnecessary. In a world where people feared any power beyond their understanding, the ninja way had become an anachronism.
Sasuke listened to the port. The rumble of cranes. The screech of metal. The splash of waves against concrete. He isolated and analyzed each sound—an old shinobi habit ingrained in his subconscious. His body automatically noted escape routes, calculated attack trajectories, though his mind understood the pointlessness of these reflexes.
His thoughts returned to Itachi's words. His brother had spoken about the importance of choosing one's own path. But how could he choose a path when all roads led nowhere? In this world, full of fear and hatred toward those who were different, there was no place for him.
Suddenly, his hearing caught the sound of gunshots. His body reacted before his mind—chakra flowed through his channels, the Sharingan activated automatically. For the first time in many weeks, something pierced through the veil of apathy. Perhaps it was a sign. Or just a coincidence. But he didn't have much choice—either continue to rot alive or take action.
Sasuke moved toward the sound of battle. His movements were precise and economical—not a single wasted step. Climbing onto a container, he witnessed a strange scene: a man in a trench coat holding a heavy machine gun and a massive black entity facing off against a group of armed men. In the containers—dozens of shackled and frightened prisoners. The picture became clear—human traffickers.
His Sharingan detected an unusual energy structure in the black creature. There was a person inside, but his aura differed from anything Sasuke had seen before. Not chakra, not mutation—something else, alive and intelligent.
The fight ended quickly. The creature disarmed the remaining opponents, tearing off a couple of limbs from the particularly stubborn ones. The man in the coat approached it:
"Hey, slimeball, don't kill them. Questions first, then you can eat them."
"Call me slimeball one more time, Punisher, and you'll be sewage sludge, got it?"
"Yeah, whatever."
Suddenly the creature froze. Its head jerked as if sniffing, milk-white eyes narrowing, focusing on the containers. A long tongue slowly extended from its mouth, tasting the air like a snake. The creature tilted its head to the side, muscles tensing in its massive neck, the black substance of its body flowing faster, as if preparing to attack.
"Interesting, what little mouse is watching us?" it growled in a low, vibrating voice. With one powerful push off the ground, the creature soared into the air. Its body curved in the jump with inhuman flexibility, landing on the container. Sharp claws left deep grooves in the metal, but there was no one there anymore.
The man below frowned, instinctively gripping his machine gun tighter.
"What the hell are you doing?" he shouted, carefully scanning the surroundings.
"Strange, we sense someone was there." The creature jumped back down, landing on all fours. Its mouth opened wider, revealing rows of sharp teeth, between which its tongue still dangled.
"What do you mean you 'sense'?" The one called Punisher furrowed his brow, his scarred face contorting in irritation. The white skull on his body armor gleamed dully in the light of distant lanterns, and his heavy coat fluttered in the wind, revealing the outlines of additional weapons on his belt.
"I mean exactly that!" The creature bared its teeth, losing patience. "What, are you completely stupid? We have a guest here."
The Punisher had already opened his mouth for a sharp retort, his hand instinctively reaching for his holster, but their squabble was interrupted by a calm voice from behind:
"Who are you?"
They spun around sharply—the creature in one fluid motion, the Punisher with a jerk, raising his weapon.
They stared at the figure before them—a young man in a black fur-lined jacket stood with his hands casually tucked into his jeans pockets. The wind tousled his dark hair, revealing a pale face with sharp features. But what really captured attention were his eyes: the left one blazing crimson, the right one glowing cold purple.
"Oh, it's just some kid," growled the creature, its massive body leaning forward. The Punisher slowly raised his machine gun, his fingers whitening from the tension on the grip.
"Regular kids don't have eyes that glow red and purple," he said through clenched teeth, squinting. The scars on his face twisted as he curved his lips in a tense smile. "And they don't usually appear out of nowhere in the middle of abandoned docks."
The creature leaned forward. Its long tongue darted from its mouth, and sharp claws scraped against the concrete.
"Come here, boy." Drops of thick saliva fell from its fangs.
"Venom, damn it! Stop!" barked the Punisher, but it was too late. The creature called Venom lunged forward, its body stretching like a black lightning bolt in the night air.
The air flashed purple, and in the next second a burning Susanoo skeleton appeared. The spectral hand caught Venom mid-flight—the symbiote tried in vain to break free from the iron grip.
The Punisher reacted instantly—the machine gun came alive, sending a barrage of lead at the target. Bullets capable of piercing armor disappeared in the invisible flame. Susanoo's second hand grabbed the Punisher along with his weapon. He continued firing until the magazine was empty, and the echo of gunshots reverberated off the container walls.
Screams of terror came from the open doors of the trucks. The prisoners, already frightened by Venom, now tried to press deeper into the darkness of the containers in panic at the sight of the giant glowing skeleton. Their cries mingled with the symbiote's curses as its body continued to writhe uselessly in Susanoo's grip.
Sasuke unhurriedly closed the skeleton's hands, bringing them closer to his face. In the darkness, his multicolored eyes glowed with a cold gleam.
"I'll repeat." Sasuke stood relaxed, hands in his pockets, while the purple-glowing Susanoo towered above him. Ghost fingers squeezed the writhing Venom—its black mass flowing uselessly through the grip. Nearby, the Punisher was gasping for breath, his face flushed with blood from the pressure. "Who are you both?"
"Go to hell," croaked the Punisher, spitting blood from his split lip.
The next moment his pupils dilated as they met Sasuke's burning crimson eye.
A stream of memories flooded the Uchiha's consciousness: marine corps, a happy family in the park, gunshots, blood on the children's swings, an endless war against crime. Frank Castle died that day along with his family, leaving only the Punisher—an unstoppable machine of vengeance. The last memory flashed brighter than the others—a gray-haired cop in a worn jacket, handing over an envelope: "There's a big deal at the docks today. Find out where it leads, and root them out." Standard practice—the police turn a blind eye to his methods as long as the city gets cleansed of scum.
Uchiha blinked, breaking the genjutsu. The Punisher's words about interrogation before killing took on new meaning. He had nothing else to do tonight, and letting off steam was necessary. Susanoo's hands released both, lowering them to the ground. The man and the symbiote stood frozen, stunned, watching as Uchiha calmly walked toward the chained human traffickers.
