Maria's Bar in Downtown was hardly a fine establishment. The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and decay, almost tangible. Unlike the main hall, where every surface was sticky with spilled liquor and less savory fluids, the private booths in the far corner were kept in relative order. A small vent provided some relief. These booths were reserved for the few who could pay for the illusion of privacy in this human hell.
I sat in one such booth, at a worn oak table that might once have been respectable. Dark wood partitions with copper rivets shielded me from the main crowd's filth, but they couldn't block the cacophony of sounds and smells. The leather seats, worn by thousands of bodies, still held enough integrity not to cling to my clothes. On the table sat a thick glass ashtray, polished to a shine—the only clean thing in this place.
The warm amber glow of the booth's table lamp contrasted sharply with the dim yellow light of the main hall, where fluorescent bulbs flickered like dying fireflies. But no light could hide the depravity beyond my temporary sanctuary.
The smells… Oh, the divine human aromas. Each breath brought new layers of revulsion: cheap whiskey mixed with bile; fried grease from a kitchen where the cook, judging by his sweat, suffered from cirrhosis; damp rot in the walls, steeped in years of human excretions. From a corner came the sour stench of vomit—someone couldn't handle another round of cheap swill. A metallic tang of dried blood teased my nostrils, hinting at a recent brawl where someone's head met a table's edge.
My nose, honed by millennia of hunting, dissected every note of this repulsive bouquet. I leaned back, twirling a glass of whiskey—cheap poison that could strip paint. I'd ordered it for show; drinking it was unthinkable.
In the main hall, life crawled on in its pathetic way. At the bar, a scrawny junkie with greasy hair clutched a beer mug with trembling hands. His nicotine-stained fingers and grimy nails betrayed his addiction, his eyes darting with paranoid anxiety—classic withdrawal. Fascinating how victims' memories taught me such medical trivia. In a corner, three thugs in worn leather jackets played poker, their voices growing louder with each hand. One, with a cobra tattoo on his neck, spat tobacco juice onto the floor, adding to the carpet of grime.
The bartender—a bald, sweaty man with pit-stained shirt—lazily wiped the counter with a rag so filthy it only spread the dirt. His labored, asthmatic breathing reeked of stale booze and fear. In the far corner, near the restroom, a homeless man in a tattered jacket slumped face-down on a table. His uneven breaths carried wet rasps and the sweet rot of necrosis—he was dying, slowly and painfully.
I tapped my fingers on the table, savoring the rhythm of my patience. Each tap marked a second spent among these wretched creatures. They scurried around me like maggots in rotting meat, unaware of the predator in their midst. I wanted to burst them from within, but that was out of place for now.
Harry was fifteen minutes late, and it was starting to truly irritate me. Punctuality was one of the few human virtues I respected. Everything else about this pathetic species inspired contempt and hunger. Harry had tested my patience twice now. Perhaps it was time to teach him the cost of my time.
The bar's door creaked on rusty hinges, bringing a gust of cold air and new scents. Sharp cologne masking natural pheromones. Expensive leather boots and belt. And something else… musky and metallic, like steel plates under skin. The scent of power—not mere human strength, but something deeper.
I didn't look up, studying the amber whiskey in my glass. Harry entered—the informant I'd traced from a criminal's memories in Los Angeles. Before killing that wretch, I'd extracted everything useful. Harry was short, about twenty-five, in a worn jacket and crumpled pants. His nervous movements betrayed a pistol under his coat—a feeble attempt at security.
But my attention locked onto his companion.
This man was… impressive, even by my standards. Nearly two meters tall, with shoulders barely fitting through the door, he moved with a predator's heavy grace. Each step reverberated in the floorboards, his presence making others instinctively shrink. His clean-shaven face had sharp, almost classical features—square jaw, broad forehead, deep-set eyes under thick brows. He wore a tailored black suit, worth more than most here earned in a year.
But it wasn't just his size. His skin had an odd, waxy pallor—too pale for someone roaming New York's streets. Beneath the cologne, that musky-metallic scent hinted at something unnatural in his physiology. His power was almost tangible—not just muscle, but something fundamental.
Intriguing. Very intriguing.
Harry strode confidently to my booth, gesturing his companion to our meeting spot. Patrons parted before the giant, their animal instincts screaming danger. Even the bartender glanced up, assessed, and quickly returned to his task.
"Mr. Smith," Harry said, slumping into the seat opposite, his voice trembling with barely concealed fatigue. Overworked? "This is my boss, Mr. Wilson Fisk."
