September 23, 2010. Night. Brooklyn Bridge, New York City.
Thick fog rolled across the bridge, swallowing the skyline in a gray haze. A few scattered cars crawled forward, their headlights glowing in ghostly halos, barely piercing through the night.
Below, the Hudson River surged against the bridge's heavy pillars, spraying pale foam into the air. The dark water mirrored the kaleidoscopic lights of the buildings along the shore, shimmering like distant starlight, alive and flickering with every passing wave.
The air reeked of smog and engine exhaust, the taste of industrial dust clinging to the back of the throat. But none of it seemed to bother Ash Ward, who drifted through the fog like a shadow, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Visibility was down to five meters, at best. Not that it mattered, Ash's eyes cut through the mist with ease.
In a city where crime ruled the streets and people locked their doors early, anyone still out at this hour had a reason. Ash certainly did, and so did the black Ford Transit van idling a dozen steps ahead of him.
Its twin taillights pulsed red through the fog. Ash's eyes fixed on them with a patient smirk as he trailed the vehicle, his silent pace nearly matching the van's slow crawl.
Ten minutes passed. A heavy-duty truck approached from the opposite direction, its high beams cutting through the mist and casting Ash's silhouette into dim relief. He smirked, paused, and in the next second, his body faded into thin air, vanishing like a ghost swallowed by the fog.
The truck driver blinked in confusion. Then shook his head and muttered something about hallucinations from too many long shifts.
Fifteen seconds later, Ash reappeared behind the van and resumed his silent pursuit.
The van turned off the bridge into a grim, crime-ridden corridor between Brooklyn and Queens. Here, the shadows ruled, and violence was an everyday affair. This district was a mosaic of gangs, its alleyways soaked in blood and whispers. More than seventy percent of the locals belonged to one crime family or another.
The van stopped near an inconspicuous corner. Its doors opened, and thick, bear-like men climbed out, dense with body hair and grumbling in Russian about the cursed weather. They carried AK-47s like groceries, unbothered by the open display of firepower.
Three filthy strays burst from a nearby trash can, scattering in terror. In the shadows, Ash squinted like a fox, watching from twenty meters away.
Eight men in total. Hulking Russian brutes. Muscles straining against tailored black suits. Seven of them formed a protective circle around the man holding a heavy metal briefcase as they disappeared into a narrow alley.
The alley reeked of rot. Overflowing trash bins spilled filth onto the pavement. Mold and sludge painted the walls, and the stench of decay made the air unbreathable.
"Fucking place. Goddamn American bastards never know how to keep time," one of the Russians cursed, checking his watch.
A minute passed.
Then came movement, two silhouettes stumbled into the alley. A towering Black man, reeking of alcohol, supported by a petite woman. The sight of rifles made the woman flinch, but her partner suddenly bolted for a nearby wall and began to vomit, dragging her along.
"Hey, sweet thing! Your man's a total waste. Why not come with me instead?" one of the Russians laughed crudely, grabbing his crotch.
The drunk man turned, reeking and swaying. "What the fuck did you just say?"
Click! Click!
Seven rifles raised.
"Stop right there, you fucking gorilla!" the lead thug barked. "If you don't want to die, get the hell out!"
The man kept walking, voice cold and slurred. "What if I don't? You mafia trash going to shoot me?"
Something was wrong.
The lead Russian's eyes narrowed. "He's not right… KILL HIM!"
Gunfire erupted. Bullets tore into the man's white shirt, dozens of holes riddled the fabric, but bounced off his skin with metallic clangs. Sparks flew. His body didn't bleed.
He grinned.
In one fluid motion, a heavy chain coiled at his waist lashed out, whistling through the air like a steel python. It smashed into one of the Russians. The man's chest caved inward, ribs cracking like twigs as he was hurled backward and slammed into the wall.
Then chaos.
The Black man barreled through the remaining guards like a bulldozer. Two more Russians flew through the air, weapons clattering across the pavement.
"What the fuck is this thing?!" someone screamed.
But they'd forgotten the woman.
Small, fast, and lethal, she sprang into the air, used the alley wall to vault behind one of the gunmen, and seized him by the neck. In the next second, she lifted him, over two hundred pounds of brute, and slammed him headfirst into the pavement. Bones cracked.
Within seconds, the fight was over.
The man stepped on the briefcase handler's hand and ground his heel into the fingers, twisting until screams echoed. "It's scum like you that make the night so damn long."
"Day and night are always equally long, Luke Cage."
A sultry voice cut through the mist. A figure emerged—long black hair, bronzed skin, tight red ninja gear that clung to her athletic curves. Each hand held a gleaming sai.
Ash watched from the shadows, his eyes hungry as they traced the newcomer's form. He noted how well the Smoke of Deceit had worked—better than expected. Especially with ninja like the Hand.
Dozens of assassins materialized behind her, silent as death, blades at the ready.
Luke moved instantly, shielding the injured woman, crouching into a defensive stance. "The Hand? Working for Fisk now? What the hell are you doing here?!"
"Simple. I fed you this location," the red-clad ninja purred. She pointed. "Kill them."
The assassins surged forward.
Luke threw the first one like a ragdoll.
Ash grimaced as bones cracked loud enough to hear from his hiding place. But the ninja popped up and re-engaged, relentless.
From the rooftops and alleys, automatic rifles extended, dozens of barrels flashed.
Gunfire rained down. Luke's shirt shredded. Sparks flew as bullets slammed into his unbreakable flesh. He roared in pain.
But the woman beside him wasn't bulletproof. Two shots tore through her side and shoulder, splattering blood.
"JESSICA!" Luke bellowed.
He lunged forward, shielding her with his body. Bullets ricocheted off his back. He charged like a black tank, bursting through the ambush with a thunderous roar.
"After them!" the red ninja shouted.
Her forces surged after him like a deadly swarm. Only one assassin remained, reaching for the fallen briefcase.
It was too late.
A blade pierced his back and exited his chest.
He staggered, tried to turn, but saw only a masked shadow before his world went black.
His body disintegrated into ash.
Ash Ward stood over the remains, calm and unfazed.
"All this violence. What a waste," he muttered, hoisting the metal case. Its weight made him smile. "Cleaning up after a fight… now that's the real profit."
He glanced around, then vanished down the corner.