The gang leader—one of the few still breathing—staggered back, clutching his baton like it could save him. His voice trembled. "W-What are you?! We never provoked an enemy like you!"
"True," Michael nodded as the gang leader asked, "Then why?"
"Well... wrong place, wrong time. But mostly, you fortune screwed up," Michael said as he raised his hand—and in the next instant, the remaining Talon soldiers were reduced to ashes.
"Well, there goes the second hidden base," Michael mumbled as he stood amidst the crumbling ruins and scorched remains of the Crimson Talons' outpost. With a flick of his wrist, he opened a secure comm line.
"Madame Hydra," he said calmly.
Her voice came through instantly, cool and composed. "Yes, my lord?"
"Send a cleanup team. Erase all traces—files, bodies, tech. I want this place sanitized."
"As you command."
Michael ended the call and stepped out into the open night. Smoke curled into the sky behind him, glowing orange against the city lights. He narrowed his eyes slightly as the map from earlier flickered into his mind.
"Next one..." he murmured, his gaze shifting eastward. "Brooklyn."
And with that, he vanished into the wind like a shadow between breaths—already moving toward his next target.
As Michael soared through the air, high above the glowing sprawl of the city, a soft ping echoed in his mind—the system updating.
[ Mission Progress: 59% ]
"Only 59%?" he muttered, eyes narrowing slightly. "Hmm... guess these Talons really are weak after all."
He let out a breath, the wind whipping around him as he adjusted his course. His flight was smooth, silent—barely more than a shimmer in the sky.
"Still," he added, with an understanding nod, "weak doesn't mean harmless... especially if they've spread like rot."
His eyes began to glow faintly silver again, scanning ahead as Brooklyn's skyline approached fast.
Michael slowed as he neared the heart of Brooklyn—his senses sharpening, searching. Below, nestled between old warehouses and repurposed shipping yards, was another Crimson Talon base. It looked unassuming at first glance—just a forgotten industrial block—but his eyes saw through the illusion.
Cloaking nodes disguised the building's true structure. Armed sentries patrolled inside. Heat signatures. Weapons. Movement. It was a hive.
He hovered above it for a second longer, then descended—quiet as a shadow.
The ground cracked slightly beneath his boots as he landed in the alley. He didn't bother with stealth after that.
A guard turned the corner, eyes widening. "Who the hell—"
Michael raised his hand. A burst of force launched the man back through the warehouse doors like a cannonball.
Alarms blared.
Inside, the Talons were already scrambling. Some reached for weapons, others for escape routes.
Michael walked straight through the entrance. "No need to run. You've already failed."
Another group of modified enforcers—bulkier than the last batch, their gear traced with low-grade StarkTech knock-offs—rushed him.
Michael didn't stop walking.
He raised his hand again, and this time, a pulse of compressed air and energy exploded outward, flattening everything in a 15-foot radius. The Talons hit walls, crates, and each other, groaning as they fell.
"Target in the main corridor!" someone yelled. "Bring out the heavy suppressors!"
A metal gate slammed down ahead of him, sparking with energy. Michael simply stepped forward, placing his hand on it.
A second later, it exploded outward in molten shards.
He stepped through the smoke, calm and unbothered. "How many of these bases did you build?" he muttered, scanning the floor plan imprinted in his head from the earlier data.
A distant door slammed. Running footsteps. A panicked voice shouting orders.
Michael turned toward the sound. "There's always one who thinks they'll escape."
He disappeared in a blink—just a blur of motion and displaced air.
The hunt in Brooklyn had begun.
He reappeared directly in front of the fleeing gang member—a mid-tier commander judging by his upgraded armor and nervous swagger. The man skidded to a stop, eyes wide as he nearly stumbled backward.
Michael said nothing.
The gang leader raised his plasma pistol, hands shaking. "I'm warning you, freak, I'll shoot!"
Michael tilted his head slightly. "Then shoot."
The man fired. Three shots blazed out, the plasma bolts aimed directly at Michael's chest.
All three dissolved inches before impact—absorbed into a shimmering energy field Michael barely even acknowledged.
"Wrong answer."
Michael stepped forward and delivered a precise, open-palm strike to the gang leader's chest. The man flew back like he'd been hit by a freight train, crashing through a reinforced steel wall into a server room.
Michael followed him in, brushing aside the hanging wires and steam. The gang leader groaned on the floor, coughing blood.
"You know," Michael said, his voice laced with boredom, "I'm starting to get tired of this. All of you are just too weak."
His eyes glowed crimson as he placed his hand on the gang leader's head, channeling the corrupted power of the Darkhold's vampiric spell.
"Let's make something interesting," he muttered, eyes turning blood-red while behind him, his White Devil symbiote greedily devoured all the corrupted energy in the air like a delicious snack.
The gang leader's screams filled the chamber, echoing off the metal walls as the Darkhold's corruption seeped into his flesh. His veins turned black, pulsing violently under his skin as if trying to burst free. His eyes rolled back, then snapped open—burning with a twisted, hungry red glow.
Bones cracked. Muscles tore and reknit. His teeth elongated into jagged fangs, and his nails blackened into claws. But this was no elegant vampire of myth—this was something feral, grotesque. A failed evolution. A mockery born of dark sorcery and desperation.
Michael watched dispassionately, arms crossed as the creature writhed on the floor, caught between man and monster. The transformation ended with a sickening crunch as the gang leader—now a malformed vampiric beast—let out a primal shriek.
It staggered forward on all fours, breathing heavily, eyes locked on Michael with a predator's hunger.
Michael tilted his head slightly. "Still weak."
The White Devil, coiled behind him like a living shadow, lunged forward. With a single strike, it impaled the creature through the chest, lifting it into the air before ripping it apart in a spray of dark mist and shredded flesh.
Michael didn't flinch. He looked down at the scattered remains, then glanced at the lingering traces of energy that hadn't been consumed.
"Hmph. Not even good enough to keep," he muttered. "I'll need to adjust the spell."
He turned and walked deeper into the base. "Let's see if any of your friends had better luck surviving."
*******
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