[Later that night]
[Third Person POV]
The stench of sweat, bleach, and stale liquor clung to the basement air like a curse that refused to fade. There were no windows to let in light or fresh air. A single overhead bulb flickered above, casting uneven shadows across brick walls stained by decades of spilled secrets and forgotten violence. Above, the club throbbed with heavy bass and muffled music, but down here, everything was still. The world outside felt distant, almost unreal, as if this place existed in a pocket of time where silence ruled and only the truth bled through.
Just Dante Vasquez, a man zip-tied to a chair, and two others leaning against the far wall, smoking and watching.
Dante stood with his sleeves rolled up and his gloves on, blood speckling the collar of his black shirt. The man in the chair was thin, twitchy, and reeking of fear and cheap aftershave. He was barely conscious. His swollen eye had sealed shut, and his lip hung torn in two places.
"Are you going to lie to me again, Rico?" Dante asked. His voice was low, not raised. He never needed to shout. His tone was calm and controlled, carrying the quiet threat of a storm just before it breaks.
The man whimpered through broken teeth. "I swear, Dante, I didn't say nothing. I didn't tell nobody."
"You know what I hate, Rico?"
The man shook his head weakly, eyes wild with the kind of terror that turned your spine to paper.
"I hate rats. I hate liars even more. You might not be the first, but someone fed info to whoever hit the warehouse."
He took a slow breath and reached down to the steel table behind him. Tools were laid out in a neat, deliberate line. These were not meant for fixing machines or creating art. These tools had one purpose: extracting information.
His fingers closed around the handle of a hammer.
Rico's eyes widened with panic. "Please, man. Please. I— I—" His voice cracked, desperation spilling into every word.
"You were on delivery duty two nights ago. You knew about the second warehouse rotation schedule. You knew we moved the crates downstairs."
"It wasn't me! I swear on my mother!"
Dante's expression did not change. He brought the hammer down hard on Rico's kneecap. The sound was like dry wood snapping.
Rico howled.
"Don't bring your mother into this," Dante said. "She raised a coward."
The two men standing near the wall did not flinch.
By the time Rico finally passed out from the pain and blood loss, Dante had already gotten what he wanted. It was never about information. There was never going to be a confession. What Dante needed was the spectacle.
He nodded to the two men. "Get rid of him. Make sure the others hear what happened. And make it ugly."
The men nodded and dragged Rico's limp body out the back. One of them lit another cigarette as he walked. No one mentioned that Rico's story might have been true. No one cared. Fear was a better sealant than proof.
Dante stayed behind.
He stared at the chair, now dark with pooled blood, and clenched his jaw. His hand still gripped the hammer.
Something was wrong.
The attack on all warehouses had been hit with precision.
He then stood and walked towards the door. He climbed the basement stairs and emerged into the back hallway of the club.
Dante moved through it and came to an exit. He pushed open a side door and stepped into the loading area, where a black SUV waited with tinted windows and idling engine.
Inside sat Emilio Delgado, left hand of Javier Morales and the man responsible for the gang's books, smuggling routes, and bribes. Emilio wore a steel-gray suit, no tie, and mirrored sunglasses even at night.
"You look like you just stepped out of a butcher shop," Emilio said, tone dry.
"One less loose end," Dante said, getting in and closing the door behind him.
"We have more," Emilio replied. "We are missing over three million in product, four crates of weapons, and that Chitauri tech Morales was betting on."
Dante asked. "How many are jumping ship?"
"Fourteen. As of this morning. Some not answering their phones. Some caught a bus out of the city."
Dante rubbed his face, the muscles in his jaw tight. "They're scared of whoever hit us. That wasn't NYPD or DEA. This is either personal or some fucker is playing us for a fool"
Emilio leaned forward. "Javier's losing his shit because of this."
Dante chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "He thinks we're leaking?"
"He thinks everyone is. You know how he gets when he smells blood."
Dante just stared out the window. The club lights reflected faintly in the glass.
"Maybe he's right."
"You think someone inside helped?"
"I think it doesn't matter. They knew when to hit. They knew what to take. And they made a point of leaving bodies, our men. You don't do that unless you want to send a message."
Emilio exhaled through his nose. "What kind of message?"
"That we are prey."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Dante spoke, his voice calm but firm. "Put out the word. No product moves until I say so. Have every lieutenant go through their rosters, top to bottom."
Emilio's brow furrowed with concern. "That's going to slow everything down. And you know exactly how Victor Ruiz and Carlos Estevez will react."
