Indira Gandhi International Airport greeted me with stifling heat and a cacophony of scents that crashed over my heightened senses like a tsunami. Spices, exhaust fumes, the sweat of millions, temple incense, waste, flowers—all blended into an intoxicating cocktail that would overwhelm a lesser being. I reveled in this symphony of aromas, especially the notes from the living creatures around me. My mood was buoyant.
Crowds surged through the arrivals hall, each person lost in trivial concerns. Businessmen with briefcases, families with children, tourists with cameras—all ants in their anthill. Pathetic, primitive creatures. Over millennia, I'd witnessed civilizations rise and fall, watched humanity crawl from caves to cities, yet their essence remained unchanged: herd animals driven by instinct and fear.
A middle-aged man in an expensive suit bumped my shoulder, rushing to the exit without an apology. On another day, I'd have torn his throat out for such insolence, but today, more pressing matters awaited. Besides, Spider-Man's blood still coursed through me, making me feel… magnanimous. Like a playful predator letting a mouse escape for amusement. His heart would stop in an hour anyway, thanks to a sudden cardiac issue I'd just induced.
I strolled to the customs desk, humming simple Sanskrit phrases. A fine language, especially for the screams it carried. "Help!" "Save us!" "Not my children!" As if their cries ever changed anything. The ancestors of these locals were quite amusing.
The Indian official in uniform scrutinized my passport—American, under Daniel Carter, flawless enough to pass any check. I'd crafted it myself. I flashed a disarming smile, honed over centuries, and used a touch of suggestion. His eyes glinted briefly, and the process sped by.
"Purpose of visit?" he asked in broken English.
"Tourism," I replied smoothly. "I wish to explore your remarkable culture."
He nodded, stamped the passport, and waved me through. If only he knew I'd studied their culture's birth while his ancestors learned to farm rice in the Indus Valley—and I crushed their skulls.
The Rajdhani Express from Delhi to Mumbai was packed with people of every caste and class. I'd secured a first-class ticket, but even there, the air buzzed with India's unique chaos, what Europeans call "color." Children wailed, adults shouted into phones, vendors weaved through, hawking tea, samosas, and trinkets.
Seated by the window, head resting on my right hand, I watched endless fields, villages, and cities slide by. India hadn't changed since I first walked these lands a millennium ago. Same faces, same movements, same cares. Only the technology was more complex, but the people remained predictable, weak, mortal.
Their cling to tradition and religion amused me most. In the next compartment, an elderly Brahmin muttered mantras, fingering wooden beads, believing they held mystical power to alter his karma or bring moksha. Touching naivety. If he knew he sat beside a being who remembered when his gods were living men, elevated by clever PR and political tides…
Human stupidity knows no bounds, and their idols are just like them—ordinary people who etched their names into history. Had I not been imprisoned for millennia, who knows how much would have changed?
A young woman across from me nursed her infant, softly singing a Hindi lullaby. Maternal love—one of humanity's strongest, most irrational emotions. She'd die for that tiny creature that couldn't yet speak. Evolution, yes, but amusing to see instincts rule these beings. Once, they weren't so attached to kin—culling the weak, sacrificing the defective, killing siblings, breeding genetic rejects. Pure animals. Though…
Even animals had purer blood than those who bred with close kin. Incest was too vital to these lesser creatures.
Blood. Peter's blood still circulated in my system, and I felt changes hourly. My vision sharpened—I could spot an ant on a platform hundreds of meters away. My hearing caught conversations in neighboring cars. Most intriguing was a new sensation, a faint vibration warning of danger. Spider-sense? Perhaps. I'd test it soon.
Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus hit me with a human flood. Thousands moved in every direction, a chaos that seemed madness to untrained eyes. But I saw the system—like ants, each knew their path.
A taxi took me to Bandra, where I rented a penthouse in one of Mumbai's priciest hotels. I needed a base with a good view, fast internet, and room for guests. The Sikh doorman in a turban bowed respectfully, taking my luggage. His eyes held the same deference I'd seen in servants across centuries. Money—a universal language in every era.
From the penthouse windows, I saw Mahim Bay and the skyscrapers of the business district. Somewhere among those glass towers lived my quarry—Kingo, an Eternal. A being whose life was worth more to me than all India's treasures.
Kingo. I knew little, pieced from public and some private sources. He emerged recently by human standards, twenty years ago. A struggling actor taking any gig, now a top-paid Bollywood star, featured in hundreds of films, a titan of India's film industry. Born in a small town near Mumbai. Parents dead, no living relatives. A classic rags-to-riches tale. He could've been more original.
An odd career for an immortal. Yet logical—what better way to hide among humans than a profession where overacting and falsehood are the norm? All Eternals were liars, living in illusions.
