Things were always bound to change, and tonight stood to reshape the day ahead in ways no one could yet understand.
Inside the 15th Precinct Station House, tension rippled like static in the air. Usually trained to remain calm, the emergency operator grew increasingly exasperated as calls poured in, escalating in urgency by the second.
"Are we dealing with mutants again?" a young officer asked under his breath, glancing at a mature woman beside him.
"The task force wants to make contact first," she answered flatly, not turning her gaze.
"This is bullshit," a detective growled, throwing up his hands. "We've got citizens terrified—and we're paralyzed by red tape!"
The captain held the phone to his ear, jaw tight. His eyes matched the frustration in the room, but he raised his hand, silencing the outbursts.
"I understand, Chief," he finally said. His tone was grave as he hung up and turned to face the room.
"Alright, we're to cordon off the area. Patrol: give me a three-block perimeter around every entry and exit. Hell's Kitchen isn't that large. SWAT—hold your position. Wait for the task force."
Groans and curses followed. But orders were orders.
_____________________________________
Outside, the original caller- the woman who had unknowingly witnessed the birth of something monstrous and divine—stood in the snow, eyes wide.
She wasn't alone.
A dozen others had emerged from their homes, drawn by the red light. The winter air couldn't chill their feelings—awe mixed with primal dread.
"He's just a kid," someone muttered.
"If that's a mutant," another said, "we're screwed."
An older man in a heavy robe waved from his doorway. "Call the police!"
"They already know," the woman replied, her voice distant.
A teenager whispered, "Red Hood only goes after the bad guys. That samurai must be evil."
Another responded, "But he's still a killer… and he's hiding his face."
The first teen ignored them. He pulled out his phone, posted:
"Front row to a Red Hood fight."
Replies exploded. "Proof or it didn't happen!" "Go live!"
With a shaky hand, the teen started a live stream—capturing history without knowing it.
_______________________________________
Five blocks away, a towering Black man stood at his window, backlit by a red glow and violence. Nearly seven feet tall, Elvin Haliday looked like a warrior—but inside, he was still a boy.
Behind him, his family trembled as tremors rolled through the building.
A frail, aged hand touched his bicep.
"Elvin," said Granny Staples, her voice soft.
At 13, Elvin had survived the assassination of his father, a community leader who'd uncovered corruption linking local gangs to a shadowy financier. The chemicals that night had transformed Elvin. Grown him and hardened him.
Now he looked like a 30-year-old man—but that didn't mean he wasn't still afraid.
"We ran from the Serpents in Brooklyn," he said. "Back then, I was just a scared kid. But now I could stop them. I could make them talk. That's Red Hood out there. He's not much older than me…"
He caught his reflection. Beard. Broad shoulders. A tired face.
"I look thirty," he muttered.
Granny cupped his cheek. "You're still my boy."
He stared back out at the red flare crackling across Hell's Kitchen.
"Red Hood… I hope I get to meet you."
_________________________________
It seemed fate favored the innocent tonight—the fight drifting away from the residential sector. But that wasn't by accident.
The Chunin realized he was being herded, his strikes redirected, his positioning manipulated.
"You've been trained. That much is obvious. But not by your traitorous mother. So, who was it that armed you, Amatsu?"
He spat the name like poison, watching Cole with growing caution. Cole's measured movements, strategic placement, and unshakable focus unsettled him.
"Your skill is commendable," the ninja sneered. "But you think you'll succeed where she failed?"
The mandate thrummed, his emotions hammering the sole reason he hadn't lost control and detonated. Cole snarled, and his aura flared.
Hiryu laughed at the boy's reaction. Feeling excited at the easily exploited wound.
Cole, aglow in hateful red, easily deduced that Hiryu and his mother didn't like one another. The Hand was more tumultuous than his earlier assessment.
"Everything of yours will burn," he said coldly.
The Chunin leapt back as heat cracked the pavement beneath them.
"So much power…" the ninja whispered. "Wasted on a child."
