S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters.
Coulson stood before Fury's desk, delivering his report.
"A demon with the same characteristics as humans..."
After listening to Coulson's briefing, Fury leaned back in his chair, thinking. "No wonder neither we, the police, nor the FBI could find any leads. We've been investigating in the wrong direction from the start."
"On the way back, I checked with archives," Coulson added. "All the murders occurred at night, which aligns with what Quinn said about demons fearing sunlight."
Fury's eye narrowed, his expression grave. "Even so, we can't confirm whether Quinn's information is accurate. Pull the surveillance footage from near each crime scene. Find any suspicious individuals and investigate them thoroughly."
"I've already asked archives to start that process."
Coulson hesitated for a moment before continuing. "If Quinn's information is correct... how should we handle these demons?"
Dealing with enhanced individuals or super soldiers was manageable.
With S.H.I.E.L.D.'s advanced technology, they could handle most threats as long as they weren't exceptionally powerful.
But according to Quinn, demons possessed physical abilities far beyond human capability, near-immortality, and various supernatural powers.
Against something like that, conventional tactics might be useless.
Fury fell silent, considering the problem.
After a long moment, he spoke. "Find a demon first. Then I'll arrange for a specialist in supernatural threats to assist. Also, if demons fear sunlight, try UV searchlights. See if those have any effect."
"Understood."
With his orders received, Coulson left the director's office.
Fury remained deep in thought.
If Quinn's information was accurate, how did he know about demons?
And why did he possess a weapon specifically designed to kill them?
Furthermore, his comment about the embezzled funds—was that a bluff to intimidate, or did he actually know something?
If he genuinely knew something, what information could possibly threaten S.H.I.E.L.D.'s very existence?
What had started as a routine supernatural investigation had suddenly become infinitely more complicated.
"I need answers to all of this."
Fury's gaze sharpened. He picked up his phone and dialed a number.
"Master Quinn!"
The person addressing Quinn was a young man of medium build with gray hair, a long face, and a somewhat frail demeanor.
This was Otto Suwen, the puppet Quinn had just summoned.
"Otto, you'll stay by my side as my assistant from now on. You'll handle all the day-to-day operations of the shop. I'll notify you separately if I need you for anything else."
"Understood, my lord. I will work diligently to fulfill my duties."
Otto answered with complete sincerity.
Quinn nodded, satisfied.
Otto wasn't suited for fieldwork, so Quinn had decided to keep him close as an assistant.
Quinn himself would be the hands-off boss.
Besides, with Muzan and the Twelve Kizuki currently generating Wish Points, he didn't need Otto for that purpose yet.
"I'll leave things in your hands then. I'm going out for a bit."
"Please rest assured and leave everything to me."
Otto accepted the responsibility with confidence.
Manhattan, Greenwich Village.
This was one of New York's wealthier neighborhoods—a quiet enclave removed from the city's chaos, yet only a twenty-minute drive from its bustling heart.
Green hills, clear waters, abundant shade...
Being here naturally calmed the spirit.
But today, an uninvited guest had arrived.
He was a Black man.
Around thirty years old, with a close-cropped head and dark sunglasses.
His body was powerfully built, dressed in military-style camouflage pants and a tactical vest. Two long swords were strapped to his back, and a large-caliber pistol hung from his thigh.
He was the son of a curse, an outcast who lived only for vengeance. He had no given name.
But the underworld knew him by another title—Blade.
"This is the place."
Blade stopped before a villa, his eyes fixed on the entrance.
He didn't possess X-ray vision, so he couldn't see what lay inside.
But his sense of smell was supernaturally acute, especially when it came to blood.
He could smell it—thick, overwhelming.
Inside this villa, it was like a slaughterhouse... a human slaughterhouse.
"Another blood feast?"
A cold glint flashed behind Blade's sunglasses.
He'd been born on a mission. His mother had been bitten by a vampire while giving birth to him, and she'd eventually "died" from the transformation.
He'd been born half-human, half-vampire.
Born bearing hatred, shouldering the mission to exterminate vampires, he'd eventually become a vampire hunter.
He'd killed countless vampires over the years. He knew their habits, their patterns, their weaknesses.
They craved blood insatiably and took pleasure in consuming humans.
However, since humans had become the dominant species on Earth, vampire activity had diminished. They operated only in the shadows now.
But there were always fanatics.
They'd use various lies and lures to gather large groups of humans, then unleash a blood feast.
Every time, dozens died.
"I will kill every last vampire."
Blade muttered the vow under his breath, then kicked the door open.
But what greeted him wasn't the bloody carnage he'd expected.
Instead, he found a hall draped in cobwebs—like the lair of some enormous spider.
What the hell?
Blade's eyes narrowed.
Based on his experience, this place should have been drenched in blood, a scene straight from hell. Why was it covered in webs instead?
This wasn't vampire work.
Vampires weren't as supernatural as fantasy novels portrayed them.
While they possessed immortal bodies and physical strength far exceeding normal humans, that was the extent of it. They didn't have exotic blood magic or reality-warping powers.
Covering a 300-square-meter villa in cobwebs simply wasn't something a vampire could—or would—do.
The styles didn't match.
"Who are you?"
A voice called down from above.
Blade looked up and saw a child standing behind the railing on the second floor.
But Blade didn't relax just because his opponent appeared to be a child. Instead, every muscle in his body tensed, his instincts screaming danger.
The boy looked around ten years old, with white hair, white clothes, and red markings on his face.
If that was all, it might have been almost endearing.
But his eyes were deeply wrong. The pupils had two distinct layers—white on the outside, blue within, with two dark spots in the center.
The sclera were blood red, like exposed flesh stripped of skin. Utterly horrifying.
And it wasn't just appearance.
Through Blade's heightened senses, this child radiated a terrifying aura that made him feel pressure unlike anything he'd experienced before.
"I asked you a question!"
The child's voice came again, edged with impatience. "Breaking into someone's home without answering... Fine. You'll make decent food."
"So you are a monster."
Blade took a deep breath, then suddenly drew both pistols and fired.