[David's POV]
A familiar screen rippled across the edge of my vision. I blinked and the system interface unfolded.
[Mission #1 – Destroy the Drugs
Objective: Infiltrate Warehouse destroy all illegal narcotics.
Progress: 0/1
Reward: +150 SP]
[Do you accept the Mission?]
[Y/N]
[Mission #2 – Investigate the Second Warehouse Site
Objective: Investigate and determine cargo contents.
Progress: 0/1
Reward: +200 SP]
[Do you accept the Mission?]
[Y/N]
[Mission #3 – Rescue the hostages
Objective: Rescue hostages
Progress: 0 / X
Reward: +250 SP]
[Do you accept the Mission?]
[Y/N]
[Mission #4 – Eliminate 15 active gang members
Objective: Eliminate 15 active gang members of the Iron Serpents.
Progress: 0 / 15
Reward: +300 SP]
[Do you accept the Mission?]
[Y/N]
[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]
[Do you accept the Mission?]
[Y/N]
[Bonus Reward – Operation Completion
Condition: Complete all 5 missions
Reward: Mysterious Box - 2nos, +250 SP]
I stood there for a full minute, my jaw clenched and my breathing shallow. My eyes scanned the panels once more.
Five missions.
Five steps into a world I had yet to cross into.
I have never killed anyone.
Not in this world.
I haven't from the one I came from.
Even after integrating the skills of Bourne, Chris Wolff, and Deadshot, their abilities became my own. My muscle memory, combat analysis, and aim were so precise that I could thread a bullet through the eye of a needle.
But knowing how to kill and actually carrying it out? That was a different matter entirely.
My stomach churned, not from fear, but from something heavier, a hollow dread lodged deep beneath my ribs. Somewhere deep inside, I already understood what this meant.
This was not just a game anymore. This was the Marvel Universe, a world where those with power did not merely follow the rules. They created them.
You either become a predator or prey.
But I couldn't simply begin executing individuals indiscriminately, even if the system designated them as "targets."
I had to believe that I could still draw a line, even if the ground beneath me was beginning to crack.
I could decline the missions.
The system was not compelling me. It was not binding me to a grim fate, at least not to my knowledge.
All I had to do was press "No," and the five glowing prompts would vanish like smoke.
Just… nothing.
But nothing will not bring me closer to the truth.
I needed system points.
Completing missions leads to earning more points. Accumulating more points allows for additional upgrades, which in turn provides greater access to information and answers.
Answers to what the system truly was, and why I had it in the first place, lingered just out of reach. But with every completed task, I moved one step closer to uncovering the truth.
However, that did not make it any easier.
I exhaled slowly and rubbed my hand down my face.
"Goddamn it," I muttered, my voice low and weary.
Then, I turned on my heel and left the rooftop behind.
I pulled my hood lower and crossed 8th Avenue, the ache in my legs still lingering from hours spent crouched on rooftops. My stomach growled, loud and sharp.
A few blocks later, I ducked into a narrow diner nestled between a laundromat and a boarded-up bodega. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, while a jukebox wheezed out a song that no one was listening to.
The waitress had weary eyes and poured me a cup of coffee without asking. I offered her a subtle nod and settled into a booth at the back, facing the window.
Outside, the city continued to function as if nothing were amiss.
I ordered eggs, toast, and bacon.
I took a sip of the coffee.
My food arrived, and I ate quietly while my thoughts were loud the entire time.
In the end, I accepted the missions.
I didn't like it; in fact, a part of me hated it. However, I understood that I would have to bear that burden as I moved forward.
This world was anything but ordinary, and I could not afford to be ordinary either.
When I finished, I left a twenty-dollar bill on the table and stood up.
Just take one step forward at a time.
---
---
[At the warehouse]
The door creaked open with a low, metallic groan as I stepped into the warehouse.
The soft thud of my boots echoed across the concrete floor as I walked past the rows of crates and steel shelves toward the far end.
I reached the back wall and opened a hidden hatch located beneath one of the large shelving units.