His mansion was in Juhu, Mumbai's elite enclave for film stars and millionaires. Five acres, walled with modern security. The main building blended traditional Indian architecture with contemporary design—three floors, thirty rooms. Staff of twenty: guards, servants, cooks, a personal secretary.
For three days, I studied his routine, blending modern tech with old-fashioned surveillance. Kingo was a creature of habit: yoga on his terrace at 6 a.m., breakfast at 7:30, then either film shoots or meetings at his production office. Lunch at home, 1 p.m. Evenings were social events or screenings in his private theater.
His security was professional but human. Cameras, motion sensors, patrols—enough to deter thieves or paparazzi, not me. The real threat was Kingo himself—an Eternal with millennia of combat experience.
To approach my target, I needed a fitting guise. My true face—European features, curly black hair, blue eyes—stood out too much. I required a disguise.
In a dark alley of an old quarter, I found a suitable victim—a man in his thirties, average height, quintessentially Indian features. A textile merchant, judging by the dye scent on his clothes. Family man, two children—I smelled milk and baby powder on his hands.
His death was swift and silent. I didn't drink his blood—too ordinary, lacking the spark I craved. But I needed his face.
The process was painful but necessary. I broke my cheekbones, jaw, and nose, using blood control to halt regeneration in precise spots. Bones reset, muscles reshaped, skin reformed. Two hours later, Rajesh Singh's face stared back from the mirror, per his wallet's documents.
Changing identity meant more than appearance. I studied his phone's call logs, social media photos, and learned his wife and children's names. Rajesh was simple, hardworking, devout. He spoke Hindi with a Rajasthan accent, stammered when nervous, and tugged his earlobe when thinking.
Becoming him was easy. After millennia hunting these creatures, slipping into their skin was like donning a glove.
Kingo was filming a new blockbuster—another Bollywood tale of love and revenge—at Mehtab Studios, one of Mumbai's largest. Security was minimal: a few guards at the gate, fans crowding outside.
I arrived as a textile supplier, carrying silk and brocade samples for the costume department. Rajesh Singh was known here—his family had traded fabrics for three generations. The guards let me pass without question.
For the first time in centuries, I saw one of my enemies up close.
Kingo was… disappointing. Instead of an ancient warrior, guardian of cosmic secrets, I saw a spoiled actor demanding special water, berating assistants, checking his hair every ten minutes. Millennia of existence, reduced to playing dolls for lesser beings' amusement.
Yet his movements betrayed his past. Explaining something to the director, he moved with a predator's grace, the confidence of a being who could crush a tank barehanded, the alertness of one seasoned by millennia of battle. Beneath the movie star's mask, the ancient warrior lingered.
His Eternal powers surfaced during a fight scene. Instead of effects, he conjured real light projectiles—weakened, like fireworks, not lethal weapons. But I sensed their potential. That power could level a building if he chose.
I watched for hours, studying his mannerisms, habits, interactions. Kingo thrived on attention, basking in fans' adoration, acting even off-camera. Narcissism honed over millennia of being worshipped. I bet he'd played a god or two.
Pathetic creature.
I needed a place to lure Kingo for a "conversation" without detection. His mansion was too crowded, the studio too public.
I reviewed his schedule for the next two weeks. Most of his time was spent in crowded places, but one exception stood out. Weekly, he visited an old warehouse in Andheri's industrial district, storing film props and sets. Irregular visits, minimal staff, remote location. He went out of tradition and respect for his assistant.
The perfect hunting ground.
The warehouse was a vast colonial-era metal structure, retrofitted for modern use. High ceilings, a maze of corridors between racks, dim lighting. Staff: an elderly watchman, two workers, and an administrator. All locals, none would be missed for days.
I infiltrated the warehouse at night, with only the watchman present. He slept in his shack, unaware his life was ending. His death was quick—I compressed his carotid artery. No pain, no screams, just a shift from sleep to eternity.
The others arrived in the morning. Two workers—brothers, Vinod and Sunil, in their early twenties. The administrator, Priya, a middle-aged mother of three. Honest workers, earning a living. On another day, I might've felt a flicker of pity, but not today.
They were obstacles.
Vinod died first, finding the watchman's body in a storage room. He didn't have time to scream with his neck snapped. Sunil searched for his brother for half an hour before finding his corpse. He tried to run, but who can escape a hunter older than the wheel?
Priya was the toughest. Realizing the danger, she locked herself in the office and tried calling the police. Seconds later, I broke down the door. She fought—scratching, biting, throwing anything within reach. Brave woman. Pity she was born human. Lifting her with one hand, I drained the life from her eyes.
