The Hudson River was a black sheet under a starless sky, touched here and there by stray city lights. Along the silent shore near Central Avenue, the night was thick with shadows and the faint tang of metal and gunpowder.
Bullseye leaned against a withered tree, the rough bark scraping his back as his crew swept the area with military focus—eyes scanning the river, fingers close to triggers. Out on the water, a few small boats drifted, engines murmuring low and predatory. Felicia Hardy and Daniel were both still out there, but to Bullseye, only one of them had to die tonight.
Kingpin had ordered him to bring Felicia in alive. She was leverage—a tool to break her mother, Lydia Hardy, and crack open whatever secrets she'd been keeping. But Bullseye had long stopped following orders. He liked things clean, simple. Chaos gave him cover. He figured a dead Felicia would push Lydia over the edge—and the aftermath would be easier to use than whatever "plan" Kingpin was working on.
Let the big man try to make something out of ashes.
Dead never talked. Broken hearts made bad decisions. That's how Bullseye liked it.
He barely listened to the reports coming through his earpiece. A sighting downriver—someone moving fast, maybe Daniel or Felicia. His men shifted into position.
Bullseye didn't move.
His thoughts trailed to Elektra. Kingpin had sent her in to charm and manipulate, but Bullseye acted faster than anyone expected. Felicia should've been dead already—he never was one for subtlety. If Kingpin wanted finesse, he'd sent the wrong man.
By tomorrow, Elektra would be burned. Once the police dug into Felicia's disappearance, everyone close to her would become a suspect—especially Kingpin's own people.
But Bullseye didn't care. He never planned for tomorrow anyway. He trusted kills, not people—not the King, not Elektra, not his own team.
Which is why his pulse jumped at the sound:
A thick, wet thud.
Then another.
A muffled cry.
Gunfire echoed from the water.
Bullseye turned in time to see his men folding, one after another, dropping silent and hard as bullets punched through them—shots fired from underwater, unstoppable, precise.
"Fall back!" Bullseye shouted. But his team was already gone.
He didn't look back. He ran.
He knew better than to try fighting. Whoever could butcher trained killers so quietly, so perfectly, was not someone you wanted as an enemy. Not unless you wanted to die.
Even Bullseye knew his limits.
He'd made it fifty meters down the bank, shoes slipping in the mud, lungs burning, when the voice found him—a cold whisper, right in his ear.
"Going somewhere?"
He whirled, a dart already out of his hand—except nobody was there.
The voice came again, this time behind him:
"Looking for me?"
Bullseye froze.
He turned, slowly. This time, a gun was pointed at his forehead, unwavering. The muzzle was pressed cold and hard to his skin.
Daniel.
An unconscious Felicia laid in his arm. Daniel's gaze was flat, unreadable.
Bullseye raised his hands slowly.
In that moment, he realized he'd made a fatal mistake.
"I…" Bullseye began, desperate for a second to think.
Daniel's voice was almost gentle, but colder than the river. "You don't have to explain. I already know who you are. I wasn't looking to kill anyone tonight," he said, cocking the gun. "But you didn't really leave me a choice."
He tilted his head slightly.
"This is a message for your boss."
Without warning, Daniel fired—a bullet sliced past Bullseye's ear, cutting his cheek. Bullseye jerked, breath stuck in his throat, blood spilling.
"What was that?" Daniel asked, feigning surprise. "Were you about to say something?"
Bullseye's voice broke. "Don't kill me," he pleaded, the words scraping out, "I surrender."
Daniel blinked. Bullseye, the infamous hitman, begging?
"Really?" Daniel almost smiled. "You? I figured you'd give me some speech about Kingpin avenging you."
Bullseye managed a twisted smile. "You heard me. I'm begging."
Daniel eyed him coolly, stepping back. "You had a chance to fight back just now. What's still in your right hand?"
Bullseye flinched. Then, with a shudder, he dropped the dart from his sleeve. It landed at his feet, the tip a faint, poisonous blue.
Daniel didn't blink. "Exactly what I thought."
Bullseye stood, shaking, blood streaking down his face. In that moment, the cockiness was gone. Only a man who knew—finally—how close he was to death remained.
And he didn't want to die tonight.
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