Nightfall, Red Hook District, Catherine Street.
The brilliance of Manhattan's skyline didn't reach here. This side of the city sat in shadows—where broken streetlights flickered dimly beside rows of old red-brick factory buildings, most of them converted into low-income housing. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked twice… then fell eerily silent. Black figures flickered past the windows. One by one, the few working lamps on the street began to die out without a sound.
In the heart of this crumbling district, a single two-story building stood lit. Soft white light spilled from its windows, illuminating the cracked asphalt below. Above the door, a neon red LED sign buzzed quietly:
HERO FOR HIRE!.
Overhead, a black bird, Ash Ward's hawk courier, glided silently across the sky. Its amber eyes, sharp as any sniper scope, locked onto shadows moving on the streets below.
Surrounding the old building were more than two hundred elite gunmen, each deployed with precision and total silence. On the rooftops of nearby structures, twenty seasoned snipers lay prone, fingers poised over triggers. Their formation was military, efficient and deadly. Behind them, encircled by five grim-faced guards, stood Vladimir, hulking, furious, and shadowed beneath the brim of a hat, his breath rising like mist in the cold air.
A few kilometers away, crouched atop the weather-worn gargoyle of a derelict church, Ash exhaled a wisp of smoke. One foot rested casually on an angel statue, the other propped on stone. Through the eyes of his hawk, he watched everything unfold with predatory amusement.
"Twenty ex-military Alpha-tier snipers… SVDs, too," he muttered to himself, brushing a hand across the stubble on his chin. "The Russians really brought out the good stuff tonight."
Grinning wickedly, Ash pulled out a burner phone and dialed.
"Hello? NYPD?" he whispered, voice frantic and trembling. "Yes, I'm… I'm a concerned citizen—I just saw a group of Russians with guns. Yes! My eyesight's perfect, damn it! It's Catherine Street. There's a whole army of them—Oh my God— Please help!"
Click.
The call ended abruptly.
With a flick of his fingers, Ash crushed the burner phone. The plastic shell sparked and cracked, dying in his palm.
"God, I'm such a good citizen," he chuckled to himself. "What would this world do without heroes?"
With the agility of a cat, he slipped off the roof, bouncing from window ledges to balcony rails, finally landing silently in a dark alley. His jacket flared, then settled as he disappeared into the shadows.
For Ash, profit was king. If the market didn't present an opportunity, he'd create one. By selling Smoke of Deceit and black-market tools of magic to crime bosses, heroes were necessary… to keep the villains desperate and buying.
***
Meanwhile, inside the Hero for Hire building…
Jessica Jones lay unconscious on a bloodied mattress, face pale, lips dry and colorless. Gunshot wounds in her side and three deep lacerations across her torso had begun to heal, but only barely.
At her bedside, Luke Cage stood silent and shirtless. His skin bore countless scars—pits from bullets, slashes from knives. His massive form loomed like a steel statue, barely restraining the fury burning in his eyes.
Footsteps echoed from the stairwell.
A man in a deep green martial arts uniform ascended, a black dragon tattoo sprawled across his bare chest. He moved like a monk, calm, steady, grounded. Placing a ceramic bowl and a vial of salve on the table, he said, "This is Kunlun's secret medicine. Get her to drink it. She'll recover in a week. The ointment is for you. Apply it, and your wounds will close by morning."
"Danny…" Luke growled, voice gravelly. "No one touches Jessica. Not again."
"She's alive, Luke." Danny Rand, the Iron Fist, interrupted calmly. "You let rage control you, and we all die. You want revenge? Fine. But not now. Fisk's power runs deeper than you know. We can't afford another mistake."
Luke clenched his fists, grinding steel railing into dust. But he didn't argue. Silently, he took the bowl and began helping Jessica drink.
The window creaked. A figure dressed in red leather flipped through the opening and landed silently.
"Matt…" Danny acknowledged him.
Daredevil nodded, his masked face grave. "We've been compromised. The Russians have surrounded the whole block. We need to move. Now."
Danny's eyes narrowed. "How did they find us so fast?"
It didn't matter. They had to get out. Fast.
"Perfect," Luke growled, reaching for a length of heavy chain. "Let me at them. I'll smash through their entire crew."
"Don't forget how Jessica got hurt," Danny said firmly, stepping in front of him. "They came prepared. Rushing out there is suicide, for all of us."
Luke's boots screeched to a halt.
"Matt, find us a safe route out. Luke, carry Jessica," Danny ordered calmly, tying his yellow headband across his brow. "We move now!"
With a nod, Matt activated the emergency stairwell. Though blind, his senses mapped every sound, smell, and echo in the building with perfect clarity. In a blur, the group slipped into the darkness, weaving through alleys and past gunmen.
But they weren't the only ones on the move.
From five hundred meters away, a sniper spotted movement.
"Target spotted—seven o'clock, four figures, confirm identity."
Through the headset, Vladimir roared with laughter. "Stop wasting time. Kill them!"
The sniper didn't wait. His SVD cracked—once.
"Sniper!" Matt cried out.
He twisted his body to avoid the bullet, but not fast enough. A golden-tipped round slammed through his shoulder, sending him crashing to the ground.
"Target hit—still alive."
More snipers fired. Bullets rained like steel hail.
Luke Cage roared and dove forward, shielding the others. Four rounds slammed into his chest. His iron skin cracked, and blood seeped from the edges.
From above, a flare burst open, illuminating the alley in stark white.
Dozens of gunmen poured out from rooftops and alleys. Shotguns. AKs. Rifles. All opened fire.
"Hahaha! That's it!" Vladimir howled with glee, watching from afar with binoculars. "Tear them apart! First man to bring me a head gets any girl in the club!"
Danny inhaled deeply, grounding himself. He dropped into a wide stance, hands moving slowly in an ancient martial rhythm. Invisible qi shimmered in the air. Bullets veered off course as if diverted by some unseen wind, clinking harmlessly to the ground.
Luke's rage boiled over. With a scream, he burst forward, chain in hand. Bullets tore into his flesh, but he didn't stop. The chain swung wide, severing limbs, crushing skulls. Blood sprayed across the walls as he became a hurricane of raw power and fury.
"Snipers! Where the hell are you? Take him down!" Vladimir shrieked into his mic.
All twenty snipers zeroed in. One by one, they fired. Each shot knocked Luke back, embedding deeper into his muscle and bone. Yet he stood. Roared. Raged.
***
From a distant alley, Ash exhaled softly.
"They're tough," he muttered, watching the carnage through his hawk's eyes. "But with injuries… there's no way they'll last."
The faint wail of sirens echoed from far off.
"NYPD, always late to the party," Ash sighed.
He stared at the surrounded defenders for a moment, then cursed under his breath.
"Dammit. Guess I've gotta save their asses myself. No one else is gonna do it."
Lighting a fresh cigarette, Ash stepped into the darkness, vanishing into the night with a bitter smile.
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