A new flood of memories overwhelmed his mind—torture, violence, people sold like cattle. Each memory blacker than the previous one. Having obtained information about the location of the next meeting, Sasuke stepped back, his face remaining impassive. Susanoo dissolved into the air.
He cast a glance at Venom and the Punisher before turning his attention to the traffickers. Black flames engulfed their bodies—skin bubbled and melted, exposing the flesh beneath. Their screams, raw and animal-like, echoed between the metal walls of the containers as the fire methodically devoured muscle and bone.
The Punisher stepped back, his scarred face contorted not from the screams—he had heard such before—but from the sight of the black flames that seemed to consume reality itself.
Venom's reaction was much more dramatic—the massive body convulsed, the black substance bubbling like tar. In the symbiote's white eyes, there was primeval fear—the black flames awakened an ancient, instinctive terror in the symbiote.
"No... no-no-no." The creature trembled, and the next moment the black mass rapidly retracted under the skin, leaving a stunned Eddie Brock standing amid the docks. His sweat-covered face turned pale in the eerie flicker of the black flames.
"What the hell? Where did you go?" the Punisher hissed through his teeth, watching the burning bodies. The screams of agony gradually died down.
Venom's massive head materialized from Brock's shoulder, baring sharp fangs inches from his ear.
"Remember when I said negotiation isn't my thing?" growled the symbiote, its tongue writhing in the air. "Well, go and talk to this... whatever it is... yourself. I'm out."
"Seriously? First time I've seen you shit yourself like this." Brock nervously chuckled, wiping sweat from his forehead. The black flame was mesmerizing in its horror.
"Who are you and what do you want? And why didn't you kill us?" The Punisher's voice sounded hoarse. Drops of blood from his split lip fell onto the concrete.
"At the warehouse in Kingston Docks, Russo's group is planning an attack on Fisk's business." Sasuke spoke monotonously, as if reading a weather forecast. Steam escaped from his mouth in the frosty air. "There are twenty-three of them. All armed."
Venom slid out from Brock's shoulder again, restlessly shifting.
"Fisk? That fat bastard?"
"Shut up," the Punisher muttered.
"If you see a flash of black flame—you're too late." Sasuke turned around, his jacket flapping in the air.
"Wait!" There was steel in the Punisher's voice. "How did you know all this?"
Sasuke glanced over his shoulder:
"Their memories... are as black as yours."
"You bastard, you got inside my head?!" Frank growled, his fingers whitening on the machine gun's grip.
But the kid was already gone, leaving only a slight disturbance in the air. The bodies of the traffickers, turned into charred husks, emanated a heavy stench of burnt flesh.
Brock slowly turned his head toward the containers. He reeked of sweat and adrenaline—the symbiote inside still darted around like a cornered animal, causing tremors across his skin. In the metal boxes, amid the stench of urine and excrement, dozens of people huddled in corners. Their eyes, wide with horror, glistened wetly in the half-light. With each movement of their saviors, the prisoners flinched, like beaten dogs retreating deeper into their kennels. Chains quietly clinked with their trembling.
"What are we going to do with them?" Brock spat sticky saliva on the concrete.
"Should we eat them?" Venom growled in his mind. The symbiote's voice resembled the wet gurgling of oil rising from the depths. "So much fresh meat and adrenaline..."
"Shut the fuck up," Brock muttered through clenched teeth. A drop of sweat rolled down his temple, leaving a wet trail on his dirty skin.
Frank silently took out his phone—an ancient Nokia button phone with a cracked screen. Fingers covered with fresh scrapes and old calluses mechanically dialed a number.
"Docks," he tersely said into the receiver. "Two containers with live cargo. No, I wasn't there. And I didn't see anything."
He ended the call and shoved the phone back into his coat pocket, stained with other people's blood and motor oil. Castle spat heartily toward the black flames, his saliva mixing with blood from his split lip.
"Hope you suffered, you bastards," he muttered through his teeth, watching as the fire consumed the last remains. Then he turned to Brock, his coat swirling, giving off the smell of gunpowder and blood. "We need to move. I want to hear those bastards squeal."
"And I want to feast on fresh brains," Venom growled in anticipation.
"Roasted brains aren't your style," Brock chuckled.
His body convulsed as the symbiote burst out, enveloping him in a glossy black mass. Muscles bulged, transforming an ordinary man into a two-meter monster.
Venom dropped to all fours. When Castle placed his palms on the sleek black back, the symbiote reacted instantly—the viscous substance crawled up his arms, enveloping his wrists and forearms with a thick layer of living tar. The same happened with his legs—the black mass wrapped around his boots and calves, firmly securing his body on the creature's broad back. Sharp claws dug into the concrete, leaving deep grooves as it soared into the night sky.
The black mass moved unnaturally, bending at impossible angles, lunging in powerful animal leaps toward the Kingston warehouses.
"Fuck, how I hate this shit," Castle muttered through clenched teeth as another jump made his stomach clench. The cold wind lashed at his face, the symbiote's smell—a mixture of rot and raw rubber—inducing nausea.
"Shut your trap or you'll catch flies," the symbiote mockingly growled, its massive head twisting backward, displaying a grin of sharp teeth. Its long tongue darted in the air, spraying drops of viscous saliva.
Uchiha glided across the rooftops like a silent shadow. The cold wind tugged at his jacket as a persistent thought hammered in his mind: "What am I even doing?"
He knew the answer. The past weeks of aimless existence had weighed on him more heavily than the truth about his destroyed world. But tonight had unexpectedly brought back familiar sensations—the adrenaline of a mission, the sharpness of reconnaissance, the clarity during a brief skirmish. Just like old times.
Stopping at the edge of a high-rise, he surveyed the city sprawled below. Energy surged within him, demanding release. Those two—the monster and the avenger—could prove useful. At the very least, they would help pass this endless night.
His acute hearing caught vibrations and muffled curses behind him. Venom was jumping between buildings, leaving dents in the brickwork. His black body gleamed glossily in the moonlight.
