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Chapter 13 – Blood, Steel, and Storms
"Now, let's get to real work," I muttered to myself, stretching my neck until it cracked.
But before that—
"SERA, my current stats."
"Here," she responded, and the display flickered to life.
_________________________________________
Leo (Peak Human Form – Post-Wenwu Training)
Height: 6'0"
Weight: 200 lbs (lean, dense muscle)
Strength: Deadlifts ~800 lbs; punches dent thin steel, fractures bones
Speed: Sprints 35–40 mph, dodges gunfire at close range
Reflexes: 2–3x faster than elite athletes; multi-threat response
Stamina: Fights for 24+ hours without fatigue
Durability: Bone density, pain tolerance greatly enhanced
Healing Factor: Recovers from bruises, strains in hours
Mental Processing: Hyper-focused under stress, emotion control
Combat Skills: Kung Fu, Tai Chi, pressure-point combat; seamless style
Strategic Mind: Adapts in real time, predicts enemy moves
Weapons: Master of melee, firearms, and thrown projectiles
Strength Tier: C
"Now display the list," I said. "Don't misunderstand—it's not a goals list. It's what I got after the interrogation."
"Here," SERA confirmed.
..................
Scene: Midnight – Hell's Kitchen
Rain came down in sheets. Neon signs bled across puddles, and the smell of gasoline and rot clung to the air. I moved like a shadow through the back alleys until I stood before a crumbling sign: Red Hook Boxing Gym.
I slipped through the side entrance—no alarms. Inside, a dozen bare bulbs flickered over a dimly lit ring. Six men were inside: three sparring, two watching, one leaning against a pillar with a pistol tucked into his waistband. Their tattoos marked them—Black Knuckle Society.
I stepped out of the darkness.
The nearest fighter lunged with a straight jab. I caught his arm mid-air, twisted it counterclockwise with a sickening pop, and drove my palm into his elbow. The bone snapped clean, the man screaming as he dropped.
Another came at me with brass knuckles. I ducked low, swept his legs, then drove my knee into his jaw as he fell. His head whipped back with a crack. I didn't stop. I pivoted, using his unconscious body as a shield while another pulled a taser.
SERA activated my thermal visor. In that moment of hesitation, I dashed forward. I twisted my body into a spin, drawing my sonic knife and slashing it through the air. A high-frequency pulse disabled his weapon mid-strike, and I dropped him with a forearm to the neck.
Two more charged me, one with a lead pipe. I kicked the pipe up with my heel, caught it mid-air, and rammed the blunt end into the guy's temple. He staggered. I slammed his face into the ring post.
The last thug, smart one, backed toward the exit. I picked up a 45-pound weight plate and hurled it across the room like a discus. It struck the back of his skull with a hollow crack, and he crumpled without a sound.
Blood steamed in the cold air.
I crouched beside the groaning one with the dislocated shoulder. "Start talking."
"We—we don't ask questions," he coughed. "We just take 'em to Richie... Saint Richie."
SERA recorded it all.
I pulled a small thermite capsule from my belt and left a burning flare in the shape of a web—my Hollow Web symbol scorched into the ring floor.
Scene: Interception – Brooklyn Pizza Basement
The rain hadn't let up. Under a busted neon sign for "Piero's Pizza," I watched as a van rolled out from a hidden garage. Through thermal scan: five children in the back, eight BKS goons inside, some jacked on combat stims.
Time to move.
I leapt from the rooftop, landing like a predator on the hood. Before they could react, I fired an EMP dart into the engine. The van jerked, sputtered, and died.
Smoke grenades rolled across the street.
I dropped from the hood into the fog, twin batons snapping out from my wrists. One thug emerged, swinging wildly. I parried, disarmed, and struck his solar plexus, folding him in half. Another tried to tackle me—I twisted mid-fall, rolling him into a wall and breaking his collarbone with an elbow strike.
One climbed out the back with a kid in a chokehold. He aimed a pistol.
My mind went cold.
I flung a shuriken dart—steel edge glinting—and it sliced through the fog, nailing his hand to the van wall. He screamed, dropping the gun.
The kid ran into my arms.
Two more came from behind. I spun on instinct, landing a crescent kick on one's jaw and slamming the second into the pavement. I beat them down until they stopped moving. Hard. Fast. Surgical.
Another came at me with a crowbar. I ducked, drove my baton into his ribs—cracked three of them—and headbutted him into unconsciousness.
I dragged the last conscious one into the alley.
"You're too late," he spat blood. "Antonio's already cleaning house... Saint Richie is next."
I narrowed my eyes. "Noted."
Final Scene: The Trail Ends in Blood
The trail led me to a strip club in Midtown—cheap lights, tired music. I stalked in through the back, bypassing the security cameras. A private room upstairs, marked VIP. Richie Malone.
I kicked the door in.
He wasn't lounging. He was dying.
Knife lodged in his back, bleeding out on a crushed velvet couch. One eye swollen shut, face ghost-white. Someone beat me here.
"Richie," I said softly.
He looked up, blood bubbling from his lips. "Antonio... Fisk said... erase the trail..."
His head slumped.
I stared down at him.
Then I whispered to the dead man:
"Then I'll carve a new one."
The storm outside raged louder as the screen cut to black.
.