The Punisher was a retired Marine whose family had been murdered in gang crossfire. Since that day, he'd dedicated his life to waging a one-man war against organized crime.
In his early operations, nobody knew his identity. They only knew that crime scenes looked like war zones—dozens of bodies, thousands of spent casings, bullet holes in every surface. The authorities initially thought they were dealing with a military unit.
Turns out it was just one man.
Frank Castle was a master of firearms. Fully equipped, he could match the combat effectiveness of an entire platoon.
And now, someone else had just demonstrated the same capability.
Except this guy hadn't used heavy weapons like the Punisher. Just two pistols.
"Ordinary pistols don't have that rate of fire," Fury observed, watching the scarred man weave through enemy gunfire while maintaining a constant barrage. Every shot was wreathed in orange flames. "Even rifles would overheat and warp the barrel at that temperature and firing speed." His expression was grim. "Is it his personal ability? A property of the weapons themselves? Or some combination of both?"
"No idea," Hill admitted. "But whoever he is, he's damn good."
As she spoke, the battle on screen ended.
The entire engagement had lasted less than three minutes.
Considering there had been roughly six hundred enemies, and accounting for multiple hits per target, the man had fired over six hundred rounds in under three minutes.
If he'd been using a minigun or a belt-fed machine gun, that would be one thing. But he'd done it with pistols. It should have been physically impossible.
"Forget the firing rate," Fury muttered. "Look at his technique. He's surrounded by hundreds of armed hostiles, dodging bullets and melee attacks from every direction, and he's still landing every shot exactly where he wants it—disabling strikes, not kill shots." He leaned back thoughtfully. "Even if you take away the supernatural elements—the flames, the impossible ammunition capacity—his skill and accuracy alone qualify him as super-soldier level."
"The way he fights is suffocating to watch," Hill agreed. "That level of aggression and precision combined... it's overwhelming."
Fury stared at the frozen frame showing the man mid-reload, pistols still smoking. "This guy is at least as dangerous as the illusionist, maybe more so in terms of raw combat effectiveness. The Vongola Family is considerably more powerful than we initially estimated."
The video continued.
Police cars arrived, sirens wailing. The Vongola members retreated in perfect order, like a military unit withdrawing from an operation.
As the rear guard, the illusionist raised his trident. Thick fog rolled across the entire block, reducing visibility to zero and covering their escape.
Fury and Hill barely reacted to that part—they'd already seen his abilities earlier.
Fury took a deep breath. "Where are the Vongola members now? Have we determined their objectives?"
"They've taken over an abandoned church in Block 10," Hill reported. "They're renovating it. Looks like they're setting up a headquarters. As for their objectives..." She hesitated. "According to statements from captured members of the Savage Gang, the Gunfire Negotiators, and the Viper Gang, the Vongola's goal is to become the 'emperor of the underworld.'"
"That's it?"
Fury looked skeptical.
Hill nodded. "That's what they're saying. Though it could be misinformation the Vongola are deliberately spreading."
"Increase surveillance on the Vongola Family. Priority one: determine their true objectives and where they came from."
"Yes, sir."
Hill left the office, closing the door behind her.
Fury slumped back in his chair and exhaled heavily.
A criminal organization with that many enhanced individuals didn't go through all this trouble just to control some street gangs. Becoming an "underworld emperor" would be trivially easy for them.
And when something is trivially easy to achieve, nobody makes it their actual goal. At best, it's a side project. A stepping stone to something bigger.
Fury sighed again and pulled open his desk drawer. Inside was a modified pager—quantum communication technology that Carol Danvers had left with him before leaving Earth.
He stared at it for a long moment before putting it back.
The situation was bad, yes. Potentially very bad.
But it wasn't apocalyptic. Not yet. He wasn't ready to call in that particular favor.
Still, he needed to be prepared if things escalated beyond his control.
"Time to accelerate the Avengers Initiative," he muttered to himself.
Otto was dealing with a corpse for the first time in his life, but he seemed to have a natural talent for it.
The process was efficient and methodical.
He used earth magic to dig a pit, then employed his Spirit Words to summon dozens of scavenger insects and decomposers from the surrounding soil. They'd take care of the rest.
The entire procedure was performed with the emotional detachment of someone filing paperwork. Not a hint of distress or moral conflict.
"Now I just need to wash off this blood."
Otto glanced at the red stains on his sleeves and hands, already planning to head back inside to clean up.
"Hey! You just killed someone!"
The voice came from behind him. Otto stopped walking.
"Underground, there's a strong smell of blood. Multiple sources. You've killed more than one person."
The voice was male, angry, and getting closer.
Otto turned around to see who was talking—a man in head-to-toe red tactical gear, including a mask that covered the upper half of his face.
"I didn't kill anyone," Otto said calmly, pulling a white handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the blood from his hands. "I'm simply disposing of bodies."
"So you're an accomplice."
The masked man stated it as fact, not a question, and began walking toward Otto with purpose. "I'll take you in first. Then you're going to tell me who the killer is."
"I'm afraid I can't allow that," Otto replied politely. "I still have work to do for my employer."
"You don't get a choice."
The man suddenly burst into a sprint, crossing the three-meter gap in an instant. His right fist was already cocked back, aimed at Otto's face.
Otto stood perfectly still, as if he hadn't registered the threat at all.
Just before the punch connected, a large stray dog lunged from the side and tackled the man to the ground with its full weight.
"WOOF! WOOF!"
The dog snarled viciously, jaws snapping toward the man's exposed throat—but he kicked it away with both legs, sending it tumbling across the alley.
The man rolled to his feet and moved to pursue Otto again.
But he stopped short.
Stray dogs and cats had emerged from the shadows, forming a loose circle around him. They blocked his path forward, teeth bared, growling low in their throats.
"You're Daredevil," Otto observed calmly. "I read about you in the newspaper last night. They called you a hero who fights criminals and delivers justice to Hell's Kitchen."
"You're controlling these animals?"
Daredevil ignored the statement, focusing on the immediate threat.
It wasn't really a question—the situation was obvious enough.
But he needed verbal confirmation. If this guy could control animals, he wasn't just a criminal covering up a murder scene. He was an enhanced individual. A super-criminal.
"I promised them food for a week in exchange for temporary cooperation," Otto explained matter-of-factly. When he saw the shock register in Daredevil's body language, he shook his head slightly.
"But that's not important. I'm not your enemy. The men I'm disposing of came here fully armed with the intent to kill us. My employer acted in self-defense."