"Kid, fuck! Slow down!" growled the symbiote, tossing his massive head in search of Sasuke's silhouette.
Castle cursed through gritted teeth. Each jump compressed his insides, and with each landing that crushed cornices, he only clenched his jaw tighter—Venom had already reminded him of the alternative to walking.
"There he is!" snarled the symbiote. His body tensed at the sight of the shadow on the roof. Milk-white eyes narrowed, his tongue darted out, tasting the air. The black substance churned with hunger and irritation—if that fucking kid with the glowing eyes started setting things on fire again, he'd miss out on fresh brains.
Venom's landing shook the metal structures of the roof. Sasuke, standing at the edge, didn't even turn around. Inside him stirred a forgotten feeling of anticipation for battle. The emptiness that had gnawed at him for weeks retreated before the cold clarity of combat trance.
Below, explosions thundered and automatic fire rattled—Russo's men and Fisk's had begun their slaughter. Perfect. In the general chaos, no one would notice a few more corpses.
"Hey, kid, maybe we could discuss—" Venom began, but Sasuke had already dissolved into the darkness, jumping off the roof.
The first group of fighters didn't even have time to understand what was happening when the Chidori blade passed through their bodies. Heads rolled across the concrete floor, blood sprayed the walls. Uchiha moved like a ghost—fast, precise, with no wasted motion. Each sweep of his sword brought new death.
From outside came the wet crunch and animal growl—Venom had begun his feast.
"Oh yes, so fresh! So juicy!" The voice vibrated with pleasure as sharp teeth tore flesh and crushed bones. The black mass of the symbiote writhed with delight, consuming another victim.
The Punisher methodically advanced along the perimeter, his shotgun speaking briefly and emphatically. He blew off half the skull of the first fighter, tore open the chest of the second, shattered the knee of the third, and finished him with the butt of a rifle taken from one of the corpses. Blood and brains spattered the walls, mixing with gunpowder residue.
Sasuke felt the fire burning inside him. The thirst for battle, restrained for so long, had finally broken free. His hands remembered this work. Strike, turn, thrust—his body moved on its own, following reflexes honed over years.
The emptiness within receded with each life taken. Here, in this dance of death, he felt alive again. This was familiar. This was right.
The last group took shelter in the mezzanine. Uchiha didn't even bother to climb up. The Rinnegan portal opened right in the middle of the crowd, and in an instant, the room became a bloodbath. Screams of terror ended in wet gurgles.
Venom burst inside, his massive body glistening with blood, pieces of flesh hanging between his teeth.
"Damn, what delicious brains!" he growled, licking himself with his long tongue. The Punisher entered behind him, his body armor spattered with someone's remains, a smoking barrel in his hands.
Sasuke bent over the last survivor—the gang leader. His eyes slowly began to rotate, plunging the victim into nightmarish genjutsu while extracting information. Images of torture and death flooded the gangster's mind, turning it inside out until he began begging for mercy, shouting everything he knew.
Club "Inferno." Russo's favorite den.
The information from the boss's mind formed a clear picture of what was happening in the city.
For years, Fisk had built his empire as a well-oiled machine. Even the appearance of Sentinels on the streets couldn't shake his power—on the contrary, he turned them into another instrument of control. Bribes in the right offices provided access to patrol schedules. Corrupt operators "accidentally" disabled sensors in needed areas. A whole network of informants warned about the movements of mechanical hunters. Crime under his control resembled a business—strict rules, clear territories, no chaos on the streets. Drugs weren't sold near schools, prostitution was kept to certain districts, and civilian casualties were unacceptable.
But then Russo appeared. In his eyes, the Sentinels were just another target, like enemy drones in the mountains of Afghanistan. His men used military jammers that disabled the robots' sensors. Special EMP charges, stolen from military warehouses, turned formidable machines into scrap metal. Where technology couldn't win, audacity and military training worked—lightning operations that left the Sentinels no time to react.
In the captive gangster's memory, Sasuke saw how Russo personally conducted operations. First, strikes were carried out on the weak points of Fisk's empire—small dealers, secondary brothels, collection points for protection money. He probed the defense, as taught in the Marine Corps. And then he began to press hard. Where Fisk relied on bribery and subtle manipulations, Russo acted directly—harshly, boldly, military-style.
The VIP rooms of "Inferno" were equipped with the latest shielding systems, making them invisible to Sentinel scanners. Here, compromising material was recorded on everyone—from corrupt cops to high-ranking officials. But Russo didn't just collect information—he used it as a weapon. Strikes were delivered precisely and mercilessly, destroying the connections in high places that Fisk had built over years.
But the real problem was something else—Russo proved too greedy. His aggressive methods attracted more and more attention. Shootouts with Sentinels became more frequent, civilian casualties ceased to be rare. Where Fisk had spent years building a system of checks and balances, the former Marine acted like a tank, charging straight ahead. Crime under his control became increasingly chaotic and bloody.
Sasuke saw a strange irony in this confrontation—the man considered the more cruel crime boss was actually restraining the worst manifestations of the criminal world, while the young upstart, hiding behind talk of a new order, was plunging the city into an abyss of violence.
The fire continued to burn inside him, demanding new victims. He didn't care about this war for power, about Fisk with his intricate schemes, about Russo with his military toys. All these games for control of the city meant absolutely nothing to him. The only thing that mattered was the fire inside, the familiar feeling filling the emptiness in his chest. After so many weeks of aimless existence, he had finally found a way to suppress the gnawing apathy. Violence. Blood. Battle. That's what he needed.
Uchiha opened a portal. Club "Inferno" would be the next point in this bloody symphony—not for the city, not for justice, but simply because there would be new victims for his awakened thirst. And as long as this thirst was quenched, nothing else mattered.
Venom and the Punisher exchanged glances—one with a grin of bloody fangs, the other with a barely perceptible smirk under a layer of dirt and gunpowder residue.
"The kid didn't even bother to invite us," growled Venom, his tongue darting out to lick the remaining blood from his chin. "How rude."
The Punisher racked the slide of his machine gun, scattering smoking casings across the blood-soaked floor. The portal was still open.
"I think that is the invitation."
"Hope this club serves fresh brains," the symbiote grinned. "These were... just an appetizer."