Fisk didn't sit immediately. He paused at the booth's entrance, eyeing me head to toe with a cold, calculating gaze—a predator sizing up a rival. Finally, he lowered himself, the seat creaking under his bulk. Even seated, he dominated the booth, his presence overwhelming. Thought himself stronger than me? His problem.
"Harry says you're seeking information," Fisk said, his voice low and gravelly, each word carrying the weight of authority.
"Correct," I replied, leaning back, twirling the glass between my fingers. "I'm interested in unusual people. Those capable of things beyond mere mortals."
Fisk allowed a faint smile, not reaching his eyes.
"New York's full of strange people, Mr. Smith. But quality information costs."
"Money's no issue," I said, meeting his gaze without blinking. "I care about accuracy and completeness."
Harry coughed nervously, but Fisk raised a massive hand, silencing him instantly.
"Then let's dine first. I prefer discussing serious matters on a full stomach."
I nodded, though the thought of eating here repulsed me. Still, I was curious to observe this unusual man in a relaxed setting.
Fisk snapped his fingers, and the bartender arrived with a tray. Three plates of so-called steaks, soggy fries, and wilted salad. The stench of overcooked meat and rancid oil hit like a wave, but I kept my face impassive.
Fisk seemed genuinely pleased. He cut his meat with surgical precision, each movement controlled, efficient—the motions of someone accustomed to violence who knew the value of every gesture.
"This place is special to me," he said, chewing. "I came here as a kid with my father. They served the best food in the area back then." He paused. "Times change, but the taste stays."
Dinner passed in measured conversation. Harry chattered nervously about trivialities—rising drug prices, new Bronx gangs, police corruption. Fisk ate silently, occasionally nodding or asking sharp questions. I kept the talk going but focused on studying my companion.
Every movement spoke of colossal strength and iron control. He was dangerous—not just for his size but the mind behind it. Yet something about him wasn't entirely human.
When the plates were cleared, Fisk pushed his aside and wiped his mouth neatly.
"So, Mr. Smith. You want to know about those hiding in this city's shadows. I have information. But first, why do you need it?"
"Call it professional curiosity," I shrugged. "I collect stories of the unusual."
Fisk narrowed his eyes but didn't press.
"Fine. This city does have people with… abilities." He paused, choosing words. "There's a group called the Fantastic Four. Scientists who gained powers from cosmic radiation. One stretches like rubber, another turns invisible, a third becomes stone, the fourth is living flame."
I nodded, urging him on. Interesting, but not what I sought.
"There's a kid in a red-and-blue suit, climbs walls, shoots webs. Annoying punk who ruins a lot of business."
"Spider-Man," I confirmed, familiar from local news. Hard to miss a celebrity like him.
"Exactly. And a group of mercenaries called the Inhumans. They'll take any job for the right price." Fisk leaned forward. "But they're small fry compared to what's underground."
"Meaning?"
"Rumors of vampires," his voice dropped to a whisper. "People who drink blood and don't fear death. Just rumors, though. I've never encountered such."
Interesting. My kind was known only by hearsay here. That simplified things.
"What if I mentioned a name… say, Phastos? Ring any bells?"
Fisk and Harry exchanged glances, but their eyes showed only confusion.
"Phastos?" Fisk frowned. "Never heard it. Harry?"
"Nope, boss. Doesn't mean anything," Harry shook his head. "Should it?"
Disappointment. So, they didn't know.
"No matter," I shrugged. "Tell me about other unusual people. Everyone you know."
Fisk perked up, eager to show his knowledge.
"There's Captain America," Harry added. "Super-soldier from the '40s. Frozen, long gone, but you probably know…"
"What about local talents? Living ones?"
"Daredevil patrols Hell's Kitchen," Harry lowered his voice. "The Devil of Hell's Kitchen, strong. Beats criminals but doesn't kill. Moralist. Then there's the Punisher—total opposite. Kills anyone he deems a criminal. No powers, but damn good with guns and pain."
"Jessica Jones—private detective with super strength," Harry continued. "Alcoholic with a bad attitude. Takes cases involving crooks and freaks."
"Then Luke Cage—bulletproof skin, super strength. Works security in Harlem. Small-time, but tough."
I listened, but disappointment grew with each name. Ordinary people with minor abilities, random mutants, science experiments. Nothing valuable.
"There's another odd tale," Fisk rubbed his chin. "Rumors of a mad scientist stealing lab data, with mechanical tentacles. Sounds like an urban legend."
"And the Green Goblin," Harry shivered. "Psycho in a costume with pumpkin bombs. If he's real, it's pure insanity."
"Is that all?" I didn't hide my disappointment.