At the mention of their names, Dante let out a sharp curse. "Damn it. Those lunatics won't listen to reason."
He took a deep breath, the weight of strategy pressing down on his shoulders. "Then, at the very least, lock things down in Hell's Kitchen. We also need to be ready for whatever the Russians are planning after the hit we just took. There's no way they'll stay quiet about it. Vladimir Ranskahov isn't the type to sit still and wait."
Emilio nodded and tapped at his phone.
As the SUV pulled into traffic, Dante leaned back continued talking with Emilio, "What about the deal that guy Weasley proposed? Do you think James would consider the....."
While In a different part of Hell's Kitchen, three low-level Serpents gathered in a parking lot behind a closed bodega. The air was damp, the neon sign above flickering.
"I'm out," one said, tossing his burner phone in a storm drain.
"You serious?"
"Yeah. I've got a cousin in Tampa," the first man muttered. "I'll do plumbing, roofing, whatever it takes. I'm not sticking around to get disappeared like the others."
The third man lit a cigarette, his hands trembling slightly as he cupped the flame. "Do you think it's true? That nearly thirty of our guys are dead?"
"It's true," the second man replied quietly. "I was there. I saw what was left. And the gang higher ups, I'm telling you, they made Rico vanish just to send a message. I think I heard his screams from five blocks away. Is that enough proof for you?"
There was no need for further words. No goodbyes. They turned and walked off in different directions, silent and grim, like rats abandoning a ship already swallowed by fire.
---
---
[David POV]
The warehouse was silent. Just how I liked it.
I stood alone beneath the overhead lights, concrete beneath my feet, the air cool and still.
I stood in the center of the cleared space beneath the overhead lights, just me, the concrete floor, and the katana gripped in my right hand.
I exhaled and dropped into position.
Snake Eyes was almost fully assimilated. Ninety-five percent complete. I could feel it in every motion. The way my stance shifted without conscious thought. The way my grip adjusted itself perfectly without hesitation. There was a calm in me now. A silence. My breathing aligned naturally with each movement, smooth and measured.
I took the first step. A diagonal slash. Light. Clean. Fluid.
My feet shifted into position. My right foot moved forward. My knees bent slightly. My spine remained upright and relaxed. The katana hung low at my side, its tip hovering just above the ground. I focused on the sound of my breathing—slow, steady, controlled.
Then I moved again.
The slash came up diagonally, rising from my right hip to my left shoulder. It was clean and sharp. My body pivoted smoothly. I shifted my weight with precision. The second strike followed, then the third. I flowed between stances with practiced ease. Every motion was deliberate and exact.
Each strike that followed moved faster and landed tighter. The blade hissed through the air, my instincts guiding the transitions between cuts. I did not have to think. My body already knew.
I rotated my wrist and swept Yubashiri across my chest. My body dropped naturally into the next sequence. The strikes became sharper, more powerful. My legs drove the motion. My hips and shoulders directed the blade. Every slice cut the air with a crisp, efficient sound. One. Two. Three. I paused. Then came a reverse slash that ended in a low crouch, the katana held flat against my left forearm.
I rose again and flipped the sword in my grip with smooth control. Without pause, I eased into a series of Iaido drills. Each movement was precise and fluid. I drew the blade in one seamless arc and struck forward. Then I returned it to its sheath in a single, practiced motion. Every cut was clean. Every transition controlled.
With a flick of the wrist, the katana became a blur. Steel vanished into the sheath and reappeared again in the blink of an eye. Each repetition became faster and more refined.
Draw. Strike. Return.
Repeat.
Again. And again.
Over and over until time lost meaning. My breath came slow and deep. My arms moved without thought. The weapon was no longer separate from me. It was an extension of my body.
After thirty minutes, I stopped.
I stood still, my shoulders rising and falling with quiet, steady breaths. Sweat clung to my skin and soaked through my training uniform. My chest lifted and fell as the room settled into silence.
After resting for a while, I decided to shift into some flexibility training. I moved through the stretches slowly and with control, focusing on loosening every joint and muscle still tight from the earlier drills.
Another half hour passed, and I found myself lying flat on my back, completely relaxed.
I stayed there, arms stretched out at my sides on the mat, letting the last of the tension drain from my body and melt into the floor beneath me. The air in the room was cool, brushing gently against the sweat that clung to my chest and neck. My breathing had slowed to a calm rhythm, so quiet it barely registered, perfectly in sync with the faint, steady pulse of the overhead light above.