"Shut up and let's go," Frank muttered, stepping first into the glowing space tear. "Don't want to miss all the fun."
Venom gave a guttural chuckle and slid after him. A moment later, the warehouse plunged into darkness, broken only by the gasps of the dying and slowly cooling casings on the concrete floor.
The portal closed in a dark alley that reeked of stale beer and rot. The heavy bass from the club vibrated in the chest, resonating painfully in every cell of the symbiote. Dirty walls glistened in the dim light of a streetlamp, with streams of sewage water snaking between trash bins.
Venom's black mass silently retracted under Brock's skin, leaving only barely perceptible movement.
"Get in there, or we'll miss all the fun." Eddie pulled a case from his inner pocket, unfolding it into a small, fully shielded container. "And stop whining, you bile-ridden pest. I like this even less than you do."
"I'll remember that 'bile-ridden pest' comment," grumbled the symbiote, obediently flowing inside.
The Punisher, watching his partner from the corner of his eye, checked his weapons: pistols under his coat, knife on his thigh, spare magazines on his belt. Making sure everything was in order, he turned to Brock, who was deftly attaching a handle to the container.
"You carry that dishware with you often?" Frank smirked, nodding toward the opaque container where the symbiote had hidden.
"Always," Brock muttered in response. "Venom can't tolerate certain sound ranges, so during flights, he travels in the baggage compartment... I feel naked without him, but what can you do," he added after a brief silence, picking up the container like a briefcase. "Alright, let's move. I have a whole album that works for both of us. I'll put on something appropriate."
Uchiha silently approached the guard. The man only had time to twitch when he met the crimson gaze—his pupils dilated, his body went limp. Within seconds, Sasuke knew everything about the layout of the premises, security systems, and the location of Russo's office.
Club music hit their ears as soon as they entered. Sasuke observed the chaos of dancing bodies.
On the first floor, disguised as ordinary visitors, were twelve armed men. They were given away by the characteristic movements of experienced military personnel and the outlines of weapons under fashionable clothing.
In the utility rooms—eight more, ready to rush out at the first signal.
Second floor: six at the VIP rooms, all former Marines, judging by their bearing.
Third floor: four snipers behind tinted glass, overlooking the entire hall. And in the penthouse, around Russo's office—an elite group of ten men, all in full combat gear. As soon as the boss was threatened, his men would immediately rush to the point of attack, like moths to a flame.
"Forty men," he mentally noted.
"I'm heading to the DJ!" Brock shouted over the music. "Need to prepare for our final performance."
Ignoring him, Sasuke stepped through the crowd toward the stairs to the upper floors. His body automatically dodged dancing people, allowing no one to touch him. The Sharingan noticed all the details—the location of security, surveillance cameras, escape routes.
"Hey, handsome!" A girl appeared before him, her long platinum hair shimmering in the strobe lights. A short black dress accentuated her perfect figure, and mischievous sparks danced in her gray-green eyes. "Want to dance with me?"
Uchiha walked past without even looking her way. The emptiness inside demanded blood, not flirtation. His real dance—the dance of death—awaited him upstairs.
"Jerk!" came after him, but the voice was already drowned out by the music.
The guard at the stairs tried to block his path but froze upon meeting the gaze of the crimson eye. A moment later, he stepped aside with a blank expression.
Climbing the steps, Sasuke felt the music gradually fading. Here, on the upper floors, a different atmosphere reigned—luxury and decadence replaced the neon chaos of the dance floor. The air was filled with the scents of expensive cigars and whiskey.
Behind the closed doors of the VIP rooms, scenes unfolded that should never have seen the light of day. The Sharingan allowed Sasuke to see through walls—there, a wealthy politician inhaling lines of white powder from the naked body of an escort. In the adjacent room, a judge whose name he had seen in the news, kneeling before two men in BDSM costumes. Further on—a famous preacher, waving wads of cash while two twins fulfilled his perverted fantasies.
Hidden cameras everywhere, recording compromising material. Russo knew how to bind the powerful to himself—give them what they were afraid to even dream about, then keep them on the hook. In each room, a dirty secret, a small personal abyss.
Sasuke deactivated his Sharingan. These images evoked not disgust—only cold indifference. The vices of this world were not his concern. The fire inside demanded something else—blood.
Brock passed through the crowd to the DJ booth, receiving shoves from dancers along the way. The symbiote in the container shifted restlessly, feeling the vibrations of the maxed-out music even through the shielded walls.
A young guy with bright green hair and lots of piercings was just finishing another track. Brock leaned on the edge of the booth, catching his attention.
"Hey, bro!" he shouted over the music. "Got an awesome track, it's a bomb! Will you play it?"
The DJ looked skeptically at Brock's worn leather jacket, and suddenly throwing his hand forward, Brock released a dose of sleeping gas borrowed from Frank into his face. The guy, without even having time to squeak, collapsed in a heap at the bottom of the booth. Eddie nimbly climbed inside, examined the equipment, and with a deft flick turned off the music. Under the displeased murmuring of the crowd, he announced into the microphone: "Temporary technical difficulties, we'll fix it shortly, don't worry."
While people in the hall digested what they'd heard, Eddie deftly opened the container, merging again with the symbiote. Without even asking the host, it instantly shot a tendril from his hand, enveloping the unconscious DJ's head. A wet crunch announced that the poor guy had just said goodbye to his brains.
Brock quickly examined the console, finding the flash drive slot. In his previous life, before meeting the symbiote, he had worked a bit as a DJ in cheap bars. Nothing complicated—even such an antiquated apparatus was familiar to him.
"What should we play?" he asked the contentedly purring symbiote inside.
"I have an idea," Venom gurgled slyly, taking control of Brock's hands and switching tracks. During their long time together, the partners had compiled a decent album that wasn't life-threatening for the Klyntar.
Meanwhile, in a dark corner behind a column, the Punisher silently lowered a guard's body to the floor. Picking up his automatic rifle, he quickly checked the magazine and racked the slide. His dark figure completely blended with the shadows—the white skull on his body armor hidden by his coat.
