Chapter 37: The Devil in the Spotlight
"How was the on-site investigation?"
"Other than a single shell casing, there are no other clues," the forensics team reported. "We asked the neighbors, but they didn't notice anything unusual. Only a hippie sleeping in the alley across the street said he saw a devil with horns, covered in blood, tonight."
"A devil?"
The lead police sergeant curled his lip in disdain. "He's probably fried his brain on drugs. Hallucinations."
Jill Valentine, who stood nearby, didn't put stock in the hippie's words either. Her focus was sharper.
"What about surveillance footage? Anything useful?" she asked.
The forensic tech shook his head. "Surveillance? Don't joke. That's for rich neighborhoods. Around here, even if the city installed cameras, they'd be ripped down and pawned for scrap within a week."
Jill's brow furrowed. No cameras, no witnesses. The crime scene was frustratingly barren.
Just then, the sergeant's phone rang. He stepped aside to answer, his expression shifting from irritation to relief.
"Yes, it's me. … Understood."
He hung up and turned to the team with a faint smirk. "Case is off our hands. FBI's taking over."
Minutes later, black SUVs rolled up, and federal agents flooded the block. They swept through, efficient and tight-lipped. Unlike the NYPD, they seemed to have a clearer picture.
Word spread quickly: another shooting had happened earlier that night. The victim? A second witness set to testify against organized crime. Both shot with the same ruthless precision—one bullet, clean through the forehead.
It was no coincidence.
The Bureau's conclusion was obvious: a professional killer was wiping out the witnesses one by one. They moved fast, deploying agents to the third witness's known location in hopes of stopping the next hit.
…
Jill didn't return to the precinct. Instead, she slipped into her silver compact car and tailed the FBI convoy.
Her instincts screamed that she knew this shooter. The style matched too closely with what she'd seen years ago in Italy. She wouldn't interfere—not unless the Bureau needed backup—but she needed to see this through with her own eyes.
…
Malibu Club, New York.
Tonight was a masquerade party. Masks, flashing lights, pulsing music. A perfect place to disappear—or to kill unseen.
Tommy Vercetti blended in effortlessly. A simple mask covered his face as he slipped into the crowd, moving like a predator stalking prey.
His eyes found the target quickly: a Russian man, laughing loudly with two women draped over him, blissfully ignorant of the danger closing in.
Tommy didn't rush. Instead, he dismantled the defenses methodically, taking out the man's bodyguards one by one in the shadows. Each fell silently, swallowed by the chaos of the dance floor.
No one noticed. In this storm of music and color, Tommy might as well have been invisible.
…
At the same time, Daredevil pushed through the club's entrance.
The moment he stepped in, the noise hit him like a hammer. Bass throbbed in his skull, cheap perfume burned his nostrils, sweat and alcohol mixed in a suffocating haze. His enhanced senses turned the atmosphere into torture.
But beneath the noise, he caught it. The subtle, unmistakable click of a round being chambered.
"Oh no…"
He snapped a section of his cane loose, hurling it toward the sound. The baton cut through the air—
—but he was too late.
The gun fired. The bullet struck clean through the Russian's forehead. Dead before he could even scream.
"Damn it!" Daredevil cursed, gritting his teeth. Another witness gone.
The club erupted in chaos. Screams, shoving, bodies surging for the exits. In the panic, Tommy slipped away, his work complete.
Daredevil recovered his thrown baton, but something else caught his attention: the Glock 34 lying on the floor. The killer's weapon.
He picked it up carefully, his sharp senses locking onto the distinct scent left on the grip. With this, he could track the shooter.
But fate wasn't on his side.
The back doors burst open, and armed FBI agents stormed in.
Floodlights cut across the floor. The scene froze for a heartbeat: the dead Russian slumped on the sofa, partygoers shrieking, and at the center of it all—Daredevil, standing with a smoking Glock in his hand.
The agent in charge pointed. His voice rang with certainty.
"I understand now! There's only one truth!"
He jabbed a finger at the crimson figure.
"Daredevil—the so-called protector of Hell's Kitchen—is the real culprit behind tonight's serial murders!"
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