Women wearing red Cloaks or red Hoodies

General (POV)

Earlier...

Queens, New York. Underground. Gritty, damp, and stinking of desperation. The kind of place where crime thrives and dreams die.

"Who sent you to kill me?"

He screamed, finally breaking into full-on desperate mode. Tears? Close. Pathetic whimpering? Absolutely.

Dutton was having a bad day. No, scratch that—the worst day, and the day was just about to start no less. He sat on the ground, slumped and disheveled, his once-shiny tracksuit now a sorry mix of sweat, dirt, and existential despair. His bloodshot eyes darted to the woman standing before him—a crimson-clad nightmare, a hoodie dress draped over her, with black stockings and knee-high high-heeled boots—like, ridiculously impractical for combat boots—spoke to her deadly elegance. But Dutton wasn't ogling; he was too busy panicking.

He couldn't remember ever crossing paths with her, but his men? Oh, his poor men—they sure had. And lost. Dutton glanced past her. His crew—his boys!—burned to a crisp, still smoldering like overcooked BBQ. Black flames still licked at the edges of a few bodies, casting flickering shadows on the walls. One guy looked like he'd tried to crawl away mid-crisping. Spoiler alert: he hadn't made it.

Dutton's brain was on a loop, stuck replaying the past few hours. Who hired her? Why is this happening? He hadn't made waves lately. No territory grabs. No ambitious power plays. He even paid protection money to the Big Boss—Kingpin himself—on the dot, every month. So, seriously…

"You're all about the aesthetic, huh? Black flames? Little on the nose, don't ya think?" he mumbled before slapping his own mouth shut. Bad move. The woman tilted her head like a predator debating if her prey was worth the calories.

Dutton gulped. "L-look, I've been good! Real good! Minding my own business, staying in my lane, not stepping on toes. I pay my dues—every month! I'm a model citizen!"

"Model citizen? My ass!!" Sarah sneered.

"Why the hell is this happening to me?" Dutton hissed, his voice cracking under the weight of his unraveling composure.

And then it happened: full-on meltdown. "WHO THE HELL WANTS ME DEAD?!" he screamed, his words echoing in the underground lair. His hands flailed like a man drowning in his own panic.

Let's rewind and set the stage properly.

Dutton? Leader of a small-time gang. A speck in Kingpin's empire, not even worth a footnote. But Kingpin had handed over a list to Sarah—his new associate—and Dutton's name was on it. Why? Because he wasn't just peddling black-market organ deals as a middleman; he was a crucial cog in the machine. Sure, Kingpin was all about the big-money trades: human trafficking, black-market organs, drugs disguised as "laundry detergent." But the human trafficking part? That's where Sarah drew the line.

Since shutting down Kingpin's trafficking ring, Sarah had been systematically wiping out everyone connected to it. Enter Dutton, the efficient middleman who played Cupid for desperate, wealthy clients and a black-market organ or two.

"Your sins attracted me," Sarah finally said, her voice low and menacing, laced with just enough edge to rival the best over-the-top anti-hero monologues. She raised her head, her hood casting ominous shadows over her face. "It is the prayers of those who have descended into hell that summoned me to take revenge for them."

Let's pause here for a second.

Sarah? She's into this. The big, dramatic speeches? They're her thing. She probably wrote this one out on a napkin earlier over coffee. Nailed it in one take.

Dutton? Not impressed. "Uh… yeah, cool speech and all, but like… what does that even mean?"

Sarah didn't flinch. Her hands flexed, a faint trace of black fire sparking to life on her fingertips.

Dutton's survival instincts finally kicked in. "Wait, wait, wait! Look, I don't do trafficking! That's not my jam! I'm just a… uh… resourceful businessman!"

"Oh, is that what you call selling kidneys on Craigslist these days?" Sarah snapped, her tone dripping with mockery.

Dutton whimpered. "Hey, those people consented! Mostly! I think. I—I don't check IDs!"

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Tell that to the kids locked in basements, waiting for your next business deal." Her voice grew colder. "Don't worry. You'll have plenty of time to repent. Like, forever."

And with that, black flames surged in her palms once again.