Frank methodically surveyed the hall. His experienced eye had already spotted all the disguised guards. Professionals—their military training immediately apparent. But that wouldn't help them now. When the chaos started, they would be constrained in such a crowd—too many civilians, too high a risk of hitting their own.
"But we'll have plenty of room to maneuver," he grimly smirked to himself, checking his spare magazines. In the general panic, they could act much more freely. The key was to wait for the signal.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed a couple of drunk clubbers heading toward his corner. They probably thought it was a convenient spot for making out. Frank silently slipped into the shadow behind the adjacent column, not even disturbing the guard's body.
Suddenly the music died down, the crowd grumbled in displeasure, but Brock calmed everyone with words about technical difficulties. Then guitar riffs mixed with violin began to sound from the speakers. The Punisher's eyebrows rose in surprise; he expected anything but a metal remix of classical music. Then he saw Brock giving a thumbs up from behind the console. It was time.
"And now..." Brock's voice carried throughout the club from the speakers, "especially for everyone present... Immortal classic—'Dance of Death'!"
The crowd met such an abrupt change in repertoire with confused murmurs, but it was too late. The music gained momentum, and in rhythm with it, the symbiote's mass pulsated in the DJ booth. This sound range didn't kill Venom, but it put him in a state between mad rage and excited anticipation of a feast.
"Now the real party begins," Frank grimly smiled, taking his rifle off safety.
In a spacious VIP lounge decorated with dark wood and leather, Russo sprawled on a couch. His scarred face in the dim light seemed carved from stone. His closest men surrounded him—all former Marines who had served with him in Afghanistan and Iraq. Aggressive rap praising criminal life came from the speakers.
"Fisk thinks he can play chess forever," Russo took a sip of whiskey from a crystal glass. "But times have changed. Now the one with the most firepower rules."
"Boss, our guys cleared his warehouse on West," reported Johnson, his right-hand man. "Took the cargo and burned the rest."
"Good." Russo smirked. "Let the fat bastard understand that his time..."
The door opened.
A young man in a black jacket stood in the doorway. The guards at the entrance weren't moving for some reason, their eyes empty.
"What the hell?!" Johnson jumped up. "Who let this kid in here?"
Sasuke slowly raised his head. His eyes flared—crimson and purple. A wave of pure, primal terror rolled through the room.
Everyone in the room saw their own death. Some saw their intestines spilling onto the floor, others—black flames slowly and inexorably consuming them alive. Johnson saw his body being torn to pieces by an invisible force, blood spraying onto the walls in slow-motion droplets.
A heavy smell filled the air—one of the tough Marines lost control of his bladder. Another tried to fumble for his gun with trembling hands, but his fingers wouldn't obey. A third simply slid down the wall, his eyes rolling back.
"M-mutant," someone rasped.
Russo, pale as chalk, still found the strength to reach for his holster. But his body wouldn't obey—paralyzing fear gripped every muscle. For the first time since the war, the veteran felt so helpless.
Sasuke took a step forward. His movements were fluid, like a predator's. Silence hung in the air—even the music seemed to grow quieter, as if sound itself feared his presence.
Monitors in the security room flickered with bluish light. Four men, all former military, carefully watched what was happening in the club through dozens of cameras.
"Hey, look at the boss's VIP room." One leaned forward, squinting at the screen. "Who's that kid?"
On the monitor, everyone present had simply frozen before the young man.
"Mother of..." the second guard began, but cut himself off.
On the screen, the guy simply disappeared. The next moment, people in the room began to fall apart, as if cut by an invisible blade. Blood sprayed onto the walls. When the guy reappeared in the frame, a sword engulfed in living lightning flashed in his hand.
"Code red! Code red!" the senior guard shouted into the radio, his face white with horror. "We have a mutant in the VIP room! Repeat—mutant in the VIP room! All posts..."
Throughout the club, guards began to move. Fighters disguised as visitors started making their way to the stairs, drawing weapons as they went.
Frank Castle, who until that moment had blended with the shadows, saw their movement. His lips twisted into a grim smile. Raising his rifle, he fired a long burst into the ceiling.
The roar of gunfire drowned out the music. The crowd froze for a second, then erupted in panic. People rushed to the exits, sweeping everything in their path. In the resulting chaos, the guards lost formation, trying to push through the frenzied crowd.
"Oh yes!" Venom roared, his enormous body soaring to the ceiling in one fluid motion. The black mass of the symbiote shimmered in the neon lights as he secured himself to a column. "Finally, the real party begins!"
His tongue darted in the air, tasting the scent of fear and adrenaline. Milk-white eyes narrowed, seeking the first victim among the guards scurrying below.
"LET THE FEAST BEGIN, BASTARDS!" he roared, and his massive body plunged downward like a living shadow carrying death.
Panic in the club reached its peak. Screams of terror mingled with the thunder of gunshots and Venom's guttural growl. Music still played from the speakers, turning what was happening into a surrealistic dance of death and violence.
Venom crashed down on a group of guards like a living avalanche. His jaws opened wider than seemed possible, revealing rows of razor-sharp teeth. The first guard didn't even have time to shoot—massive fangs closed on his neck, separating head from body in one jerk. Blood sprayed in a fountain, drenching the walls.
The symbiote's black tendrils swiftly enveloped the second guard. He screamed, but the sound was cut off when the living darkness flowed into his mouth and nostrils. The body began to dissolve right inside the churning mass—flesh, bones, clothing disappeared as if in acid, leaving nothing but a wet, squelching sound.
"Mmm, tasty!" Venom growled, his tongue licking blood from his fangs. "Who's next?"
The third guard managed to fire a burst from his rifle, but the bullets simply got stuck in the symbiote's fluid body. Venom stretched his maw into a nightmarish grin:
"My turn."
The Punisher methodically cleared the lower level. With short, economical bursts, he took down opponents one after another. The first shot tore a face into a bloody mess, the finishing shot pierced the chest, leaving a fan of crimson spray on the walls. Bodies fell to the concrete floor with a dull thud, their blood spreading in dark pools.
A new group of security rushed out from the basement. Frank instantly rolled behind a column; bullets chipped concrete where he had just stood. Waiting a second, he leaned out and fired a long burst. The nearest opponent's head exploded in a red cloud, spraying his comrades with brains and skull fragments.
