Part VI: The Hunt for Red Fang
Rain slicked streets echoed with distant sirens and the low hum of Meridian's restless night. Argus moved through the alleys with the precision of a predator, red lenses scanning every shadow, every movement, every heartbeat. His target was clear: Rocco "Red Fang" Marino. The Veil's boss had slipped through his grasp at Pier 19, but Argus had tracked enough patterns, enough movement, to know the man was hiding — somewhere.
Argus stopped at a corner where a low-level gang member had been spotted on his feeds. The man staggered out of a doorway, drenched, fumbling with his coat. Argus dropped silently behind him.
"Red Fang's location," Argus said, voice metallic and cold. "Now."
The man whipped around, eyes wide with terror, but before he could speak, a flash of gauntlet hit his shoulder. Pain surged, sending him to his knees. Argus's other hand gripped his neck briefly, pressing nerve points to immobilize him.
"I don't know!" the thug gasped, gagging on the metallic timbre of Argus's voice.
Argus struck again, a calculated punch to the ribs, a kick that buckled the knees. Pain was his language, precision his method. "You will know," he said, leaning close, letting rain streak across the red lenses. "Or I'll make you wish you did."
The thug sobbed, gripping his side. Argus delivered a swift elbow to the jaw, snapping teeth and dislodging his defiance. Broken and gasping, the man spilled details: safehouses, courier routes, stash points. Argus cataloged everything in real time, heat maps, street layouts, escape routes — every thread leading to Red Fang.
Hours passed. Argus moved silently through the city, interrogating goons, breaking limbs and wills, never taking a life but leaving every thug aware of what would happen if they withheld information. Wrist twists, nerve strikes, cracked ribs, crushed kneecaps — the methods were precise, controlled, and relentless. By the time dawn began to lighten the horizon, Argus had traced Red Fang to a safehouse in an abandoned industrial sector near the docks.
He paused atop a nearby roof, scanning. Red Fang's bodyguards patrolled in predictable patterns. Heat signatures inside the building showed Marino himself, moving between rooms, counting stacks of cash and weapons. Argus traced every corridor, every window, every potential point of entry.
This ends tonight.
He descended silently, using shadows as cover. The guards were taken down first — gauntlets pulsating, limbs broken with calculated force, weapons disabled, bodies incapacitated but alive. Argus moved like liquid death, a blur of black and red.
Finally, he confronted Red Fang. The man turned, eyes wide, mouth opening in shock.
"You…" Marino started, reaching for a pistol.
Argus's blade was already at his throat. "No. Not tonight."
Red Fang swung, desperate, but Argus countered with precision strikes: carbon blade against arm, elbow to ribs, leg sweep, nerve strike. Within moments, Red Fang crumpled to the ground, groaning, unable to rise.
Argus did not pause. He pressed the blade to the boss's forehead, carving the letter A into the flesh, a chilling mark that left no doubt of who had come for him. Red Fang hissed, blood mixing with rain, but Argus's grip and strikes ensured compliance.
The safehouse was methodically cleared. Evidence was collected — ledgers, digital files, cash, weapons. Red Fang's guards were bound and left with the note Argus had scribbled before:
"Justice is watching. The hunt is over… for now. — A"
The police would find the gang, the evidence, and Red Fang — marked and incapacitated, his empire disrupted in a single night.
Argus stepped back into the rain, red lenses scanning the city. The Nightshade operation was crushed. The Veil was broken. Red Fang would answer to the law, and the streets were safer tonight.
But as he disappeared into the alleys, cloak dripping, mask glowing faintly in the darkness, he reminded himself: Meridian had many shadows, and many threats. The work was never done.