"Status," I muttered under my breath.
[STATUS]
[Name: David Arthur Brown
Age: 25
Race: Human
Strength: 20
Agility: 20
Intelligence: 25
SP: 1825
Lottery Stack: 2/3 draws
Skills: Hand-to-Hand Combat Mastery, Parkour Mastery, Hacking Mastery, Perfect Recall, Cooking Mastery, Bullet Time, Eye Color Manipulation, High-Speed Calculation (Psycho-Pass – Shinya Kogami's Combat Analysis), House Cleaning Mastery
Inventory: Glock 17 (2 Mags, Leg Holster), $6.25 million Cash, Knuckle Dusters (Hidden Knives) – 2 nos, Luce & Ombra (Devil May Cry), Senbons (Naruto), Full Potion x 3 (That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime), Elucidator & Dark Repulsor (Sword Art Online), Yubashiri (One Piece), C-147B Paladin (Splinter Cell), "Monster" Ford Mustang GT (Death Race), Agent 6 (Generator Rex), Marco Rossi (Metal Slug), C-1 (Robocop 2014), Background Customization Card +5, Grapnel Gun (Batman: Arkham Knight), Weakness Removal Card x 1, Neuralyzer Set (Men in Black), Hellsing ARMS Casull Auto .454 set (Hellsing), Holy Water of Life x 6 (Solo Levelling), Harold Allnut (DC), Sparring Bots x 2 (Psycho-Pass), Alex Mercer's Jacket (Prototype), ISIS Yacht (Archer Series), Hal Emmerich (Metal Gear), Power Cell – T-800 x 10 Nos (Terminator), Red Dust – 10 Units (Black Widow), Darkwear (Young Justice TV Series), Art Rosenbaum (Invincible TV Series), Allison Argent (Teen Wolf), Simon "Ghost" Riley (Call of Duty), Night Blood Serum x 2 (The 100), Rosarita Cisneros (Black Lagoon), L Lawliet (Death Note), Zero Point Energy Gloves (The Incredibles), Minor Healing Potion x 5 (Overlord), Shin (Cowboy Bebop), Sneakers (Black Panther)
Character Assimilated:
-Deadshot (DCEU)
-Jason Bourne
-Chris Wolff
-Harold Finch
Character Assimilation:
1. Snake Eyes – 98%
2. Ezio Auditore da Firenze – 59%
3. Hikage Shinomori – 47%
Characters Summoned: Nil
Missions:
Primary Mission: Revenge
Objective: Make those responsible for your mother's murder pay.
Time Limit: 8 months
Rewards: 500 SP, A Skill, Mystery Box - 1
Side Missions:
Mission #3 – Rescue the hostages
Objective: Rescue hostages
Progress: 15 / X
Reward: +250 SP
Mission #5 – Eliminate the Iron Serpents' enforcer
Objective: Eliminate the Iron Serpents' enforcer assigned to Hell's Kitchen territory.
Target: Dante "Dagger" Vasquez.
Progress: 0/1
Reward: +300 SP
Bonus Reward – Operation Completion
Condition: Complete all 5 missions
Progress: 3/5
Reward: Mystery Box - 2 nos, +250 SP]
Gideon, now using one of my sparring bot as her body, she stood beside me, close enough that her silhouette blocked the overhead light, casting a subtle shadow across my upper body.
I exhaled and sat up, letting my muscles adjust from rest to motion in a single smooth breath.
"What is it?" I asked quietly, wiping a bead of sweat from my brow with the towel beside me.
"I've spotted Dante Vasquez and Emilio Delgado together," she said.
I straightened, all remaining fog clearing from my mind.
"Where?"
Without a word, she raised her left hand. The familiar toolbox projector activated, casting a holographic interface into the open air above us. Lines and pulses formed midair—geographic overlays, real-time coordinates, satellite feeds. A street grid stabilized, and then a specific point blinked in orange, highlighting the location.
"Fifteenth and Calderon," she clarified.
"Maintain surveillance," I said. "Use maximum capacity. Track all movement. If they separate, prioritize Vasquez."
"Sure."
Another feed took its place, already queued up—Victor Ruiz.
He had not moved much since his last tracking point. His position was static, embedded deep within the Midtown commercial district. The point of interest, however, was not the building he currently occupied. It was the company listed within it.
Domani Architecture. The name hovered at the top of the holographic file, just beneath the parent company tag.
Rand Enterprises.
My gaze narrowed.
"Who's he talking to?" I asked.
To Be Continued...