Part V: The Nightstrike
Rain slicked streets and neon reflections bathed Meridian City in a wet, flickering glow. Argus crouched across from Pier 19, the derelict textile factory looming like a skeleton in the darkness. His cloak clung to him, armor humming faintly beneath, gauntlets primed. Every detail of the building, every guard rotation, every exit point had been memorized and simulated countless times in his lair. Tonight, the factory would burn — and The Veil would pay.
Through the lenses of his mask, Argus scanned the perimeter. Three guards patrolled the main entrance, two more covered the rear dock, one floated near a loading area. Inside, heat signatures pulsed faintly through the walls: crates stacked with Nightshade, black powder spilling from plastic-wrapped pallets. Lives destroyed before they ever left the factory.
He exhaled. The storm outside masked the soft whir of drones overhead. Time to clean this city.
Argus dropped from the fire escape onto the rear loading dock. A small diversion drone zipped toward the front entrance, clattering against the wall and triggering a faint alarm. Two guards moved to investigate, leaving the dock exposed.
Inside, the stench of chemicals and rot was suffocating. Argus's eyes swept over the pallets of pills, barrels marked only with shipping codes. Nightshade. Deadly, addictive, and enough to ruin hundreds of lives in hours.
He moved like a shadow, striking first at the two patrolling guards with silent precision. Carbon blades met bone; gauntlets pulsed nerves into unconsciousness. By the time the remaining guards reacted, they were already pinned, broken, or out cold.
Then he saw him: Rocco "Red Fang" Marino, the boss of The Veil. Stocky, tattooed, and brutal, Rocco had been moving among the crates, counting shipments, barking orders. His eyes widened when he noticed Argus — red lenses glowing faintly in the dark.
"You!" Rocco growled, reaching for a pistol.
Argus didn't answer. He moved faster than the eye could track, striking with a combination of carbon-edged blades and concussive gauntlets. Rocco fired wildly, bullets sparking off metal crates. Argus twisted midair, catching a falling board for leverage, and landed behind the boss. A crushing elbow to the ribs sent Rocco staggering, but he wasn't finished.
Rocco swung a heavy chain he carried for intimidation, catching Argus across the forearm. Pain flared — calculated, expected — and Argus rolled, pivoting to bring both blades up. Sparks flew as metal clashed against the chain. He slammed his gauntlet into Rocco's jaw, snapping teeth and bone with a wet crack.
The boss roared, swinging again. Argus ducked, dodged, and struck the knee, sending Rocco to one knee. He was fast, brutal, precise — every strike calculated to break, but not to kill. Not yet.
Rocco recovered, pulling a hidden knife from his belt. The two circled each other, rain dripping from Argus's cloak, slicking the concrete. Blades met, sparks flying. Rocco's strength was raw, vicious, but Argus's speed and training outmatched him.
Finally, Argus feinted left, then drove the edge of his carbon blade into the boss's shoulder, knocking him against a stack of crates. Pain radiated through Rocco, but adrenaline and fury kept him on his feet. With a roar, he slipped into the shadows, ducking behind a support beam, disappearing into a side corridor Argus hadn't fully blocked.
Argus cursed under his breath. He had expected to corner the man, but Rocco's escape didn't erase the mission. The drugs still had to be destroyed, the evidence secured, and the gang neutralized.
Argus turned to the pallets. Barrels were tipped open, powder spilling into shallow pits he had prepared along the concrete floor. With a single flare, black smoke curled toward the ceiling, flames devouring the deadly shipment. He moved quickly, working methodically, ensuring no Nightshade would ever reach the streets.
Next, evidence. Ledgers, digital devices, manifests — everything he could carry went into his pack. The gang members remaining alive were bound and gagged, weapons removed, placed where the police would find them.
Finally, Argus left a note, scrawled on a scrap of cardboard:
"Justice is watching. Red Fang, you are next. — A"
The note was blunt, chilling, a promise. The police would arrive to find gang members tied, evidence in hand, and a city knowing someone had struck first.
Argus slipped into the rain outside, boots silent, cloak flowing, drones overhead scanning for pursuit. The factory burned behind him, flames reflecting off the slick streets. Lives had been saved, poison destroyed, and the trail of crime disrupted — but the man who had eluded him would return to the shadows.
Back in his lair beneath the abandoned subway, Argus cataloged the night: footage of the fire, scans of collected evidence, the unconscious gang members, and the last glimpses of Rocco disappearing into the corridors.
He allowed himself a single thought — brief, almost forbidden:
One victory, yes. But the hunt is not over.
The city had seen him again. The Watcher had struck.
And Rocco "Red Fang" Marino would feel his gaze soon enough.