"Mr. Smith," Fisk leaned forward, "New York's full of weirdness, but truly ancient, powerful beings… If they exist, they hide well. Most I mentioned got powers by accident or science. What you're seeking… I may not have met it."
Damn. Had none of them become heroes or surfaced? Why did I even come to this city? Were they hiding that well?
"Fine," I leaned back, masking my frustration. "Let's talk payment."
"Of course," Fisk grinned. "Where's the money, Mr. Smith?"
I glanced at him, then Harry. Both sat tense, hands near weapons—Harry's under his jacket, Fisk's likely in a shoulder holster. Touching. They thought they could threaten me. Make me wait. Lesser creatures…
"Why would the dead need money?" I smiled, baring fangs.
Fisk frowned, but before he could respond, I let my will seep into their minds. Human minds were so fragile, so malleable to those who knew how.
Harry succumbed instantly—his eyes glazed, mouth slack, hands limp. Weak minds were easy.
Fisk was far more interesting. He resisted for nearly a minute, face contorted, veins bulging, tears welling. His will was impressive—few humans lasted so long. But even his iron discipline couldn't withstand millennia of experience. His gaze dulled, his massive frame slumped.
"Much better," I leaned back, savoring total control. "Now tell me everything you know about the supernatural world and strange cases. Everything."
Ten minutes later, I'd learned much. Humanity was in graver danger than they realized. Government groups—SHIELD, AIM, SWORD, and more. So many foolish names, but all about power. Vampires, monsters, killers, mercenaries, lunatics. Much useless knowledge.
But I sought a trace. There was something—a flying woman, a decade ago, here in America. I doubted Ikaris changed genders in a millennium, so not him either.
Disappointed, I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Maybe slaughter this city—they'd notice that. Or take millions of children hostage…
Then, the bar's door slammed open, bringing cold air and new scents. No one stood there, but I sensed it—synthetic fabric, adrenaline, young male sweat. And blood. Strong blood.
Seconds of silence passed before a figure in a red-and-blue suit with a web pattern swung in—Spider-Man. He landed on the bar in a crouch, one hand steadying himself. His masked head turned toward me; I felt his gaze.
Curious. What brought him here? Coincidence? Or was he tracking Fisk?
"Your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man's back, folks! What's going on? Another shady deal gone south?"
Ignoring the kid, I turned to the corpses. I had my information, and these two had annoyed me enough.
Time to end them.
Focusing, I targeted their bodies, not minds. Blood. Their cervical vertebrae compressed under my power. The cracks were faint, but I savored each snap. Harry died first—his head jerked, and he slumped onto the table. Fisk lasted longer—his bull neck required effort. Slowly, his head twisted. His massive body went limp.
Spider-Man froze on the bar, silenced, stunned by the sudden deaths. His body tensed, ready to act, but he hesitated, processing.
I stood, adjusted my jacket, and headed for the exit, ignoring Fisk's corpse sliding to the floor. His blood could've been tasty, but I was full. Blood seeped from his ears—a nice touch.
Spider-Man wavered, staring at the bodies, confused, as I passed the bar. Only when I neared the door did a web strand hit my back, trying to halt me.
"Stop!"
I paused, not turning.
"Such a pity," I murmured, scanning the room.
In the corner, the homeless man still slumped, barely breathing, his heart weak—nearly dead from alcohol and disease. Perfect for a demonstration.
I raised a hand, and an invisible force lifted his limp body. His eyes widened in terror, but it was too late. Blood poured from his eyes, nose, mouth, ears, forming a crimson battering ram that slammed into Spider-Man.
He tried to dodge, but the blood projectile was too fast. It hurled him into the opposite wall, crashing among shattered bottles. The bartender screamed, diving under the counter, as patrons fled in panic.
The homeless man's drained corpse hit the floor with a wet thud.
I faced Spider-Man, rising amid the wreckage. Blood stained his suit, almost artistic against the red and blue. He assumed a fighting stance, but I sensed his uncertainty. He had no idea what he faced.
"Want to play with a real predator?" I said, letting the blood under my skin stir, ready to take any form needed.
Spider-Man tensed, poised to leap. His youthful idealism and justice demanded action, but his instincts screamed danger. Amusing to watch the struggle in his masked head.
I stepped forward, floorboards creaking ominously in the now-silent bar. The air reeked of blood and death, the flickering lights foreboding destruction.
Spider-Man shot two web strands, hooking ceiling beams, and launched feet-first. His boots aimed for my face with bone-crushing force. But I was no ordinary foe.
I sidestepped, letting him sail past, then grabbed his ankle with a grip like steel. His suit tore, but bones held. Spinning him like a hammer, I hurled him into the opposite wall.
