The city was an organism.
An ever-evolving system, concrete arteries carrying people instead of blood, steel bones stretching toward the sky, neon lights flickering like neurons firing. Above ground, it was the city of dreams. Below, it was the city of rot.
In the underbelly—beneath the towers, beyond the polished smiles—lay another rhythm. A darker one. Deals whispered in alleyways. Promises sealed with knives. The underworld thrived where law couldn't reach, where the shadows stretched longer than the lampposts.
And no place embodied that truth more than Hell's Kitchen.
***
A warehouse sat buried in the neighborhood's bones, its windows blacked out, its air thick with cigar smoke and sweat. A dozen men crowded around a long oak table, half-drunk, half-armed, all dangerous.
"Business is good, boys," one laughed, slamming down a glass of whiskey. "The docks are ours, and those idiots uptown don't even know it yet."
Another, thick-necked and scarred, grinned through his cigar smoke. "Cops don't care, not when they're getting their cut. Hell, this city runs on payoffs."
The room chuckled.
"Long as we keep the blood in the alleys," a third man muttered, stacking poker chips between his fingers, "the papers don't print it, the mayor don't see it, and we all keep eatin'."
The boss sat at the far end, silent. A sharp suit draped over broad shoulders, a gold watch glittering on his wrist. His eyes were like a hawk's—sharp, unblinking, dissecting everything. He didn't need to laugh to command the room. His presence alone kept the wolves in line.
"Quiet down," he said finally, his voice smooth but edged like a blade. "Money talks, not noise. Drink later. For now, we settle business."
The chatter dimmed. Only the hum of the single bulb overhead filled the silence.
***
Then the light flickered.
It was a brief shiver in the dark, a heartbeat stolen. And when the glow returned, one man at the table wasn't laughing anymore.
He slumped forward, a thin red line drawn across his throat. Blood pooled into his whiskey glass.
The laughter died instantly. Chairs scraped. Curses filled the air. Guns came free of holsters.
"What the—?!"
"No one touched him!"
The bulb flickered again.
Another man jerked upright, his eyes wide, a perfect hole through his forehead. The smell of cordite never came. His drink spilled across the table, soaking the cards.
The room erupted in chaos. Wolves turned to frightened dogs, snarling, baring their teeth at shadows.
"The fuck is goin' on?!"
"Stay sharp—watch the doors!"
"These sons of bitches are dead—whoever's playin' us, they're dead!"
But no enemy came through the doors. No bullets flew.
Only the flickering of the light.
Another pulse of darkness. Another man collapsed sideways, his neck bent at an angle no living thing could survive. His cigar still burned between his fingers.
Panic spread.
Men who had carved throats, broken bones, and taken lives without blinking now clutched at their guns like children holding onto blankets in the night. The irony was delicious—killers drowning in their own fear.
The bulb flickered again.
Now only the boss remained.
The others sat lifeless in their chairs, heads tilted, bodies sprawled across the table like grotesque dolls.
The boss did not move. His eyes, cold and sharp, scanned the carnage. He exhaled smoke and leaned back, calm as stone.
Then the bulb flickered one last time.
And when it steadied, the chair across from him—empty only seconds before—was filled.
A figure sat there, bone-white armor gleaming faintly, bronze root-like plating wrapping across it like living vines. On his chest stretched a bronze emblem—an arachnid, its legs curling outward like growth consuming the suit.
The figure leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, hands folded as though he had always been there. The room felt smaller, the air heavier, the silence suffocating.
The suit was not loud. Not garish. It was mythic. Holy. Unsettling.
The boss narrowed his eyes. His voice was gravel wrapped in silk. "...Who the hell are you supposed to be?"
The figure tilted his head, the bronze glint catching in the dark. His voice came calm, deliberate.
"Arbor."
The boss tapped ash from his cigar, unshaken by the massacre around him. His voice was steady, deliberate.
"'Arbor,' huh?" He let the word roll off his tongue like he was tasting it. "Sounds poetic. Sounds… idealistic. But lemme tell you something, kid. This city doesn't care about poetry. Doesn't care about ideals. It cares about money, and it cares about fear. And right now, I don't see money in you—only fear you think you can sell."
Arbor's helm tilted slightly. His voice came calm, precise.
"Funny. I was thinking the same about you."
The boss smirked, leaning back in his chair, unfazed by the corpses cooling around them.
"You walk in here, dressed like a damn statue, makin' my men look like amateurs. That's supposed to impress me? Nah. I've seen plenty like you. Costumes, masks, capes. They all come here thinkin' they can make a name for themselves in Hell's Kitchen. Know what happens to 'em?"
He raised two fingers and mimed a pistol shot.
"They disappear. Just another story whispered on the street."
Arbor leaned forward, the bronze spider emblem catching the light.
"I'm not here for a name. I'm here for answers."
The boss's eyes sharpened. "Answers?"
"There's a shipment moving through the docks," Arbor said. "Not drugs. Not guns. Something bigger. I want to know who's moving it… and who they're selling to."
For the first time, the boss's smirk faltered. It was quick—half a breath, a twitch of his lip—but Arbor caught it. He always caught it.
The silence stretched, thick as tar. The boss broke it with a dry chuckle.
"You think you can just walk in, kill my men, and demand secrets? You ain't got leverage, Arbor. You got arrogance. And arrogance…" He snapped his fingers. "…is how rookies get buried in this town."
The far doors rattled as something heavy stepped into the room. The single bulb swayed above, throwing long shadows.
Smoke hissed from the hinges as they buckled inward.