His eyes darted to the civilians recording from behind parked cars.
"You're protecting them," he laughed. "How noble. How like your father."
But Cole wasn't just watching. He was analyzing. Calculating. Every breath, every twitch—cataloged.
The Chunin lunged—but Cole's hammer met his strike, swung with surgical brutality. The black blade hissed, its madness radiating through his grip.
"Kill," the ninja barked, his oni-mask warping his voice. At his command, a dozen shinobi emerged from the shadows.
The Red Lantern's eyes narrowed. He saw through the tactic instantly.
Distraction. Then escape.
A gesture—simple, dismissive—stopped the Chunin cold. He was lifted and thrown like a ragdoll, his body slamming through a row of parked cars and vanishing into a building's side.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Then came something else—something terrifying and marvelous. From the shadows, Reese phased into view.
Not a person. A creation. A miracle of science and imagination from another universe. A sentient android, shaped by his will, bound to his cause.
"Reese," Cole said, his voice calm and commanding. "Let none escape."
"Yes, father~" she chirped, her tone teasing and youthful.
From nearby rooftops, spider-like Boa-class drones uncloaked, unleashing a precise and merciless engagement on the fleeing ninjas.
The strain behind Cole's eyes surged. He pushed through it. His opponent was stirring—bleeding madness and fear like a beacon.
[System Message]
Snakeroot Black Ops Killed by Proxy: x13
Relationship Status: Snakeroot – Curious
Reward: $120,000 | Phaser (Star Trek Series)
[Host-Generated Mission: [Variable]]
You have entered Hell's Kitchen and encountered Snakeroot, a deadly division of The Hand.
1. You have been challenged to a duel of honor.
Reward: Planet Movers – Kinetic Field Gauntlets
2. The Chunin has violated the duel and is attempting to escape with intelligence on Red Hood (Jeremy Todd).
Reward: Unknown
Snakeroot Kill Tally:
Elites: 13/40
Gorgon: 0/1
Hiryu Nagami (Master): 0/1
EL Uno: 1/1
Lobo Siblings: 2/2
Total Reward Value: $2,750,000 + Unknown
The prompts vanished.
The Phaser was instantly understood—it was perfect for non-lethal takedowns and a vital tool for his field operatives.
But the Kinetic Field Gauntlets—those were different.
They slid over his hands, extending to his elbows, adjusting seamlessly to his Red Lantern gear.
They don't grant strength, the system clarified. They preserve the integrity of objects moved with force. Objects didn't break. They bent to his will.
Tactile Telekinesis… reborn through science.
Reinvigorated, Cole hurled his hammer, charging it mid-flight. It struck the Chunin mid-step, detonating with thunderous force and sending the armored figure skimming across the street like a stone on water.
The man dug a gauntlet into the pavement, halting his slide with sheer resistance.
"You can't beat me!" he roared. "Just like them—I will win!"
He lunged—feral, desperate. Possessed.
Cole's aura blazed red. Runes pulsed on his gauntlets. The fire alchemy sigil flickered to life.
The hammer returned to his grip.
He caught it—mid-sprint—just as the enemy struck.
The fight had shifted away from the residential blocks, not by accident.
Cole had been herding the enemy for the last five minutes. Every slash redirected, every feint intercepted. He was being led. Played.
"You've been trained," the ninja sneered. "But not by your traitorous mother. So, who armed you, Amatsu?"
The name was spat like poison.
Cole's movements were cold and calculated. The mandate flared inside him, but he didn't lose control. He didn't need to.
"You think you'll succeed where she failed?" the Chunin mocked. "You're just a child."
That's when Cole saw the break in the man's aura.
Not just bloodlust. Desperation. Corruption.
His eyes narrowed. Beneath the veneer of technique and tradition, something darker pulsed. Ancient. Hungry.
A hiss escaped the ninja's lips, like steel grating against bone.
The Muramasa. Not just a blade. A spirit. A curse. The Chunin was no longer fighting with it—he was possessed by it.