What kind of sick joke is this!?
One of the biggest crime lords in Hell's Kitchen—robbed?
Hammerhead's already brutal face went a deep shade of purple, his temple veins bulging like steel cables. Just minutes ago, he'd been bragging to Fisk's right-hand man about how nobody dared cross the Maggia, and now? Someone was robbing his casino.
He could already picture Wesley's smug little smirk.
Rage surged up from his gut like a storm. He shoved the two half-dressed dealers off his lap and shot to his feet, glaring daggers at the trembling thug who'd brought the news.
"Was it the Demons?!"
"N-no, boss! Not them!"
That answer only made things worse. His fury didn't simmer—it exploded.
"So it's come to this, huh?" His voice dropped low and guttural, every word thick with menace. "Looks like the Maggia's been quiet for too long. Now every worthless punk thinks they can take a dump on my turf!"
He stepped closer, looming like a mountain over the terrified underling. "How many people?"
The thug hesitated, throat bobbing. He slowly, carefully, raised one trembling finger.
"...One hundred?" Hammerhead growled.
The thug shook his head frantically. "N-no, sir. One."
"What?"
For a moment, Hammerhead thought he'd misheard. "You joking with me right now?"
"I swear, boss—it's just one guy!"
After double and triple confirmation, Hammerhead's roar shook the entire room.
"One man!? ONE!? You mean to tell me one guy is making a fool of my organization!?"
"B-but boss, he's too good! His aim's perfect! We already lost thirty men, we—"
"Useless! You're all a bunch of useless trash!"
Hammerhead's fists cracked like thunder, the sound of bone grinding on bone. "Fine! I'll deal with this bastard myself!"
But before he could finish—
BOOM!
The wall exploded inward in a storm of smoke and debris. Shards of plaster rained through the air like snow.
From within the haze, a man walked through the wreckage—calm, unhurried, golden pistol glinting under the flickering lights.
Darren.
"Yo," he said casually, brushing a bit of dust off his jacket. His gaze landed on the hulking brute with the polished dome. "You must be Iron Head, huh?"
"Iron… Head?" Hammerhead blinked, confused for half a second—then realized. "You… little punk. You're the one who's been tearing up my place?!"
Darren shrugged. "You wouldn't pay what you owed me. So, naturally, I came to collect."
Even Wesley, still cowering behind the couch, gave a small incredulous laugh. This guy's robbing mobsters because of a bet?
Hammerhead's jaw twitched. "You're crazier than we are…"
Then his voice turned to a roar. "Kill him!"
His men didn't need to be told twice.
Gunfire erupted, deafening in the confined room. Muzzle flashes lit the walls like strobes as bullets tore through the air toward Darren.
He dived sideways, rolling behind a shattered table, muttering, "Man, you people really have no manners."
Then—his eyes gleamed gold.
Reaper's Eye—activated.
Time slowed to a crawl.
Three, four, five targets shimmered red in his vision. He raised his Desert Eagle and squeezed the trigger.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Five shots. Five bodies dropped, perfect headshots blooming like red flowers on the floor.
The rest barely had time to react before Darren was already moving, smooth and relentless, his gun singing death's lullaby.
Seconds later, silence fell.
Only two remained: Hammerhead, standing in stunned disbelief, and Wesley—currently trying to melt into the floor behind the couch.
"Pathetic," Hammerhead spat, kicking one of his fallen men aside. "You think killing a few dogs makes you tough? Who the hell are you!?"
Darren casually spun his gun, smirking. "Didn't I say? NYPD."
Hammerhead blinked. "What?"
"New York police," Darren clarified, completely straight-faced. "You're under arrest."
Truth was, this was a S.H.I.E.L.D. mission. Fury had received intel that Hammerhead wasn't just a thug—he was something else. Something inhuman. Witnesses had seen bullets bounce off his skull. Cars smashed to pieces when he headbutted them. The man was a walking tank.
So, naturally, Darren got the job.
Legal jurisdiction? Ethics? Paperwork? Those were Fury's problems.
"You expect me to believe that?" Hammerhead sneered, glancing at the shining gold-plated hand cannon in Darren's grip. "Since when do cops carry designer guns?"
Darren didn't bother to respond.
Hammerhead's voice darkened. "Listen, boy. You walk out now, and I'll forget this ever happened."
"Yeah, no." Darren smiled pleasantly. "I still need to bring you in to complete my quest."
"Then die where you stand!"
Hammerhead lunged. His massive frame moved with shocking speed, the floor cracking under each step.
Bang!
The shot rang out—and hit square between his eyes.
The bullet spun uselessly against his forehead before dropping to the floor with a dull clink.
Hammerhead grinned, spreading his arms wide. "Hahaha! You see? It's useless! Nothing can kill me! Bullets can't even scratch my—"
BANG!
A second shot cut him off. This time, Hammerhead howled in agony and collapsed, clutching his leg as blood poured between his fingers.
"W-why… why didn't you shoot my head again?!"
He looked up, face contorted in confusion and pain.
Darren raised a brow. "You're literally called Hammer Head."
Hammerhead blinked through tears.
Darren holstered his pistol, deadpan. "Even an idiot could guess your skull's reinforced. I'm not wasting ammo on that. You've still got legs, haven't you?"
Hammerhead: "…"
The great, bulletproof crime lord of Hell's Kitchen lay on the floor, bawling and bleeding from the knees—completely undone by a man with a golden gun and a better sense of logic.
...