I descended the metal staircase into the dimly lit underground bunker and flipped the switch beside the door. A soft hum filled the silence as dull amber lights flickered to life, casting elongated shadows across the reinforced concrete walls. The air was stale. It was cold and heavy with the scent of metal and dust.
A man lay slumped in a corner of a cell constructed from steel bars welded into concrete. The cell contained a rudimentary toilet and a small sink, but nothing more.
Alan Sloane, a man who once used his badge to shield criminals and silence the innocent, was now reduced to a sedated shell of flesh with a faint pulse. His face was gaunt, obscured by patchy stubble and the grime of neglect.
The medications I administered daily through timed injectors kept him docile, compliant and barely aware of his surroundings.
I stared at him through the bars for a moment, letting the silence stretch between us. There was no sympathy in me, and no anger either. Those emotions had long since faded.
I dropped a sealed ration pack onto the ground just outside the bars, but he did not acknowledge it.
I walked to the far side of the room where my workspace waited. A heavy-duty metal table was bolted to the floor and on top of it lay a meticulously arranged array of equipment: beakers, flasks, alcohol burners, measuring scales, and a steel briefcase filled with a carefully selected assortment of chemical compounds.
The shelves next to the table were meticulously organized with vials, test tubes, powders, and syringes, each clearly labeled.
I slipped on my gloves, donned my gas mask, and got to work.
First, I prepared a paralytic compound that is fast-acting and has a short duration. I mixed the reagents, carefully balancing the pH, and stirred the mixture until it settled into a faintly opaque liquid. Then, I drew it into the syringes.
Second concentrated irritant, non-lethal but capable of temporarily blinding, disorienting, and forcing evacuation from enclosed areas, came in a small glass bottle for each batch, sealed tightly.
Third component is a sedative gas compound in powdered form. When aerosolized, it has the potential to incapacitate everyone within a ten-foot radius. I packed fifteen doses into collapsible cartridges.
I worked in silence, methodically. Each chemical was double-checked, and every container was sterilized and sealed.
Half an hour later, everything was ready.
Syringes, vials, and bottles are securely stored in the system inventory.
I removed the gloves, peeled the mask from my face, and washed my hands in the small sink at the edge of the workspace, letting the cool water flow over my fingers.
As I turned off the lights and climbed the stairs once more, I paused at the top, one hand resting on the hatch door.
For a moment, I glanced back.
This place had become a necessary evil, but it was mine.
I sealed the hatch once more, repositioned the shelving unit over it, and swept dust across the seams to conceal the edges. You could hardly tell it was there.
Gideon spoke through my headset, "Request for the compilation of blueprints for all five locations has been completed, David."
Across the table in front of me, holograms flickered to life as five translucent, blue-tinted structures materialized, each rotating slowly in the air, tagged with labels and highlighted zones.
"Hit me," I said, pulling a collapsible chair from my inventory and taking a seat.
Warehouse One - Estimated Personnel: 14+
Blueprint: Single-level structure. Large open bay with a reinforced interior room, complete with a separate ventilation system. This is their drug packing and distribution hub.
Warehouse Two - Estimated Personnel: 30+ armed men
Blueprint: Similar layout to Warehouse One, but with two additional basement levels. Subterranean access likely used for high-volume storage or secure transfers.
Warehouse Three - Estimated Personnel: 16+
Blueprint: Interior has been heavily modified. Includes a reinforced room with isolated ventilation.
El Toro (Nightclub)
Estimated Personnel: 15+
Blueprint: Club floor, private lounge, and a fortified basement—potentially used for high-value exchanges or short-term holding.
Nocturne (Nightclub)
Estimated Personnel: 35+
Blueprint: Main floor, VIP level, and an underground vault. Security is tighter, and it's likely used for laundering, storage, or covert meetings.
I skimmed the data once more, committing the layouts to memory.
"Gideon," I said, voice firm beneath the low light. "I need full profiles. Everyone tied to the Iron Serpents in Hell's Kitchen. Give me those who slipped through the system. I need the details of major offenders who are with the gang."
Her synthetic voice responded instantly, crisp and emotionless. "Understood. Cross-referencing gang affiliation with sealed court records, bribed officials, and witness intimidation logs. Filtering by repeat offenders with violent criminal history."
