As for what exactly qualifies as a "Black Iron-tier target"...
The system made it very clear — anyone guilty of a crime.
Just moments ago, a few guys laughing and joking passed by the alley entrance. The system reacted instantly. All of them were Black Iron-tier targets.
Judging by the tattoos on their arms and the bulges at their waists, there was a high chance they were gang members.
And yet, even as the prey walked right past him, he didn't dare lift his head!
The fearsome reputation of American-style street executions was just too overwhelming.
Given his current state — penniless, two broken ribs — how the hell was he supposed to take down any targets? Just staying alive was already a miracle.
Hiss...
Could I really be the first system-bound transmigrator to starve to death on the streets?
Depressed.
Almost as if it could sense his mood, the previously clear skies suddenly shifted.
A cold drizzle began to fall from above, splattering against his face.
Double the depression.
Enduring the pain, he dragged a few discarded wooden planks out of the trash and propped up a crude shelter against the wall.
Night descended. The rain pelted down harder, lightning cracked across the sky, and thunder roared in the distance.
With numb fingers, he absentmindedly scraped a large rusty nail against the concrete.
He'd found it in the trash too, and he was sincerely hoping it might somehow evolve into a terrifying murder weapon.
Shops on the street closed one after another. There were hardly any people left outside.
Aside from the sound of the rain and the distant rumble of thunder, everything else seemed to vanish into silence.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Suddenly, the sharp clacking of high heels echoed against the pavement.
Running footsteps — fast, frantic, filled with fear.
"Ah!"
A sharp, brief scream was abruptly cut off, followed by the faint sounds of a struggle.
"Get in there!"
A man's harsh voice rang out.
Then, Coen saw it — a tall man grabbing a woman, holding her tightly in his arms with one hand over her mouth, dragging her into the alley.
Rain fell relentlessly. The entire alley was pitch black, with only a faint streetlight flickering at the entrance, barely illuminating the scene.
Coen stayed hidden deep in the alley, crouched beside a dumpster, his body fully swallowed by the shadows.
Unsurprisingly, the system flashed an alert — the tall man was a Black-Iron-level target.
The man moved with practiced ease, slamming the woman against the wall, one hand tightening around her throat as he growled in a low, threatening voice:
"If you scream, I'll kill you!"
"All your money — give it to me!"
A flash of lightning split across the sky, flooding the alley in a sudden burst of white.
In that brief instant, Coen caught a clear glimpse — the woman was a soaked blonde, her wet clothes clinging tightly to her figure, outlining every graceful curve.
Her delicate face was streaked with rain and tears, lips trembling with muffled sobs, unable to form words.
The man's hands began to grope at her, quickly locating her wallet. He pulled out the cash and tossed the empty leather shell carelessly to the ground.
Coen tightened his grip on the sharpened nail in his hand, slowly shifting his body into a new position.
He was looking for an opening — a single, deadly strike.
His injured, malnourished body couldn't withstand a drawn-out fight with a man this large.
But the attacker wasn't done.
Even after getting the money, the greed in his eyes deepened.
His left hand clamped over the woman's mouth, while his filthy right hand moved lower…
The woman struggled fiercely, but it only seemed to excite the man more. Coen could hear his breathing grow heavy — ragged and full of sick desire.
A little closer… just a little more…
Coen's muscles coiled, eyes sharp and alert.
He was ready to pounce.
And just as he sprang forward—
"Stop!"
A sudden angry shout from above completely threw off Coen's rhythm — he nearly lost his balance and fell face-first to the ground.
From the sky, a figure dropped like a hammer — wearing a red leather suit and a devil-horned mask — and slammed a boot directly into the attacker's chest, sending him flying.
Daredevil!
Coen instantly recognized the costumed superhero.
The man crashed to the ground and, out of instinct, reached for his waist. But Daredevil moved swiftly, closing the distance and knocking him out with a single punch.
A revolver clattered to the wet ground.
Realizing she'd been saved, the blonde finally let out a piercing scream that had been trapped in her throat all along.
