New York. Outside a warehouse near the riverbank, two men in black suits stood guard. A shadow darted from the darkness—movement too fast to track. Twin cracks echoed as both guards collapsed, necks snapped mid-turn. The figure slipped through the warehouse door without a sound.
A scream tore through the night. Lights flared on, flooding the building in harsh fluorescence. Gunfire erupted—staccato bursts, panicked shouts, the chaos of men fighting for their lives.
Silence. The gunfire cut off mid-salvo. Lights died. The warehouse door creaked open, and a figure emerged, the stench of blood clinging to them like a second skin.
Thirty minutes later, police swarmed the perimeter. "Team Leader, confirmed—this was a Mafia front." An officer wiped sweat from his brow. "Drugs, firearms, enough contraband to sink a ship. But..." He swallowed hard. "No survivors."
The Team Leader's jaw tightened as he reached for his phone. Before he could dial, another officer skidded to a stop beside him. "Sir! We found something!" The man's voice crackled with adrenaline.
"Spit it out."
"A phone—under a cabinet. Still recording when we recovered it. There's footage of the killer."
The Team Leader snatched the device. The video opened with a nauseating lurch—blurred motion, Russian curses, the deafening rip of gunfire. Someone was filming while running, the camera jerking with each frantic step.
A figure crouched behind a concrete pillar. Their shots came slow, deliberate. Every bullet found its mark. The cameraman's breathing hitched—raw terror in every gasp. Then the frame whirled as they turned to flee.
Sudden silence.
A single gunshot. The camera tumbled, sky and ground flipping wildly before settling at a skewed angle. Shadows loomed on either side—shipping containers framing a narrow gap. Boots scuffed concrete.
"Please—" The voice broke, wet with tears. "I have family—"
A Japanese phrase cut through the plea. The camera caught a glimpse—black tactical gear, a featureless metal mask, the glint of a red-gold blade.
The Team Leader's breath caught. Around him, officers froze. They all knew that silhouette.
By dawn, the video reached Fury's desk. He summoned Hill and three others within minutes. "Forensics came back," Fury said, tossing a file onto the table. "Vanko's blood on the blade, but only his prints. No DNA traces from the wielder."
Hill's shoulders slumped. Fury didn't offer comfort. "Natasha?"
"I'm clean."
"Good. Watch this." The edited clip played—fifty-seven seconds of carnage. When it ended, Fury leaned forward. "Coulson—status?"
"Ireland. Positive ID on all markers." Coulson didn't blink. "Which raises the question—who's in the video?"
Natasha tapped the screen, freezing on the masked figure. "Disguise?"
Fury: "People can be disguised, and blades can be borrowed, but strength cannot. That warehouse? Forty-two kills in under four minutes. Forensics found bodies sliced clean through—cuts smoother than surgical steel. The style matches Tokyo Bay exactly."
"Then we're dealing with an impostor?"
"There were two killers in the Tokyo incident," someone remarked.
"Not the same," Fury cut in. "One of them relied solely on firearms from start to finish. And let's not forget, the appearance of such a person is already an anomaly. We've never found anyone else with significant power around Hong Fei." He concluded his deduction bluntly, though even he didn't relish the admission. The facts were what they were.
The bodies of the dead Mafia members were proof enough—the opponent's strength was undeniably top-tier.
"Barton," Fury said, turning to the archer, "what have you found?"
Barton nodded. "The owner of that villa in Tokyo has an unusual background. He's far from ordinary. We dug up an old photo of him from over 150 years ago. Even back then, he looked like an old man. That puts his age at least over 200."
He paused, then added, "More importantly, he was likely the leader of an international criminal organization. After his death, multiple companies tied to him were swiftly deregistered, and assets were quietly transferred."
Barton continued, "We traced the companies that ended up with those assets. They're spread globally and linked to numerous cases—murder, drug trafficking, human trafficking, you name it. Preliminary analysis suggests this is likely the fallout of an internal dispute within the organization."
Hill and the others exchanged stunned glances. The revelation was staggering.
Fury tapped the table sharply, drawing everyone's attention. "Last night's incident ties directly to this organization. Those Mafia members have been competing with them for market control. Their feud has been simmering for nearly half a year. Here's the conclusion: that 'You-Know-Who' might not be Hong Fei after all, but a member of this criminal group."
He leaned forward, his voice low and deliberate. "The Tokyo Bay incident was likely an internal vendetta. And this organization? They've mastered abilities that defy reality—whether it's life extension or that tank that appeared out of nowhere. All of it points to them."
Natasha smirked at that, her lips curling slightly.
Fury glanced at her before continuing, "Given that Natasha was discovered last night, even if Hong Fei isn't 'You-Know-Who,' he's certainly not as simple as he seems."
He straightened, his tone firm. "The current situation demands we find the killer quickly. I've decided to temporarily halt the investigation into Hong Fei and focus entirely on uncovering everything about this international criminal organization. We need to map their network and root them out—fast."
"Yes, sir!" the team responded in unison.
As the video conference ended, Fury leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. He hadn't truly given up on his suspicions of Hong Fei, but the surface-level evidence pointed elsewhere. What really drove his decision was the mounting pressure from the World Security Council and the sudden emergence of video evidence.
His biggest financial backer was growing impatient. Both incidents involved the U.S., and S.H.I.E.L.D. had to deliver results—or risk losing funding for Fury's secret projects. Whether it was Hong Fei or The Hand, he needed to hand the Council an answer.
Hong Fei appeared clean, but The Hand? They were rotten to the core.
The latter had developed for hundreds of years. This was an advantage for The Hand itself, but in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s eyes, it was a glaring weakness. Centuries of operation left behind countless traces, making them far easier to investigate.
And if S.H.I.E.L.D. could dismantle such a criminal syndicate, it would carry far more weight than pinning anything on Hong Fei alone.
He kept one crucial detail from Coulson and the team—his burning curiosity about The Hand's "life extension" secrets. The T.A.H.I.T.I. project he'd been working on had disturbing parallels. Personal interest aside...
This approach served another purpose: lulling Hong Fei into complacency. A relaxed target would slip up eventually, especially when S.H.I.E.L.D. reopened the investigation. But the situation kept evolving at breakneck speed, morphing daily. If Hong Fei truly orchestrated both incidents...
Powerful, decisive, strategic, knowing how to leverage power and shift blame. Meticulous, leaving no direct trails for S.H.I.E.L.D. to follow. Yet the aftermath? Two operations drenched in unimaginable brutality. "If it's him," he muttered, knuckles whitening around his coffee cup, "what kind of monster are we dealing with?"