Chapter 14 – Hell's Hunt, Part II: The Bull's Last Round
Dawn didn't break so much as bleed across the skyline—thick clouds overhead, thunder rolling like war drums. Rain poured in sheets, turning the gutters of Hell's Kitchen into veins of cold silver. In the distance stood The Iron Bell Gym, the beating heart of the Black Knuckle Society, a relic of underground blood sport and brutal deals. Twenty-plus gangsters prowled its perimeter, unaware the reaper had arrived.
I crouched on a rooftop opposite the gym, black suit soaked, breath steady. Mini-drones hummed from my wrist launcher, splitting into four and flitting through broken windows and air vents. SERA mapped the interior in real-time—three levels, a central ring, two reinforced stairwells, weapons cache behind the office. Heat signatures lit up the map like infection.
"Let's begin."
I leapt across the alley, boots absorbing the impact, and landed on the rusted rooftop of the Iron Bell. Silent. Unseen. I unslung a flashbang canister from my hip, primed it, and rolled it into a vent shaft. One... two... boom—light and sound tore through the gym below. Shouts. Screams. Chaos.
I fired my grappling hook into the roof beam and dove through the skylight.
Glass shattered around me like a war cry. I descended into the mayhem like a storm-god in black. Before my boots even touched the floor, I tore through the first five men.
One lunged with a pistol—I caught his wrist mid-air, twisted, and broke it with a sickening pop, then drove his own elbow into his temple. Another raised a shotgun—I dropkicked him across the ring, slamming his spine into the iron post. He didn't get up.
A third came from behind. I spun, reverse side-kicked his knee with enough force to bend it backward. The scream barely left his lips before I elbowed his temple and sent him spinning.
Fourth—a big man, charged with a metal bat. I ducked under his swing and grabbed him by the belt and collar. With a roar, I hurled him into the wall mirror. The entire thing exploded on impact, glass embedding in his back.
Fifth tried to run. I flung a shock disc. It latched onto his thigh and dropped him twitching, spasming like a puppet with cut strings.
The gym was howling now—alarms wailing, boots pounding. I was inside the hornet's nest.
The Gauntlet
They came at me in waves. First, knife-fighters—fast, frantic, scared. Six of them, each slashing like cornered dogs. I didn't meet them with brute force—I flowed. I twisted. I broke them.
The first came high—I deflected his wrist, stepped inside, and shattered his clavicle with a palm strike. His blade clattered uselessly. The second tried for a lunging stab—I sidestepped, gripped his elbow, and snapped it inward, then kneed him into unconsciousness. The next four came together. I dropped low, sweeping two off their feet, then flipped over the last two and disarmed them mid-roll. By the time they blinked, I had both their knives. One went into a thigh, the other into a shoulder. I left them gasping.
Wave Two. Different tone. These weren't punks. Ex-military. Clean stance. Semi-auto rifles raised, eyes steady. They didn't yell. They didn't rush. Professionals.
Too slow.
SERA launched micro smoke drones. Within seconds the room was a ghost field. They fired blindly—I was already moving.
I slipped between two like a shadow. Silenced strike to the neck—he dropped. The next turned, too slow. I slashed his Achilles tendon and took him down with a chop to the trachea. I disarmed the third with a spin, flipped the rifle, and used it—one butt to the head, two to the ribs, dropped. I moved like a myth through the mist—six men, six heartbeats, all silenced in seconds.
Then came the monsters.
Wave Three.
Modified brutes, hopped on combat steroids. Red eyes, bulging veins, foam at their lips. One of them roared and flipped a weight bench across the room like it was paper. They didn't feel pain.
Didn't matter.
I danced between their swings. First one tried to grab me—I slid under, popped up behind him, and stabbed my shock baton into the base of his spine. He seized, roared, then collapsed. Another bull charged like a freight train. I vaulted over him, slammed both batons into his neck, and paralyzed him. Two more cornered me—I dropped a shock mine, backflipped out, and BOOM—their knees folded.
The last brute caught me with a lucky swing—his punch cracked into my ribs. Pain lit up my chest. I tasted blood.
Didn't stop.
I staggered back, then surged forward, screaming. My baton slammed into his face once. Twice. Three times. Then I curb-stomped him into the mat.
Only one heartbeat left.
Boss Battle: Carmine "The Bull" Costa
The steel door creaked open. And he stepped out.
Six-foot-six. Nearly 300 pounds of raw muscle wrapped in tattoos. Steel-knuckle gloves glinting. Face a brutal mask. Carmine "The Bull" Costa. A legend in this underworld. A monster in human skin.
He cracked his neck and growled, "You think you're the reaper, freak? I am the ring."
We clashed like titans.
His first punch came like a sledgehammer—I blocked high and still staggered. He grabbed me by the vest and threw me through a support beam. My ribs screamed. Blood filled my mouth.
I rolled. Came up with my machete. Plasma edge hissed to life.
He swung again—I ducked, slashed, carved a red line down his chest. He bellowed, punched again. I parried with the flat, caught his glove on my shoulder, and drove the hilt into his face. He reeled.
Another punch—this time to my gut. I felt something crack.
No time. No hesitation.
I roared and launched my triple finisher.
Elbow to his throat—he gagged.
Blade stabbed into his thigh—he dropped to one knee, screaming.
Nerve punch to the base of his neck—he collapsed like a felled statue.
The Bull was broken.
Final Interrogation: Antonio
He ran. Sewer tunnels beneath the gym. I tracked his heat signature—cornered him in a narrow passage.
I dropped a flashbang behind him. Then another in front.
Boom. Boom. Blind. Deaf. Disoriented.
I emerged through the smoke like death.
He crawled back, coughing. "We—we were just middlemen. I swear! It's all Kingpin! He owns the city! You come for him, you die."
I stared through him.
"Then I'll bury him under his own city."
I tied him to a pipe, rigged a motion-sensor camera. SERA streamed the confession to encrypted whistleblower networks. FBI. Interpol. Wakandan proxies. Everyone.
Let the wolves come.
I limped to the exit. Rain hit my bloodied face like absolution.
And I whispered into the storm:
"Next move's yours, Fisk."