A/N: As promised, here's another chapter since we hit 50 stones! Thanks for the support, everyone. If we somehow reach 100 stones, I'll post one more chapter for you guys. Let's see if you can pull it off! 😎
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Red Hook Waterfront, Brooklyn – Night
(Elsa Bloodstone POV)
The docks never slept. They just whispered.
The Red Hook Terminal stretched beneath the fog like the spine of some drowned leviathan—cranes jutting up like ribs, ships anchored like bones. Sodium lights buzzed above cracked pavement, bleeding orange halos into the mist. The river lapped at the pier in slow, deliberate breaths, carrying the smell of oil, salt, and rot.
Elsa crouched atop a stacked container, rifle steady against her knee. From here, she could see the whole operation. Trucks rolled in and out at intervals too precise for coincidence. Every driver wore the same blank expression, every guard the same matte-black uniform. Soldiers pretending to be dockhands.
Her scope tracked one of them as he keyed open a container. Not weapons. Not contraband. Something worse. A muffled cry drifted up from inside—a voice, human and small.
Elsa's jaw tightened. "Bloody hell."
The Bloodgem pulsed faintly beneath her coat—one soft glow, then another—like it could taste the fear below.
"Human trafficking under a corporate front," she muttered. "You're scraping the bottom this time, Fisk."
She zoomed in. The Fisk Industries logo glared white on a truck's panel—too proud to hide, too protected to fear. But the guards weren't all Fisk's usual thugs. Some moved wrong—jerky, stiff, as if their muscles didn't quite belong to them.
One man turned his head, and she caught a flash of something crawling beneath his skin—black veins thick as roots. The Bloodgem flared hot against her chest.
"Not human," she whispered. "At least, not completely."
Wind swept the pier, scattering trash across the wet concrete. Somewhere in the fog, a ship's horn moaned—a hollow, mournful sound. Elsa pressed a finger to her earpiece, recording quietly.
"Entry logs, cargo rotation, bio-signatures—all point to one location: Warehouse Nine."
Warehouse 9 loomed apart from the others—a steel monolith ringed by guards. Its lights didn't flicker like the rest; they burned white and cold, the kind of glow that belonged to laboratories, not loading bays.
She checked her sidearm—ultraviolet rounds, full mag. The shoulder launcher on her back hissed as hydraulics synced to her movement. Not elegant, but effective.
"If you're down there, Clara," she murmured, "I'll get you out. And if you're not…" Her lips pressed thin. "Someone's going to pay."
Movement below drew her eye. A truck door slammed. Men rolled a crate toward the warehouse—bright yellow stencil: BIOHAZARD.
Her stomach sank. "They're not just moving people," she murmured. "Whatever's in those crates—someone's experimenting."
Her gaze flicked toward Manhattan's skyline beyond the fog, cold and distant. Somewhere out there, Dante was probably chasing his own lead. She doubted he'd reach Red Hook before dawn—but she'd be ready either way.
Elsa holstered her rifle and slid down the container's side. Her boots hit concrete without a sound. The Bloodgem pulsed again—steady now, almost eager.
"Patience," she whispered. "We're not kicking the door yet."
She slipped through the maze of cargo, every motion precise. Each sound sharpened: safeties clicking, cranes groaning, the river gnawing at rust. The fog thickened, muting the world into a low hiss.
At the far end, a spotlight swept across the stacks. Elsa pressed against a crate, counting between passes—one, two, three—move.
She darted forward, ducking beneath a suspended load. The hum grew louder here—low and metallic, vibrating in her teeth. The Bloodgem flared uneasily.
"Let's see what's worth all this security," she muttered, "and why the air smells wrong."
A shot cracked the night.
A high-velocity round screamed past her ear, close enough to burn, and slammed into the crate behind her. She dropped instantly, counting rhythm—two-and-a-half seconds, then another impact.
"Professional," she murmured. "And patient."
She peeked out, catching the glint of a scope between cranes.
Sniper. Seventy meters. High ground.
She rolled, fired twice—forced him to reposition—but when she rose again, he was gone.
The night fell silent. Then—
"You move well," a voice said, smooth and cold. "Didn't peg you for a random hero type."
A figure stepped from the shadows—lean build, black armor, grin that never reached his eyes. A custom pistol in one hand, a throwing knife in the other.
Elsa leveled her rifle. "You'll find I'm not in your league."
Bullseye's grin widened. "Noted."
Then he moved.
The knife came too fast to see—only the whisper past her collar, fabric splitting. She rolled, came up firing. Bullets chewed through steel, sparks raining, but he was already gone—slipping between shadows like smoke.
Gunfire barked, metal shrieked, the fog flashing white with muzzle flare.
A bullet ricocheted off a crane hook, striking near her boot—geometry perfect.
"Ricochet shot," she hissed.
She tracked him by sound, fired on instinct. He vaulted to a catwalk, knife spinning lazily in his fingers.
"You're quick," he called. "Not quick enough."
He leapt.
She twisted aside, unshouldered the launcher mid-roll, and fired.
The explosion tore through a wall of containers, the shockwave flinging them both. Bullseye hit hard, rolled, already moving. Elsa came up in a crouch, sidearm ready.
They met at the center of the yard—knife feint, elbow strike, muzzle flash. She broke his guard, cracked his jaw; he staggered, blood on his lip.
He grinned. "Not bad."
She re-chambered. "You talk too much."
They fired simultaneously—gunfire flickering through mist, bullets ricocheting like silver insects. One knife grazed her shoulder; her return shot tore through his vest. Both paused, breathing hard, weapons smoking.
Bullseye tilted his head. "You've got skill."
"Not skill," Elsa said flatly. "Experience."
He threw his last knife. She fired.
The bullet split the blade mid-air, sparks raining between them. His grin faltered.
Then the ground trembled.
A low, guttural growl rolled through the pier, deep and wet.
Both turned toward Warehouse Nine.
The BIOHAZARD crate shuddered violently, metal screeching. It buckled—then burst.
Claws, black and wet, tore through the steel. A human shape followed, flesh bubbling and twisting as something else took control. Half-man, half-monster, veins pulsing red and black.
Elsa steadied her aim. "Wonderful. And here I thought the night was getting dull."
Bullseye's eyes narrowed. "That wasn't supposed to be here."
"Then your employer's got bigger problems than me."
The creature roared, rattling the docks. The Bloodgem flared under her skin, burning hot. She braced, switching to shotgun stance.
Bullseye glanced at the thing once more, then backed away. "My contract doesn't cover this." He vanished into the fog.
"Coward," she muttered, racking a fresh shell. "My favorite kind of backup."
The creature lunged.
Elsa fired—
—and the dock exploded into motion.