Four corpses, a warehouse to prepare my trap.
Blood isn't just liquid. For me, it's a tool, a weapon, a medium for art. I could shape it, control its consistency, make it move or hold still. Over centuries, I'd crafted masterpieces from it.
I turned the warehouse into a labyrinth of death.
Thin blood threads stretched between racks at ankle height—invisible in the dim light, ready to bind anyone who moved. Blood pools in strategic spots, poised to form restraints or tendrils. False walls of crystallized blood hid traps.
At the warehouse's center, I created an arena—a twenty-meter circle ringed by a wall of hardened blood. Here, the final battle would unfold if Kingo proved stronger than anticipated.
The main trap was the corpses. I posed them naturally—the watchman asleep, workers at tasks, Priya at her desk. Only close inspection revealed their lifelessness.
If Kingo came alone, as usual, he wouldn't sense the trap until it was too late.
Perched between racks, I pondered my target's nature. Eternals, created by Celestials—cosmic beings of unimaginable power experimenting with life across planets. Technically, Kingo should be superior—older, stronger, with a perfected physiology.
In a perfect world, my hunt would fail. But he had a flaw: too long among humans. Millennia of peace dulled his predator's instincts. He'd grown soft on luxury, comfort, predictability. When had he last fought for his life? A century ago? Two?
I never stopped being a hunter. Every day was a hunt—for food, amusement, new sensations. I knew the taste of fear in a victim's blood, the rhythm of a dying heart, the moment life fled. That knowledge made me stronger than any Eternal who only fought Deviants.
Plus, I had an edge—Spider-Man's blood still worked in me. It made me faster, stronger, sharper. The spider-sense warned of danger, my reflexes surpassing anything I'd known.
Would it suffice against an Eternal? We'd see. Gilgamesh was their strongest, but had they learned new tricks over the centuries?
I also considered what came next. Capture Kingo, use him as bait, summon the Eternals. Kill them. Then what?
Perhaps it was time to stop hiding. With their powers, I could openly challenge this world, become the terror I was in ancient times. Cities at my feet, governments begging mercy, humanity learning its place in the food chain.
But those were future goals. Now, only the hunt mattered.
Thursday, 2 p.m., a black Mercedes pulled up to the warehouse. Behind the wheel was Karun Patel, Kingo's rotund assistant from a family that knew his secret for a century. I'd deal with him later. In the backseat, Kingo reviewed documents.
They stopped at the entrance. Kingo stepped out, smoothing his pristine shirt, and told Karun to wait. He headed inside.
From my hiding spot, my pulse quickened with anticipation. Finally. After weeks of preparation, the hunt began.
Kingo pushed the door and entered, unaware he'd crossed into his trap. In the warehouse's dim light, his silhouette was majestic—tall, lean, moving with a dancer's or warrior's grace. But I saw only a future source of power.
"Ram?" he called for the watchman. "Vinod? Where is everyone?"
No answer. He ventured deeper, passing the first traps. While he remained peaceful, the blood threads stayed dormant.
"Priya?" His voice echoed off the high ceilings. "What the hell…"
He found the watchman in his shack, slumped as if asleep. Kingo approached, reaching to wake him…
Then he realized.
No breath. No pulse. Cold body.
His millennia-old warrior instincts snapped on. He leaped back, hands glowing with golden Eternal energy, ready for battle. His eyes scanned for threats.
"Who's here?" he demanded, his voice shaking dust from the beams. "Show yourself!"
I stepped from behind a rack, still in Rajesh Singh's guise. Hands raised in peace, my face feigned a mortal's fear and confusion.
"Sahib!" I cried in Hindi, mimicking a panicked merchant. "Thank the gods you're here! Something terrible happened! I came to deliver fabrics and found… found them all…"
Laughter roared inside me.
Kingo didn't relax, but his hands' glow dimmed. His gaze pierced, seeing through lies and truth.
"Who are you?" he asked in English.
"Rajesh Singh, textile merchant. I often bring materials for your films. But today… my God, what happened?"
As I spoke, blood threads crept toward his ankles, ready to strike.
"How long have you been here?" Kingo pressed.
"Just arrived! Maybe ten minutes. I thought they were sleeping, but then…"
He turned to leave, likely to call the police. Time to act.
Blood threads shot up, binding his ankles. I shed Rajesh's mask, letting my true face emerge through the false flesh.
"But then," I finished in my own voice, "you didn't realize you'd walked into a trap, ancient fool."
An energy blast exploded toward me, melting the rack behind into slag. But I was already moving, using my legs. Kingo tore at the blood bonds, his strength immense, but I'd anticipated this.