The impact cracked the wall, plaster falling like snow. But the kid was resilient—he bounced off, using the wall as a springboard, and attacked again, webbing my face to blind me.
The sticky strands covered my eyes, but I didn't panic. Focusing on my blood, I heated it to boiling. The webs smoked and dissolved from the heat radiating from my skin.
Spider-Man capitalized, landing rapid blows to my torso. His fists hit like jackhammers, but to me, they were mere annoyances. When the last webs fell, I grabbed his wrist mid-strike.
"My turn," I smirked, flinging him across the bar.
He crashed through the wooden counter, splintering it, then hit a beer fridge. Bottles exploded in a spray of foam and glass, the floor pooling with liquor and blood.
Yet he rose, shaking off debris. His suit was torn, blood seeping from under the mask, but his spirit held firm.
"What are you?" he rasped, resuming his stance.
"Predator," I replied, charging.
I gave him no time to maneuver. My hand sliced the air where his head had been, but he dodged, leaving blood droplets behind. His counter was swift—knee to my gut, elbow to my jaw, double fist to my temples.
The blows were strong, stronger than expected from a teen. But pain only fueled my rage. I seized his throat, lifting him off the floor, savoring his dangling legs.
"Last words?" I growled, tightening my grip.
But Spider-Man was cleverer than he looked. He shot a web, not at me, but at a ceiling beam, using me as leverage to swing upward, kicking my jaw with both heels.
The blow forced my grip loose, and he broke free, leaping to the opposite corner. Blood trickled from my mouth—the first I'd spilled in years. Thrilling.
"You can bite," I hissed, wiping blood with my hand. "Let's play for real."
I focused on the blood-soaked floor—liquor mixed with patrons' vital fluids. It rose in thin streams, forming dozens of writhing blood tendrils like living snakes, poised to strike.
Spider-Man tensed, ready to leap, but too late. The tendrils surged, targeting vital organs. He dodged the first wave, vaulting to the ceiling, then the second, third. He evaded each strike as if sensing them, even from behind. But if I stopped the blood in his veins for a second…
The tendrils snared his limbs, pinning him to the ceiling beams. His struggles only tightened the bonds. I rose, buoyed by blood streams, nearing my helpless prey.
"Game over, little spider," I whispered, reaching for his throat.
But Spider-Man did the unexpected. Instead of breaking free, he shot a web at the last ceiling lamp. The bulb shattered, its glowing filament falling into the alcohol pool below.
The bar erupted in flames.
Fire consumed the floor, walls, remaining furniture. My blood tendrils evaporated, freeing Spider-Man. He fell to the burning floor, webbed a window, shattered it, and swung out in a cloud of smoke and sparks.
I followed, smashing through the window frame. Glass shards pierced my skin, but I felt no pain—only the thrill of a fleeing quarry.
We landed in a narrow alley between buildings, walls coated in graffiti and mold, air thick with urine and rotting trash. Perfect for ending the hunt.
Spider-Man clung to the opposite wall, gripping bricks with fingertips. His suit smoldered, his breathing heavy. Yet he wouldn't surrender.
"Stop," he shouted across the alley. "You killed innocent people!"
"Innocent?" I laughed, landing on the asphalt. "There are no innocents. Only predators and prey."
Before he could reply, I grabbed a nearby dumpster and hurled it at his wall. The metal mass smashed the bricks, but he leaped aside, pushing off the wall.
His counter was immediate. He shot webs, hooking a fire escape on my side, and swung like a pendulum, aiming for my head. The kick landed, lifting me off the ground into the opposite wall.
But I caught myself, claws digging into the bricks, sparking. I pushed off, charging with claws ready.
Spider-Man tried to dodge, but I was faster. My fingers tore into his shoulder, ripping fabric and flesh. Blood sprayed, its sweet metallic taste hitting my lips. Delicious.
We crashed in a tangle of limbs. He fought, pummeling my ribs, but I held fast, a rabid predator. My teeth sought his throat through the mask, ready to tear his jugular.
Suddenly, he arched, headbutting my face. My nose crunched, echoing off the alley walls. Pain seared my skull, fueling my joy.
I released him, leaping back, wiping blood from my nose. My regeneration kicked in, bones knitting with audible cracks.
"This is getting fun," I said, flexing.
I grabbed a parked sedan by the bumper, lifting it overhead. Metal groaned, windows cracking. Spider-Man froze, watching my strength.
With a roar, I threw the car at him. The one-and-a-half-ton vehicle flew like a toy. He shot a web to a fire escape, swinging up as the car smashed the wall below, shaking the building.