On the upper floors, Sasuke had turned the VIP area into a true slaughter. The Chidori blade cut through flesh and bone like butter. One swing—and bodies fell apart, blood soaking expensive carpets and leather couches.
Frightened clients ran from the VIP rooms—politicians, businessmen, crime bosses. Many were half-naked, some still clutching champagne glasses or expensive cigars.
"Security! Where's the damn security?!" shouted a fat politician, trying to fasten his pants while running.
Sasuke didn't even turn his head in their direction—these people were too insignificant for his attention. The lightning blade pierced another guard's chest, ripping out his heart. Blood sprayed onto the walls, mixing with silver Chidori sparks.
In the main hall, Venom continued his bloody feast. His massive body darted between columns, catching victim after victim. The symbiote's tendrils grabbed people, pulling them into the churning black mass where they dissolved without a trace. Screams of terror drowned in guttural growling and wet squelching.
"Don't waste food!" Brock barked inside the symbiote's mind when it nearly missed Congressman Harris who was running away. The politician who had embezzled millions from the state pension fund.
"Shut up and don't interfere with my enjoyment!" Venom growled, his tongue darting out, coiling around the man's neck and pulling him into the gaping maw.
Meanwhile, the Punisher methodically made his way to the service areas. Three guards tried to corner him, but Frank was ready. A grenade, thrown with surgical precision, tore them to pieces. Bloody chunks spattered the walls, and the smell of gunpowder and burnt flesh hung in the air.
The entire club had turned into a true hell. The screams of the dying mingled with the thunder of gunshots and Venom's guttural growling. Blood flooded the dance floor, and bodies—whole and dismembered—littered the floor like gruesome decorations.
The last club patrons had long since fled into the night, leaving behind only scattered shoes and torn jackets. Police sirens wailed outside, but inside, Antonio Vivaldi's famous "Dance of Death," remixed into metal, still played, and blood dripped from walls and ceiling.
Venom sucked the last body into his churning mass, licking his lips with satisfaction.
"Haven't dined like this in a while," he growled, his milk-white eyes gleaming in the half-light.
"You still eat like a pig," the Punisher chuckled, reloading his rifle. His coat and body armor were spattered with blood, and the white skull on his chest had taken on a brownish tint. "I was expecting heavy industrial. But you surprised me."
"And you still shoot like a blind man," Venom grinned. "You put holes in half our food. And yes, we like the classics."
The sound of footsteps on the stairs made them turn around. Sasuke descended unhurriedly, his hand twitching from residual electrical discharges. His multicolored eyes coldly surveyed the hall, littered with bodies and drenched in blood.
"Russo?" Frank asked briefly.
Sasuke simply nodded:
"Upper floors cleared."
His gaze slid over the results of their joint work—shattered columns, bullet-riddled walls, traces of Venom's claws on the floor and ceiling, blood and body parts everywhere. The once luxurious club had turned into a true slaughterhouse.
The black mass of the symbiote began to retract under Brock's skin, leaving only a slight ripple.
"Alright, boys, I'm hitting the sack," Venom growled one last time. "After a meal like that, I'm sleepy."
Eddie, left in his worn leather jacket, surveyed the devastated hall and smirked. Jumping over a broken column, he headed for the DJ booth, turned off the music and retrieved his flash drive. Then he looked around and moved to the bar counter.
"How about wetting our whistles?" He leaned over the counter, fishing out intact bottles. "Just the thing after work like this."
The Punisher chuckled, shaking pieces of someone else's flesh from his coat:
"Not a bad idea."
Sasuke hesitated for a second but then silently headed to the bar. Perhaps a drink would help slightly dampen the fire still raging inside. He sat on a barstool, careful to avoid the pools of blood on the floor.
Brock found three glasses that had miraculously survived the slaughter and poured amber whiskey into them. Looking around the devastated club, he smirked and looked at Sasuke:
"Listen, kid... are you even eighteen? Because we're kind of, you know, getting a minor drunk after a mass murder. Somehow doesn't seem right." He chuckled, taking a sip.
The Punisher snorted, not taking the glass from his lips. A barely perceptible smirk flashed across his scarred face.
Sasuke didn't even turn his head, silently finishing his whiskey. His multicolored eyes still glowed faintly in the half-light, reflecting in the pools of blood on the floor.
"Come on." Brock refilled the glasses. "After a massacre like that, you can already be considered an adult. Especially considering how you... um... worked up there."
They drank in silence, each immersed in his own thoughts. The heavy smell of blood and gunpowder still hung in the air, and somewhere in the distance, police sirens continued to wail. Around them, Club Inferno slowly bled out, transformed from a place of sin into a literal branch of hell.
In the hanging silence came slow, measured applause. From the entrance, through the devastated hall, walked Wilson Fisk—a massive figure in a snow-white suit. Heavy footsteps echoed as he stepped over bodies and broken furniture.
"Bravo, gentlemen. Simply bravo." His voice, low and rumbling, filled the space. "A magnificent performance."
Brock tensed, black ripples running under his skin. The Punisher tightened his grip on his pistol. Sasuke merely turned his head slightly, his multicolored eyes glowing dimly in the half-light.
"What are you staring at, discount Avengers?" Fisk grinned, approaching the bar. "Thought I wasn't aware?"
"You," Frank hissed through his teeth.
"Me, indeed." Fisk carelessly brushed fragments from the bar counter. "And who do you think pointed you to this club, Castle? Think your cop friend dug up this information himself?"
The Punisher leaned forward, but Fisk only waved dismissively:
"Russo had completely lost his boundaries. Legal methods couldn't touch him anymore. And you..." he surveyed the devastated club, "you performed your job excellently."
"Son of a bitch!" growled Brock, his eyes momentarily turning milk-white.
"Or do you think, Castle, that I don't know who's tearing the heads off upstart bastards in my city?" Fisk nodded toward Eddie. "Nothing happens here without my knowledge."
He stepped to the bar, looking at the half-empty glasses:
"What, not even offering me a drink? Fine," he reached for the bottle, "I'll serve myself then."