The stream of data thinned. Faces froze on-screen. Another was a street-level killer who'd stabbed a rival dealer in a nightclub and walked away free after the chief witness vanished.
I felt something twist in my gut. It wasn't satisfaction. Wasn't guilt, either. It was resolve—cold, clear, and unforgiving.
"Mark them," I said.
Red boxes appeared around each profile. One by one, their known hangouts were pinpointed on the map. Most of them were in the warehouses or rotating shifts in the clubs. Three were marked as lieutenants.
After reading this, I needed to make sure everything was in place before I made my move.
I opened my inventory.
First, I pulled out the paralytic compound. The syringe was cool and heavy in my hand, filled with a faintly opaque liquid. Fast-acting, short duration. I turned it over, inspecting it for any leaks or cracks, then pushed it back into the inventory.
Next, a small glass bottle containing a concentrated irritant, the clear bottle dense with a slightly cloudy liquid. This stuff would blind and disorient anyone nearby and force them to abandon enclosed areas. I checked the seal, gave it a quick shake, then tucked it back into the frozen space of my inventory.
The third item materialized heavier, a batch of collapsible cartridges filled with sedative gas in powdered form. Each cartridge could knock out anyone within a ten-foot radius once it was aerosolized. I counted them, fifteen in total. Satisfied, I stored them away.
Next I pulled out my Glock 17 blinked into my hand next. I ejected the magazine, counted the rounds, slammed it back in, and holstered it at my leg. Five loaded magazines floated briefly in the air before I caught and inspected each one, then tucked them all back.
Then came the knuckle dusters, two of them. Their hidden knives clicked into place with a practiced flick of my wrist. Solid. Reliable. They went back into storage.
Then Luce and Ombra materialized. Twin pistols, crafted for speed and power. They felt alive in my hands, balanced and eager. I popped the magazines, checked the rounds. They were hollow points, just how I liked it. I slammed the mags back in and sent the pistols spinning back into storage.
A handful of senbons glimmered into my palm, slender steel needles perfect for silent takedowns. I counted them quickly, slipped them back.
Next came the full potions. Four bottles, each packed with swirling, glowing liquid that promised recovery from almost any injury. A luxury I could not afford to leave behind. One bottle had already been opened. I had drawn some of it out for earlier experiments, storing the contents in five syringes. I pulled them out now, inspecting the fluid inside.
Now, the grapnel gun materialized last among my gear. A beautiful piece of tech,. I checked the line tension, the firing mechanism, and gave the barrel a quick clean before putting it back.
Finally, the grenades.
Flash bangs. Twenty of them, each one prepped and ready. I pulled the pins, feeling the slight click as the safeties disengaged, then threw them straight into the inventory where time was frozen. No risk of a premature boom. Then came the smoke grenades, thirty in total. Same process. Pull the pin, feel the click, toss it into storage. My fingers moved fast, almost mechanical.
I did it this way for a reason. When the time came, I could pull them from my inventory already primed. Just pull, throw, and move when distraction was on demand.
It was time. I removed my casual clothing piece by piece, replacing each layer with my night gear. I started with the bulletproof vest, strapping it tightly against my chest until it fit like a second skin. Over that, I donned a matte black jacket reinforced with concealed stitching and a high collar, designed to block the wind and withstand a blade if necessary.
I slipped into a pair of heavy cargo pants, their deep pockets secured with tight flaps and zippers that would not rattle or hinder my movement. Next, I laced up my black military-grade boots, tightening them until they embraced my ankles. The soles were designed for grip and silence, making them ideal for urban terrain. I completed my outfit with full-finger tactical gloves, which fit snugly around my knuckles, providing both precision and protection.
Then I reached for the balaclava and pulled it over my head, adjusting the fabric until only my eyes were exposed.
With a single blink, I transformed my eye color to a vivid, glowing red. My pupils narrowed into a more focused, predatory shape.
As I stepped outside the warehouse and into the alley, I noticed an old, dust-covered car parked against the wall. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the side mirror, where red eyes stared back at me.
To Be Continued...