He landed on the wrecked car, poised for another leap. But I gave him no chance. Crossing the distance in a second, I grabbed an SUV and hurled it after the first.
It grazed his leg, sending him spinning. I seized his disorientation, leaping and catching him mid-air.
We crashed to the asphalt, me on top. My hands clamped his throat, thumbs pressing his carotid. A bit more pressure, and his brain would starve.
"Having fun?" I rasped, squeezing.
Spider-Man found another escape. He shot a web at the building above, yanking hard. Tons of brick and mortar collapsed on us.
I shielded my head, loosening my grip. Debris buried us, dust and noise deafening. When it settled, I was under rubble.
But tons of stone couldn't stop me. I dug out, tossing concrete and bricks. My clothes were shredded, skin scraped, but regeneration healed wounds, ribs snapping back into place.
Spider-Man stood meters away, clutching his bleeding shoulder. His suit was in tatters, blood oozing from his mask. Yet his stance screamed defiance.
"What are you?" he gasped, staunching his wound.
"Why care?" I replied, brushing off dust. "You'll die anyway."
I stepped forward, ready to strike, when something caught my ear. Not screams, but music—bright, melodic, with Eastern motifs—coming from a third-floor window.
My gaze flicked up. Through the glass, an elderly woman sat in an armchair, engrossed in a TV. She hadn't noticed the chaos below. The screen showed a vibrant scene—people dancing in colorful costumes, lavish sets, unmistakably Bollywood.
But one face on the screen held me. A middle-aged man with perfect hair and expressive eyes performed a solo dance in a palace set. His moves were graceful, his voice strong.
I knew that face. Too well.
Spider-Man's fist slammed my jaw, sending me reeling. Pain flashed, sparks dancing in my vision. Damn it! I'd been distracted at the worst moment.
"Don't zone out in a fight, freak!" he shouted, readying another attack.
But instead of anger, I felt clarity. Epiphany.
I rose, ignoring the ache. It'd heal. My eyes returned to the window, where the film played. The man, now delivering a passionate speech, filled the screen.
Kingo. My ancient enemy, one of the Eternals I sought. Hiding in plain sight as a Bollywood actor.
Laughter burst from me—quiet at first, then a wild cackle echoing off the alley walls. Spider-Man froze, baffled.
"You gone nuts? What's so funny?" he asked warily.
"Oh, it's delicious," I rasped, laughing. "All the searching, killing, tracking, and he's hiding on TV! So simple. So easy. Bravo!"
Ignoring Spider-Man, I leaped to the building, claws digging into brick. I climbed with inhuman speed, leaving gashes in the wall.
"Hey, stop!" Spider-Man shouted, shooting webs to follow, but I was too fast. Reaching the third floor, I kicked in the window. Glass shattered, and the old woman screamed.
I stormed in like a hurricane, ignoring her. My focus was the TV, where Kingo danced and sang, oblivious, unhidden.
"Kingo, Kingo," I whispered, grabbing the TV. "So easy to find you. So foolish."
The woman tried to rise, but I seized her leg, hurling her through the window. She flew out screaming, but I didn't care—my discovery consumed me.
On screen, Kingo finished his number to extras' applause. The camera zoomed to his face, features I remembered. One of those who wronged me. A path to Phastos. Same face, altered by modern makeup but recognizable.
"All these years," I murmured, touching the screen. "You could've been gods. Ruled nobly. Made this world a paradise. Instead, you entertain these pathetic mortals with songs and dances."
Another window exploded, and Spider-Man swung in, landing in a fighting stance, ready to resume our duel. I'd lost interest.
My search was over. I'd found my target.
"Playtime's done, kid," I said, not turning.
He lunged, aiming a kick at my head, but I was faster. My hand shot back, grabbing his throat mid-move. My fingers crushed with overwhelming force.
Spider-Man thrashed, but it was futile. I slowed the blood to his brain. His struggles weakened, movements sluggish.
"Sleep, hero," I whispered. "I've got bigger plans than your death."
Seconds later, he went limp. His pulse was faint but present—alive, unconscious. Perfect.
I hoisted his body over my shoulder like a sack. Stepping to the broken window, I peered out. The alley was littered with our wreckage, empty. Sirens wailed in the distance, helicopter blades thrummed. Order was coming.
I stepped through the window, wings catching me. Cold night air hit my face, carrying the city's scents—exhaust, smoke, the sweat of millions. Far below, car lights and neon signs flickered, but my mind fixed on one thought.
Found him.
I soared, Spider-Man over my shoulder. He'd be useful—newly turned or just a blood bank. His blood was strong, unique. I'd decide later.