Fisk took a sip of whiskey and gave Sasuke an appraising look, lingering on his multicolored eyes. Understanding slowly spread across his massive face.
"You know, kid, I was confident these two psychos," he casually waved toward the tense Castle and Brock, "would do their job. But what I saw on the cameras..." The crime boss shook his head with obvious approval. "Such talent would be a sin to bury. I always have work for those who know how to effectively solve... delicate problems. The pay is more than generous, and no one asks questions."
With an elegant movement, he extracted a business card from the sleeve of his snow-white jacket. On the black matte card, only a phone number was engraved in gold.
The Punisher, with an annoyed growl, drew his pistol, aiming it directly at Fisk's massive chest.
"What's stopping me from putting a bullet in your fat carcass right now?" he muttered through clenched teeth, cocking the hammer.
Fisk didn't even flinch. He merely spread his hands, his lips curving into a condescending smile:
"Shoot, Frank. But think—who will control all that filth I keep on a leash? The city will drown in blood, a war for territory will begin. And believe me, thousands will die in that slaughter."
Sasuke shifted his gaze to the Punisher. His eyes momentarily met Frank's rage-filled glare. Castle gritted his teeth and jerked his hand—a shot rang out. The bullet grazed Fisk's cheek, leaving a thin bloody line.
The big man calmly took out a snow-white handkerchief from his breast pocket. His movements were unhurried, confident—he knew exactly that the Punisher wouldn't shoot again. After dabbing the scratch on his cheek, he carefully folded the bloodied handkerchief and put it back in his pocket.
"You've always been predictable, Frank." Fisk shook his head. "As is your... symbiotic friend."
Brock twitched but remained in place—only the black veins under his skin ran faster.
"And we both know—neither you nor your buddy will ever cross that line. Because the price would be too high. Not just for the city... for half the country." Fisk turned to Sasuke, his eyes flashing with cold interest.
Manhattan's crime kingpin unhurriedly placed the business card on the bar counter, where it remained as a black spot against the whiskey-soaked wood.
"Think about my offer." He cast a final glance at Sasuke before turning and heading for the exit, his white suit in stark contrast to the surrounding chaos.
The heavy footsteps gradually faded into darkness, leaving the two men and the young shinobi in tense silence at the bar.
On the counter, the black business card gleamed lonely, like an invitation to an even darker world than the one they already inhabited.
Sasuke silently downed the remains of his whiskey and, without looking at anyone, grabbed the unfinished bottle. His fingers momentarily hovered over the black business card before taking that too.
Rising from his stool, he took a few steps to the side, his Rinnegan flashing in the darkness. The air before him trembled, twisting into a spiral until it opened into a dark portal. Without saying a word, Uchiha stepped into it and disappeared, leaving Castle and Brock alone with their thoughts.
"Didn't even say goodbye," hissed Venom, stretching a black tendril from Brock's shoulder, milk-white eyes narrowing. "Quite the rude kid."
They finished the bottle in heavy silence. Brock was the first to rise from the bar stool, swaying slightly—the whiskey clearly taking effect. Venom alternately appeared and disappeared under his skin, quickly clearing his system of alcohol.
"Let's get out of here, Frank. Soon cops will swarm like flies on..." He waved his hand, gesturing at the devastated hall.
The Punisher nodded silently. They exited through the back door into the damp night, leaving behind the blood-soaked Club Inferno. As a farewell, they simply nodded to each other and went separate ways: Brock—staggering and arguing about something with his symbiote, the Punisher—straight as a string despite the drinking, dissolved into the shadows of the alleyways.
Somewhere in the distance, police sirens still wailed.
Drone code-named S-1337 hovered motionless at a height of one hundred and twenty meters above Club Inferno, remaining invisible to ordinary eyes thanks to its cloaking field. Its sensors continuously recorded and analyzed what was happening below, sending data directly to Sentinel Prime.
[ANALYSIS: SUBJECT A-1]
[PROCESSING ARCHIVE DATA...]
The system began comparing current readings with previous records. Footage from Xavier's school: subject creates a purple energy construct protecting a group of young mutants. City camera recordings: instantaneous movement through portals, superhuman reaction speed. Data from maximum-security prison: abilities to control gravity and space inexplicable from a scientific standpoint.
[DISCREPANCY WITH X-GENE PARAMETERS: 99.99%]
[RECLASSIFICATION...]
The drone recorded the moment a portal opened in the club. The energy signature did not match any known manifestation of mutation. The system noted that similar abilities had been observed in SUBJECT A-2, but with different energy characteristics.
[ANOMALY: NEW ENERGY TYPE DETECTED]
[HYPOTHESIS: POSSIBLE EXISTENCE OF ALTERNATIVE FORMS OF GENETIC MODIFICATIONS]
[ADDITIONAL ANALYSIS REQUIRED]
Each new observation of these two subjects forced the system to revisit basic definitions of what constitutes "normal" and "deviation." Their existence called into question the entire paradigm of classifying dormant and awakened humans.
[PRIORITY: CONTINUE OBSERVATION]
[STATUS: AWAITING NEW DATA]
Gray emptiness stretched in all directions, interrupted only by debris from countless worlds slowly drifting through eternity. Here, in Limbo, time itself lost meaning, becoming a shifting illusion. Distorted fragments of reality floated in space: shards of ancient cities, ruins of forgotten civilizations, fragments of unrealized possibilities—all existing simultaneously, creating a bizarre kaleidoscope of being.
A reddish glow permeated everything, like a bloody haze, tinting the ruins in ominous shades. Shadows of lost souls glided at the periphery of vision—incorporeal witnesses to eternity, whose silhouettes dissolved as soon as one tried to look at them more closely.
The air, if one could even speak of air here, rang with barely discernible whispers and distant screams—echoes of countless tragedies and unfulfilled hopes. These sounds formed a terrible symphony of oblivion, each note saturated with pain and despair.
In this place, where physical laws were no more than vague memories, reality bent and twisted, creating impossible geometric forms. Fragments of worlds occasionally collided, generating cascades of sparks resembling falling stars, but here these sparks fell upward, downward, and sideways simultaneously, violating all concepts of gravity.