Hundreds of liters of blood rose from every corner, forming a living web closing in from all sides. He shattered it with energy blasts, but new threads replaced the destroyed ones.
"Who are you?!" he shouted, forging new energy weapons in his hands.
"Did you forget me already, Kingo?" I taunted, circling behind, unleashing my blood webs' full force. "You'll remember soon…"
High above Mumbai, in a starless black sky, a next-generation Quinjet glided silently. Its adaptive camouflage made it nearly invisible, only faint air distortions betraying its presence. Inside, blue console lights reflected off communication and surveillance gear.
Agent Phil Coulson sat at the operator's console, his calm face lit by monitors. A detailed map of Andheri's industrial district showed a red dot marking the target building. Real-time satellite imagery revealed heat signatures inside—one large, several weaker, too faint to identify.
"Director," Coulson said into his headset, voice steady. "We're nearly at the target. Thermal shows activity inside. Preparing for deployment."
Nick Fury's voice crackled through secure comms: "Good work, Coulson. Report when you've secured the target. And tell Natasha and Clint not to dawdle. We've got a thirty-minute window before local authorities start asking questions."
"Understood, sir," Coulson replied, turning to the Quinjet's rear.
In the cargo bay, strapped into seats, sat S.H.I.E.L.D.'s deadliest agents. Natasha Romanoff checked her gear with methodical precision. Her black tactical suit bristled with tools—tranquilizer darts, mini-explosives. Red hair tied in a tight bun, green eyes studied a building schematic on a tablet.
Clint Barton sat opposite, holding his composite bow. Even in the Quinjet's confines, he looked ready to strike—muscles taut, gaze focused. A quiver of specialized arrows—explosive, shock, net, smoke—was strapped to his back.
"What's up, Phil?" Natasha asked, not looking up, a smirk in her voice. "Daddy saying not to play too long?"
Coulson sighed, used to the elite agents' casual attitude toward hierarchy. "Yes, Natasha. Please follow his advice. This situation could be highly unpredictable. We're dealing with an entity beyond normal comprehension."
Clint looked up, eyes serious. "Threat level? Are we talking a standard serial killer or something worse?"
"Preliminary data," Coulson said, flipping through a report, "indicates an extremely dangerous entity. Drinks blood, superhuman strength and speed. Dozens of drained corpses across cities in recent weeks."
Natasha glanced up. "A vampire? Seriously? After everything we've seen, I'm not surprised. What about this actor, Kingo?"
"Possible next target," Coulson confirmed. "We don't know why, but victims are linked to him. We're here to prevent the next kill and capture the entity."
The Quinjet's pilot, Agent May, her face hidden by a helmet, spoke through intercom: "Coulson, we're in position. Five hundred meters altitude, building in sight. Thermals show… odd activity. One bright source and something… moving."
Clint stood, checking his gear. "Moving?"
"Like liquid," May replied. "But too warm for water. More like…"
"Blood," Coulson finished, face grim. "A lot of blood."
Natasha was at the deployment hatch, hands dancing over her gear's clasps. "Standard procedure? Cordon, clear, capture? Backup team?"
"No," Coulson said firmly. "Fury was clear. This isn't an arrest or rescue. Kingo's priority two. The entity is priority one."
Clint tested his bowstring. "What if Kingo's already dead?"
A pause. Coulson eyed the screens, where the strange thermal activity continued. "Then we're dealing with a fed, very dangerous killer who just took out a global star with a U.S. passport. That's an international incident."
Natasha and Clint exchanged a glance, years of partnership conveying understanding without words. This was one of those missions where everything could go very, very wrong.
"May," Coulson ordered, "hover above the building. Prep for rapid evac. If things go south, we've got one minute to get out."
"Got it," May replied, the Quinjet hovering with a faint hum.
The hatch opened with a hiss, humid Mumbai night air flooding the cabin, heavy with city scents. Far below, the metropolis twinkled, but Andheri's industrial district was dark.
"Comms every thirty seconds," Coulson reminded. "Report any deviations immediately. We don't know exactly what we're facing. Could be a clever serial killer. Or something else…"
Natasha stood at the hatch's edge, ready to jump. Her voice was calm, as always before a mission: "Relax, Phil. We're just going to chat with a possible vampire holding a Bollywood star hostage. What could go wrong?"
With that, she leaped into the night. Clint followed a second later, bow ready.
Coulson watched the two dark figures vanish into the darkness toward the building, where an entity—human or not—left too bloody a trail. On the screens, the thermal signatures danced their eerie waltz. Deep down, he hoped he wasn't sending his best agents to their deaths.
"Sir," he said into the mic, "agents deployed. Operation Red Harvest underway."
"Copy, Coulson. Pray we're not too late. The Council will have my hide for this…"