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POV: Clark Kent
I dropped to one knee, one hand shielding my eyes from the sudden glare. Instinct more than reason. My vision swam, a white blur eating away at the shadows I had relied on only seconds before. My ears rang with the relentless staccato of gunfire—so loud, so constant that it drowned out everything else. Bullets pinged off my suit and skin, most harmless, but every impact added to the chaos overwhelming my senses.
Smart… smarter than I expected, I thought, gritting my teeth. They've turned my strengths against me. Blinding light to kill my sight, a wall of sound to overload my hearing. Clever. Dangerous.
I moved to push myself upright, blinking rapidly to clear my vision. That's when I heard it. A sound sharp enough to cut through the thunder of gunfire.
Whoosh—
A rocket.
I barely turned before the RPG slammed into me, flames and smoke filling the room as the impact hurled me backward. The explosion didn't hurt, but the sheer force sent me skidding across the warehouse floor, metal crates and wooden pallets splintering under me before I finally stopped.
Coughing through the haze, I rose, brushing shards of debris from my shoulders. My eyes narrowed, and this time, I smirked.
Alright. Now its my turn.
I planted my feet, my hands raised. Then I slammed my palms together.
BOOM!
The thunderclap exploded outward, a rolling shockwave that shattered every window, burst light fixtures overhead, and through men backwords against walls railiings or just throwingthem to the floor.
Some men screamed in suprise more than fear as they were thrown back by the force, crashing into walls and scattering like leaves in a storm.
Darkness reclaimed the warehouse.
And I stood in the center of it, scuffed with dust and rubble but in scared.
"So… about joining your friends in jail," I said, turning toward where the boss had stood, already picturing him in handcuffs.
But he was gone.
I froze, scanning the shadows with my enhanced vision. Nothing. Not even a trace of cigar smoke lingering in the air.
He must've bolted the second the bullets started flying, I thought grimly.
Movement dragged my attention back—the men around me groaning, pulling themselves upright, weapons scattered at their feet.
"Your boss abandoned you," I said, my voice echoing through the shattered warehouse. "Left you behind. I'll give you one chance—surrender, and no one gets hurt."
Hurried footsteps pounded from behind me. I turned just as one of the thugs charged, a knife raised high.
Clink! Tink-tink-tink.
The blade snapped clean against my chest, fragments scattering across the floor. The man's eyes went wide as he looked up at me.
I raised a brow. "Anyone else?"
The fight bled out of them. One by one, weapons dropped. Hands raised.
---
By the time the caravan of emergency vehicles pulled up, the gang was lined up outside, chained and loaded into NYPD vans. Red and blue lights painted the ruined warehouse in alternating waves, sirens fading into background noise.
Detective George Stacy stepped forward, his trench coat flaring with the cold night wind. Beside him was Yuri Watanabe, sharp-eyed and quiet, a folder tucked under her arm.
"So," Stacy began, gaze sharp but not unkind, "you walked into a trap. Can you tell us how and why?"
"They used a rooms as boy but she was hired to do fake needin help once I was here they wanted me to break out some of their guys," I said simply.
Both Stacy and Yuri raised their eyebrows.
"Did they tell you who?" Yuri asked.
I shook my head. "No names. Just said I'd put their 'best men' away."
The two detectives exchanged a look half worry, half confirmation. Yuri gave a small nod, and Stacy exhaled before turning back to me.
"Your description of the boss broad or cube-like face or head, square jaw, cigar, fancy suit it all fits a man known as Joseph. Last name unknown." He paused. "But the street knows him as Hammerhead. Or Mr. H. Or just the Hammer."
At his signal, Yuri opened the folder and handed it to me. Inside was a gallery of mugshots, surveillance stills, and grainy black-and-white crime scene photos.
My eyes locked instantly on him. The same man from the warehouse. The same cold stare.
"Career criminal," Stacy explained. "Hitman, fixer, loan shark take your pick. Rumor says no crime in Manhattan gets greenlit without his nod."
I flipped through the pages arson, trafficking, racketeering, assault, battery, and worse.
One image in particular caught me off guard. A man's skull caved in like glass under a hammer. The bone shattered, face unrecognizable.
Hammerhead lived up to his name.
I closed the folder, jaw tight.
"How's this guy not behind bars? Better yet how have I never heard of him before tonight?"
The truth was, I had heard of him. Back in my old world, Hammerhead was one of Spider-Man's minor rogues. A gangster with an unbreakable skull. Not the kind of villain I'd ever considered more than background noise.
But this wasn't a comic panel. This was real. And here, Hammerhead wasn't some joke villain. He was a monster.
George gave a small nod, folding his arms. "Hammerhead's smart. Real smart. Never stays in one place long, never leaves a trace at a scene. By the time we know where he's been, he's already two steps ahead."