From the shadows emerged a tall, broad-shouldered woman with short-cropped hair and scars across her jaw. She wore leather combat gear, the kind that clung to muscle like armor. Every step she took was deliberate, shaking dust from the rafters.
"Meet Arclight," the boss said, smoke curling from his lips. "Ex-military. Ex-Marauder. Still loves breaking bones. When she hits the ground, earthquakes follow."
Arclight cracked her knuckles, her voice low, carrying a rasp that came from too many cigarettes and too many wars.
"Boss, you want him breathing, or can I scatter his bones across the wall?"
The boss didn't answer immediately. He just blew another plume of smoke and gestured lazily with his cigar.
"Test him first. See if he squeals."
Arclight grinned. "With pleasure."
***
The fight began without ceremony.
Arclight slammed her foot into the ground. The concrete floor rippled like water under an earthquake. The table between Arbor and the boss split in two, corpses spilling onto the floor. Arbor rose in one fluid motion, sliding backward as the tremor cracked pillars and shattered lightbulbs.
"You're slow," Arbor said.
Arclight lunged, her fist a hammer. It smashed into the floor where Arbor's head had been a breath before, the shockwave blasting chairs into splinters. Arbor moved with impossible calm, weaving around her strikes, his bone-white armor glinting under the broken light.
"You think words make you scary?" Arclight growled, swinging again. Arbor caught her wrist mid-strike. The bronze plating of his gauntlet tightened like living roots.
"No," Arbor whispered. "I let actions speak."
He twisted. Bone cracked. Arclight hissed, but instead of retreating, she slammed her free hand into the ground. The shockwave blew Arbor off balance, concrete shards slicing through the air. She pounced, driving him into a pillar hard enough to rattle the beams.
Arbor's chestplate groaned under the force. For a moment, she thought she had him.
Then the bronze emblem across his chest seemed to ripple—roots digging into her forearm, anchoring him. He headbutted her. The crack echoed like thunder.
Arclight staggered, blood running down her nose. Arbor didn't give her time to breathe. He drove his elbow into her ribs, each strike a rhythm of precision and brutality. When she swung again, he caught her throat and slammed her into the ground.
The concrete cratered under the impact.
Pinned, her teeth bared, Arclight spat blood. "Do it. Kill me."
Arbor's hand hovered over her throat. The bronze armor shifted like vines tightening for the kill. His voice was low, almost disappointed.
"You break bones well. But loyalty? That's wasted here."
He released her. She gasped, stunned—not from weakness, but from the mercy she hadn't expected.
Arbor rose, his helm turning back to the boss. The man hadn't moved. His cigar was nearly finished, ash long and unbroken.
"Still calm," Arbor said, stepping over corpses. "Even after your weapon fails you. Impressive."
The boss's smirk returned. "Weapons break. Another always replaces them. You kill me, you get nothin'."
Arbor's gauntlet closed around the boss's throat, bronze roots tightening as the man clawed desperately at his grip.
"The shipment," Arbor demanded, his voice low, steady. "What is it?"
The boss coughed, choking, but forced out the words. "…Not drugs… not flesh… tech. High-grade. StarkTech knockoffs, OsCorp scraps, stolen prototypes… weapons, armor, black-market toys…"
Arbor's eyes narrowed behind the helm. "Where?"
"…Pier… forty-seven… Tommorow... night… "
The boss wheezed, lips curling into one last, smoke-stained grin. "You'll drown in the same shadows you think you own."
Snap.
The cigar fell from the boss's lips, still faintly glowing as his body slumped lifeless to the floor. The silence afterward was almost holy.
***
Arbor turned to Arclight, who leaned against a shattered pillar, chest heaving, blood running from her nose. Her arm hung at an unnatural angle, but her eyes still burned with defiance.
He crouched low, helm catching the faint light. His voice was calm, but heavy with inevitability.
"You've been fighting for scraps. Guard dog for men who die screaming. But there's a storm coming. Bigger than them. Bigger than you. I'm offering you a choice."
Her lip curled, but she said nothing.
Arbor Spider remained unmoving as Arclight steadied herself against the cracked pillar, glaring through the haze of pain.
He broke the silence first, his tone chilling, deliberate. "Tell me about a certain someone. Information, now."
She narrowed her eyes, lips stained with blood. "You think I'll just hand it over? Why should I trust you not to kill me the moment I talk?"
His mask tilted, the voice beneath it freezing. "Trust isn't part of this. Tell me, or you die here—just like your boss."
Arclight's fingers flexed, tension snapping through her battered frame. "How do I know you won't snap my neck even if I cooperate?" she spat. "You killed him after he gave you what you wanted."
"You don't have a choice. I can find this person on my own. Your words? They only make the hunt easier. Refuse…" His hand opened, roots twitching faintly like waiting fangs. "…and you're just another body on the floor."
Her teeth clenched. She coughed, spat blood, but finally forced words past her throat. She gave him the fragments she knew — bitterly, reluctantly.
When she stopped, her voice cracked into a warning. "You're walking into something you don't understand. You'll regret it."
Arbor's silence lingered for a beat, then broke with a dry, cutting edge of irony.
"Regret?" he said, a faint smile curling beneath his helm. "Funny. People keep promising me that, but I'm still here… and they're not."
She glared, jaw clenched tight, breath ragged.
The air between them carried the heavy scent of blood and smoke and broken trust. At last, her resolve cracked enough for the smallest surrender. "Fine," she growled, voice low.
Arbor nodded once. The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for secrets to change hands in the ruins.