Maybe the shock of the night had been too much for her — she didn't even look back at the man who saved her. She clutched her head and bolted from the alley, sprinting away into the rain.
For a moment, only Coen and Daredevil remained in the alley.
Then, Daredevil suddenly turned his head toward Coen.
Even though Coen knew the man was blind… even though they were surrounded by darkness… he instinctively hid the sharp nail behind his back, his expression stiff.
He had no idea whether his earlier movements had been detected.
And if Daredevil realized he had seriously been considering killing that man — who knew what this moral crusader would do?
Daredevil seemed about to say something, but paused. He tilted his head slightly, adopting a listening pose.
A moment later, his expression changed. He reached for the twin batons strapped to his waist, snapped them upward — and with some mechanism Coen couldn't comprehend, Daredevil zipped into the air like Spider-Man, vanishing over the rooftops.
It took Coen a few seconds to process what had just happened. Then, on impulse, he rushed to the street and shouted toward the rooftops where the figure leapt gracefully from building to building.
"Hey, hero! Can you spare me some cash?!"
No response.
In fact, that shadowy silhouette seemed to leap even faster into the distance.
RUMBLE!
Thunder cracked again above the city.
A streak of lightning flashed across the sky.
Coen suddenly turned his head to look back at the alley.
The man was still lying there, unconscious, unmoving.
Coen wiped the rain from his face, spread his arms wide, and murmured to the heavens.
"God.
God!
If you exist—
If you feel mercy—
Then stop me!
But if you don't...
If you don't care...
Then from this moment on, I will be the one whose hands are soaked in blood—
The Punisher."
The rain suddenly poured harder.
The thunder roared louder.
In the alley, Coen held the thick iron spike and hovered it over the unconscious man's neck. Again and again, he measured the strike, hesitating.
Part of him still couldn't go through with it.
Another part knew — even if he stabbed the man, it wouldn't be an instant death. The man would struggle, cry out, draw attention.
There'd be blood everywhere. And even with the rain, it might leave a trace.
The same went for the revolver. It wasn't the cleanest way.
He needed a perfect method...
Just as he wrestled with the decision, his eyes caught the flow of rainwater running deeper into the alley. He turned.
There — a storm drain, its heavy manhole cover barely visible.
With effort, he pried it open. Lightning illuminated the inside: a narrow, deep shaft, the water swirling violently as it rushed into the unknown.
If he tossed the man in headfirst, there'd be no way to turn around. No way to climb out. No air to breathe. He wouldn't survive.
God... are you helping me again?
Dragging the man toward the drain, Coen realized for the first time just how heavy a person really was.
Pain exploded in his chest again — his broken ribs screamed.
His stomach rumbled fiercely. That's when he remembered: he hadn't eaten all day.
RUMBLE!
Thunder cracked again, louder this time, like the sky itself was screaming.
A bolt of lightning exploded close overhead.
His ears rang. His vision blurred. For a moment, the world around him felt unreal.
Was this all just a dream?
Maybe he hadn't died. Maybe he hadn't crossed over to another world. Maybe he had just passed out… and right now, he was lying on a hospital bed, somewhere safe and warm?
Splash.
The heavy thud of something falling into water.
A wave of cold, filthy droplets hit him in the face — and jolted him back to reality.
If this were a dream… it probably wouldn't hurt this much.
Amid the roaring downpour, he thought he heard a faint cry echoing up from the bottom of the shaft. Or maybe he imagined it.
Before the next flash of lightning could reveal too much, he quickly shut the manhole cover.
Then, he tore down the makeshift shelter, tossing the wooden planks back into the dumpster.
He wiped away every trace he'd left behind.
And with over three hundred dollars and a loaded revolver taken from the man's body, Coen walked out of the alley.
Just a few steps away, the system chimed in his mind:
He paused slightly… but didn't turn back.
In this murder, Daredevil had helped him. Even the heavens had helped him.
There was no reason for regret.
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