Yuri added, her tone low and clipped, "And he's got influence. The kind that keeps mouths shut. Nobody's willing to talk. Those who try…" She hesitated before finishing, "end up with their skulls caved in."
I felt my jaw tighten, the folder suddenly heavier in my hands. All this power, all these lives, wasted on fear and intimidation.
I closed the file and handed it back to Stacy.
"Well," I said, my voice firm, "if he thinks this little trap is going to scare me… then he's wrong."
Before either detective could respond, I bent my knees and launched skyward, the rush of wind drowning out their voices as I tore into the night.
The city sprawled beneath me, lights glowing like stars against the dark. Somewhere down there, Hammerhead thought he had the upper hand.
But I wasn't done. Not by a long shot.
---
POV: 3rd Person
Unknown Location
Dozens of monitors bathed the darkened room in a cold blue glow, each one replaying the chaos inside the warehouse—the thunderclap, the shattered glass, the blurred figure of Superman dismantling Hammerhead's trap as if it were nothing.
From one angle, it looked like a massacre in waiting. From another, it looked like theater.
To one man watching, it was a test.
"Well? What is it?"
The question was sharp, cutting through the hum of machines. The speaker was tall, broad-shouldered, his tailored suit crisp enough to look carved from shadow. His presence filled the room with quiet authority, the kind that made subordinates hesitate before breathing wrong.
"Unknown," came the answer, clinical but laced with frustration.
The man in the lab coat never looked away from the screens as his fingers danced across a keyboard, streams of code and data flickering. Waveforms. Heat signatures. Energy readings. All of it disjointed, inconclusive.
"Whatever it is," the scientist went on, "it isn't like anything I've seen before."
The suited man exhaled through his nose, a sound that carried more weight than a sigh. "Then what can you give me, Doctor? Because I don't recall paying you for excuses."
Doctor Octavius finally tore his eyes from the screens. He raised one hand, and with a flick of his wrist, a projection materialized in midair—a three-dimensional hologram of Superman, frozen in flight.
"I can't tell you much that you don't already know," Octavius admitted, adjusting his glasses as the hologram shifted positions—Superman hovering, fists clenched, cape billowing like liquid flame. "Strength. Speed. Durability beyond anything we've recorded. His senses are… sharper than instrumentation can chart. Even controlled environments like Hammerhead's trap barely made him stumble."
The suited man's eyes narrowed. "So this was a wasted effort." His voice darkened, each word wrapped in quiet menace. "You know I don't like wasting my time, Octavius."
Octavius's spine stiffened. For a moment, tension coiled like a viper in the room. Then he inclined his head, his voice calm but edged with urgency.
"I didn't say that, sir. Only that we didn't learn much. But the little we did…" He gestured to the hologram, which began to flicker through bursts of light and soundwaves, showing how Superman reacted to stimuli. "…brings my research ever closer to success."
The suited man studied him in silence, his expression unreadable. Smoke curled from a half-burned cigar in an ashtray, the only sound the steady click-click of Octavius's keyboard.
At last, the man leaned back into his chair, a shadowed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Then don't keep me waiting."
The hologram of Superman froze once more, arms spread as though daring the world to test him again.
Octavius swiped his hand across the console. The holographic image of Superman vanished, replaced with a new projection—grainy footage of a broad, bald mercenary scowling at a camera. Next to him, rendered in crisp 3D, a massive exo-suit took shape. Plates of steel layered together, hydraulics hissing, its silhouette unmistakably modeled after a rhinoceros.
"I believe another test is in order," Octavius said, his voice calm but carrying a note of hunger. "Something more… intense."
The man in the tailored suit leaned forward in his chair, studying the hulking image of the mech. His lips pressed into a thin line.
"Didn't we already establish this Superman is… highly durable? Bulletproof. Hammerhead and his men unloaded everything short of an artillery barrage. What would we learn from this?" His tone carried skepticism, but also a flicker of intrigue.
Octavius smiled, the kind of smile that rarely reached the eyes. With another flick of his wrist, the hologram shifted—the Rhino suit unfolding, components rearranging, weapon modules sliding into place. What began as brute-force armor evolved into something sharper, more advanced.
"You are correct, sir," Octavius conceded smoothly. "But the last test was in a controlled environment. Far from civilians. Far from chaos. The next will not be." He adjusted his glasses, voice taking on a quiet edge of anticipation. "And I can provide our test participant… certain upgrades, should you wish."
The Rhino projection rumbled to life, snorting artificial steam.
The man in the suit sat back, considering. Slowly, a small approving smile curved across his face.
"Very good. I'll have my people contact this… Rhino immediately. I want it done soon."
Octavius dipped his head in satisfaction. "Of course, Mr. Osborn. It shall be done."
The holographic rhinoceros let out a mechanical roar, its red eyes glowing, casting the room in a bloody light.