Hell's Kitchen in a Multiverse: Despair and Struggle in the Dark Night
"Devil!!!!"
The shrill scream pierced the already uneasy silence of the night sky, a helpless accusation hurled at the disaster descending upon them.
"Hurry up! They're demons!"
The crowd scattered in panic. Faces twisted in fear, eyes wide with primal terror, they ran blindly. Some lost their minds completely, muttering to themselves and acting erratically—as if their very souls had been consumed by fear.
Hell's Kitchen—once a chaotic but thriving corner of New York, now replicated across multiple universes—lay in ruins. Buildings were reduced to rubble, walls crumbled like sand, and fire raged uncontrolled. Black smoke churned upward into the night sky, mixing with the darkness to create a canvas of pure apocalypse.
"Hehehehe!!!"
The laughter echoed out of the gloom—twisted, demonic, mocking.
Figures cloaked in flame and shadow moved with the deadly grace of reapers. Wielding weapons and powers alike, they butchered anyone in their path with no discrimination.
Some carried blades that glinted silver under the moonlight as they sliced through flesh. Others used telekinetic or energy-based abilities—each movement of their hands unleashing explosions or shattering illusions that broke minds before they broke bodies.
They were methodical. Inhuman. Unstoppable.
And they called themselves Reincarnators.
They came from something called the Main God Space, an extradimensional entity or system that sent them across universes to conquer, pillage, and kill.
They wore bizarre outfits—some futuristic, others medieval or otherworldly. Cruel smiles stretched across their faces as they slaughtered the citizens of Hell's Kitchen like livestock, shouting and laughing with terrifying glee.
Their laughter never faded from the air. It clung to the wind, wrapping the city in a cloak of dread.
To them, this massacre was a celebration.
And they were its masters.
"Hahahahahaha! These are all points! Just kill them and we get more points! More points means higher status in the Main God Space! Hahahaha!"
One of the Reincarnators waved a blade drenched in blood, laughing like a maniac. His eyes burned with greed and fanaticism. To him, every life was nothing more than a number—fuel for his own ascent.
"Don't steal my kills! These vermin are mine!" another shouted, unleashing a wave of energy that blew apart a city block.
The firestorm that followed incinerated civilians, leveling buildings and leaving only smoke and ash behind. The Reincarnator grinned as he watched the inferno rise, intoxicated by the destruction.
"Your blood is my masterpiece! My art!" screamed another, dressed in flamboyant robes. He traced symbols in the air with a brush dripping crimson, drawing surreal murals that screamed in pain. Faces twisted in agony stared from the air as if trapped in some horrific fresco.
His eyes glowed with madness. He didn't just enjoy killing—he worshiped it.
"Become my sacrifice!" yelled the last. He held a staff high and chanted in an unknown tongue. Beams of black light shot out and struck fleeing civilians, stealing the light from their eyes.
Their souls—if such things existed—were torn from their bodies, absorbed into the spell as the caster moaned in euphoria.
He believed their deaths were necessary. Sacred. Part of some "great plan."
In this rain of blood and fire, the residents of Hell's Kitchen could only scream and flee.
Some fought back, but most were torn apart before they even raised a weapon. The laughter of the Reincarnators cut through the cries of the dying like a sawblade through flesh. It was pure, unrelenting carnage.
This wasn't just happening in one world.
Dozens of multiversal Hell's Kitchens were under siege.
In every one, different residents—different timelines, different realities—all suffered the same fate.
They became fodder. Victims. Stepping stones in the Reincarnators' cruel climb to power.
The force behind them had breached time and space, spreading like a virus through the multiverse.
You might ask—where are Earth's protectors?
Where is the Avengers' response?
Why didn't the superheroes save them?
The truth is more horrifying than silence.
These massacres weren't long, drawn-out wars. They happened suddenly, without warning. One moment everything was still—the next, a killing field.
Even though Hell's Kitchen was a troubled neighborhood—known for crime, corruption, and vigilante justice—it was still under federal jurisdiction.
The U.S. government, while often callous about its marginalized citizens, could not ignore this.
The arrival of unknown, highly dangerous murderers triggered a code red response.
S.H.I.E.L.D. deployed immediately. So did specialized military units.
Superheroes were called in.
But it didn't matter.
No matter how well-trained, how experienced, how powerful—nothing worked.
Their weapons couldn't pierce the Reincarnators' defenses. Their tactics crumbled under the onslaught.
At first, they held their ground. A few Reincarnators fell. But as the invaders began to understand Earth's defenses, reinforcements poured in.
Soon, the tide turned completely.
The army and S.H.I.E.L.D. were pushed back. Entire squads were wiped out. Agents vanished without a trace.
And the heroes?
They never even reached the battlefield.
In every Hell's Kitchen across the multiverse, the story was the same.
Reincarnators reigned. Superheroes were destroyed. Villains were eviscerated.
On a crumbling skyscraper, Spider-Man clung to a steel girder, barely conscious.
His suit was in tatters. Blood soaked the fabric. Cuts, burns, broken ribs—he was running on fumes.
He looked out at the city burning beneath him, unable to understand the nightmare before him.
He had faced aliens, monsters, cosmic threats. But nothing like this.
Nothing that enjoyed the killing.
Deadpool—usually wisecracking through any situation—was gagged and chained like a mad dog. He writhed, trying to break free, unleashing every curse he knew.
The Reincarnators laughed at him.
Luke Cage lay in a pool of blood. His unbreakable skin had cracked. A jagged blade jutted from his side, and he wasn't moving.
Not far away, Bullseye, once feared by every gangster in New York, lay in pieces. His body torn apart, eyes wide with disbelief.
Inside Fisk Tower, the Kingpin himself had become the last man standing.
His entire private army was gone.
Half-slumped against a bullet-riddled wall, he lit a cigar with trembling hands.
There was no fear in his eyes. Just cold resignation.
He didn't beg.
He didn't scream.
He knew what this was: extinction.
The Hand, the ancient ninja cult, had been wiped out. Their warriors lay dead in alleys, their mystical powers meaningless against whatever dark force these Reincarnators possessed.
Daredevil—the Man Without Fear—was locked in a death grip. A Reincarnator's hand wrapped tightly around his throat. The red-clad hero kicked and struggled, rage in his face.
He didn't scream either.
Just clenched his jaw and stared into death's eyes.
All across Hell's Kitchen, a tapestry of pain unfolded.
Heroes and villains. Cops and criminals. Saints and sinners.
They all died the same.
Bleeding. Screaming. Alone.
And with their last breath, they all asked the same question to the invaders—those monstrous beings laughing through the carnage, acting like gods.
"Who… are you?"
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