At the very heart of this chaos, space seemed to condense, concentrating around a single point where darkness acquired form and meaning. There, amid a whirlpool of shadows and reflections of blood-red light, a massive structure began to manifest, its presence causing reality itself to bend under the weight of its significance.
In the center of the distortions towered a throne—a monumental construction of interwoven shadows and bones of forgotten creatures. Each bone seemed to preserve the memory of its former owner, emitting a barely noticeable phosphorescent glow. Curved spikes and sharp edges created the impression that the throne was woven from frozen screams and petrified suffering.
On this throne, carelessly leaning on an armrest adorned with intricate carvings of intertwining souls, sat Mephisto, his figure radiating ancient power and authoritative calm. Long fingers lazily tapped on the skull of some long-forgotten creature. Shadows around moved in time with this tapping, as if obeying silent music.
Over his right shoulder stood a female figure in dark attire. Her presence was almost imperceptible—as if she were part of the surrounding shadows, only occasionally betraying her existence with a slight movement or barely noticeable turn of the head. The hood of her garment concealed her face, leaving visible only a graceful chin and a hint of pale skin.
Around the throne, space seemed particularly distorted—shadows here were thicker, and the red glow concentrated, creating a semblance of an ominous halo. Fragments of worlds floating in the void seemed to avoid approaching this place, instinctively circumventing their master's zone of influence.
The air around the ancient demon trembled with barely contained power, and shadows moved with special purpose, sometimes forming terrifying patterns and immediately dispersing, as if trying to tell stories of countless deals and shattered fates.
Before the throne, space distorted, opening into two enormous portals, each glowing with its own special light.
Mephisto paused, observing what was happening beyond them. His fingers, which until then had rhythmically tapped on the throne's armrest, froze motionless. In the reflection of his eyes mingled glimpses of two worlds: the blue radiance of technological reality and the purple flashes of Xandar.
In the blue glow of the right portal, two strangers from another world tried to find their place amid chaos and fear, their ancient power colliding with the cold might of machines. In the purple light of the left, another game unfolded—resurrected warriors conducted their dance among red sands, unaware of the true significance of their presence.
The dark figure next to the throne silently glided closer to the portals, enchanted by the spectacle of colliding worlds. Mephisto rose, his shadow, distorted by Limbo's red glow, dancing across the bone patterns of the throne. With one fluid movement of his hand, he brought the portals closer, allowing the images to become clearer, though this was more a force of habit—he could already see every detail of the unfolding drama.
The portals slowly dimmed, their glow fading, dissolving into the reddish haze. With each disappearing image, the demon's smile became more predatory—the figures on the board moved exactly as he had planned.
"All in good time." Mephisto returned to the throne, his eyes glowing with satisfaction. "The pieces are set. The first moves have been made. Now we only need to..." he turned to the woman in the cloak, "wait for the right moment. Isn't that so, my dear Illyana?"
The girl turned to the throne. Graceful fingers pushed back the hood, revealing her face in Limbo's reddish glow. Pale, almost transparent skin contrasted with eyes the color of molten gold, in whose depths danced crimson sparks. Long silvery hair flowed with metallic sheen, bluish flames playing at their ends.
Sharpened features betrayed her demonic nature but retained human softness—the heritage of her mortal mother. Fine scales glistened on her temples and cheekbones. Between parted lips flashed elegant fangs. Illyana looked at Mephisto with unconcealed contempt, her movements reading of predatory grace.
"Amusing yourself playing puppet god?" Her voice dripped with venom. "Oh no, forgive me... You're now the 'great architect of destinies.' How melodramatic."
Mephisto leaned forward, his eyes dangerously narrowing:
"Watch your tongue, dear. Even my patience has limits."
"Oh, really?" Illyana glided closer to the throne, her fingers lazily tracing over bone patterns. "And I thought I'd earned the right to be insolent... especially after everything between us. Or does memory fail you, my lord?"
"You're playing with fire."
"And you're playing with others' lives," she coldly retorted. "And you know what? Your obsession with control is becoming tedious. How many more worlds will you smash together before you're satisfied?"
Mephisto laughed, but there was no joy in his laughter:
"Jealous of my toys? Or afraid there won't be a place for you in the new world?"
Illyana leaned closer, her fangs gleaming in a dangerous smile:
"Darling, if I were jealous of every game of yours, I'd have gone gray long ago. But you know..." she ran a sharp nail across his cheek, "sometimes the most interesting games end with a pawn consuming the king."
Mephisto slowly ran his gaze over her platinum locks, at the ends of which danced bluish flames, and his lips curved into a condescending smirk:
"I'm afraid you're somewhat late with that threat. Or were you so caught up in your dramatic monologue that you forgot the color of your own hair?"
Illyana irritably jerked her head, causing a wave of shimmering sparks to run through her hair:
"Your eternal passion for nitpicking details... You know, for someone who so loves to remind others of his age, you take surprisingly childish delight in the opportunity to correct your conversation partner."
"Not correct, my dear," Mephisto leaned back against the throne, "but point out the irony. It's... far more amusing."
His laughter dissolved in Limbo's thick air. Shadows around the throne darted about restlessly, as if sensing the growing tension between the ancient demon and his willful protégée. The red glow of the portal pulsated in time with unspoken words, illuminating their confrontation with reflections of distant battles.
She turned, allowing Limbo's darkness to envelop her figure. Silvery hair shimmered in the fading light, blue flames at their ends flashing brighter, like stars before dawn.
"Continue weaving your game, my lord. But remember—even the most skilled puppeteer's strings become tangled one day."
Mephisto watched as her silhouette dissolved into the shadows. The smile slowly disappeared from his face, giving way to pensiveness. In Limbo's void, Illyana's final words echoed, and for the first time in millennia, the lord of demons felt his confidence crack once again.
The portals slowly closed, taking with them visions of battles and destinies. But even when the last gleam of light vanished, Mephisto continued to peer into the darkness where Illyana had disappeared. In his eyes danced the reflection of a long-forgotten feeling—doubt.
Human destinies and ancient magic, chakra and technology, hope and despair—all these threads wove into a complex pattern.