Justin Hammer had always considered himself a step ahead.
Not Tony Stark, maybe, but clever enough to ride in Stark's wake, nimble enough to skim profits where others only saw scraps. Espionage, sabotage, under-the-table contracts — those were his bread and butter.
But lately? His bread tasted like ash, and the butter smelled of smoke.
The Walls Close In
Every avenue he opened was shutting down. His surveillance team on Brendon's company had gone dark in less than a week. First the hired drones stopped feeding data — "interference," the techs had said. Then the accountants he'd planted to skim through financial reports sent in their resignations within hours of one another.
Hammer had cursed, but then he'd checked their bank accounts. Not a dime more than usual. No payoffs. They'd just… quit.
And then came the labs. Two hidden facilities meant to funnel tech for his private projects had both gone offline. He sent men to investigate. They came back with blank stares and shaky hands, muttering about a shadow in the dark, a ghost that melted circuits and turned their weapons into scrap.
One man swore he'd seen a blur, faster than sound. Another swore fire itself had chased him through steel corridors. Hammer slapped them both, but when he tried to sleep, their words looped in his head.
Fire. Ghost. Blur.
It wasn't just sabotage. It was surgical. Someone was closing in.
Regret in the Quiet
Hammer poured himself a drink one evening, staring out over the New York skyline from his penthouse office. He had thought, at first, that nudging Brendon's fledgling firm would be fun — a little corporate elbowing, maybe scare the kid into selling his tech for cheap.
But the kid hadn't folded. He'd fought back. And now, Hammer felt the pressure of an opponent who wasn't just clever — but relentless.
For the first time, Justin Hammer wondered if he'd started a war he couldn't finish.
He laughed bitterly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Should've stuck to underbidding Stark at expos. At least that game didn't bite back."
Allies of Desperation
Regret didn't stop paranoia. Hammer doubled down, throwing money at shadows.
He reached out to minor players on the criminal scene. A shockwave mercenary here, a tech-thief there. Losers, really — the kinds Stark would swat aside without blinking. But Hammer didn't need champions. He needed cannon fodder. Layers between himself and whoever was closing the net.
He promised them upgrades. Weapons. A slice of profit.
And at first, they accepted.
Until, one by one, they started backing out. Calls went unanswered. Contracts unsigned. When Hammer pressed his contacts, the answers came back vague. "Can't risk it. Too hot. Don't call again."
The worst sting? Word on the street was that someone had been monitoring his offers before they even went out. Encryptions cracked. Messages intercepted. The recruiters weren't scared of Hammer's enemies — they were scared of Morpher.
Suspicions
Hammer slammed his fist on the desk. "Morpher. Always Morpher."
The name had spread in whispers, half-urban legend, half-nightmare. A vigilante with a dozen faces, tearing down labs and leaving nothing but scorched earth. Hammer hated it, hated how the city muttered the name with fear.
But then came a thought that made his stomach lurch.
What if Morpher wasn't just some random spandex punk? What if Morpher was Brendon?
Hammer rubbed his temples. The more he considered it, the more the pieces fit. The company. The sudden rise in tech. The convenient timing of Morpher's strikes.
If that were true, then Hammer wasn't facing a competitor. He was facing a storm wearing two masks — one in the boardroom, one in the streets.
And storms didn't negotiate.
Preparation
So Hammer prepared.
He locked down his operations, funneled resources into defensive tech. EMP cannons, auto-turrets, sound-dampening fields. He stockpiled armor prototypes meant to rival Stark's, even if they looked like knock-offs in comparison. He rerouted funds into panic shelters, escape routes, encrypted comms.
Every night he sat in his office, surrounded by blueprints, humming with the certainty that someone was watching.
He told himself he was ready. That he'd crush Morpher when the vigilante finally came for him.
But deep down, as the lights of New York flickered below and his fortified walls pressed in on him, Justin Hammer felt something he hadn't in years.
Fear.
The hunter had become the hunted.
And the storm was already on the horizon.