"Are you crazy?! You're insane, aren't you?! What, are you some kind of righteous superhero?!"

Dutton, still sitting on the grimy floor, decided that if he was going out, it wouldn't be quietly. Fueled by Sarah's ominous monologue and his ever-shrinking survival odds, he exploded in a tirade. It wasn't smart, but hey, neither was selling black-market kidneys in Kingpin's backyard.

"I'm telling you!" he yelled, his voice bouncing off the cracked concrete walls. "Don't think that after you kill me, you'll get away! No one runs wild on Kingpin's turf! He will get you! He'll avenge me! You're dead, lady! DEAD!"

Sarah tilted her head thoughtfully, like a cat watching a particularly dumb mouse. "Hmm? Didn't you say you weren't working with Kingpin? I don't think his territory includes you," she mused, idly stroking her chin as if debating the answer on Jeopardy!

Dutton froze, blinking at her as though she'd just solved a math problem he couldn't even understand. "What… What do you mean? How do you know I haven't joined him?!"

And just like that, his face twisted into pure, unfiltered panic. His brain hit overdrive. His mouth was now running a marathon his logic couldn't keep up with. "No, no way… I haven't wronged Kingpin! I haven't taken his business! All the stuff I'm selling now, I got from him! So why would he want to kill me? Why—WHY?!"

Sarah waited patiently, watching Dutton mentally implode like a bad soufflé. Then, she delivered her verdict:

"You haven't wronged him."

Dutton looked up, hope flashing across his face. Maybe—just maybe—this nightmare had a loophole.

"But you've wronged me."

Hope shattered.

"Sorry, Mr. Dutton."

"No—!"

Thud.

A ball of hellfire crackled in Sarah's hand before she hurled it at Dutton, engulfing him in black flames. She didn't even stick around to watch the show. Not her style. Instead, she casually walked to the laundry detergent stacks his gang had been packing.

"Oh no, what a waste!" she said, mockingly clasping her hands. Then, with a snap of her fingers, the stacks erupted into flames. Laundry detergent may have been a big moneymaker for Kingpin, but Sarah? She wasn't about to let that filth poison the streets. After all, she was a good person. Or so she told herself, conveniently ignoring the smoldering human barbecue behind her.

With her job done, Sarah teleported to the top of the building. The city sprawled below her, bathed in the glow of streetlights and flashing billboards.

"Ugh, finally," she muttered, stretching lazily. "I'm so done with today."

As she leaned on the edge of the rooftop, her thoughts turned to the city's seedy underbelly. Sure, she'd just crossed another name off her list, but the night didn't rest. And neither did the crime.

"Eh, not my problem," she shrugged. "That's what we've got our favorite workaholic for. Have fun, Daredevil!" she added, mock-saluting the city skyline. "I'm taking five."

With that, Sarah yawned, her exhaustion catching up with her. Running around New York frying bad guys and torching illicit businesses was exhausting. But hey, someone had to do it.

For now, she'd let Kingpin handle the reorganization, Daredevil handle the grunts, and her bed handle the superhero.

...

S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Triskelion HQ, Washington D.C.

The door to Fury's top-floor office exploded open, and John strode in like he was auditioning for an action movie. The first thing he noticed was Director Fury's shiny bald head reflecting the office lights like a goddamn beacon.

"Crisis averted, Fury," John said, voice cool but with that hint of urgency that said there was more to the story.

Fury didn't even flinch. Just narrowed his one good eye. "But there's always another one waiting for us," he muttered like a battle-worn mantra.

John didn't have time for Fury's grumpy philosophy today. "About that," he said, voice clipped, "this is the intel on the vampire situation we found in that temple." He slammed the tablet into Fury's hand with all the grace of a man who knew how to handle high-stakes deliveries. "I think it was deliberately placed there by a woman in a red hooded cloak."

Fury raised an eyebrow. "A woman in a red hooded cloak? Was she blonde?"

John paused, wondering if the universe had decided to play some kind of cosmic prank. "Yeah, I didn't get a good look at her. But yeah, she was with that blonde vampiress who killed Frost."

Fury's eyes narrowed as he scanned the data. He muttered under his breath about keeping an eye on any blonde woman wearing a red hooded cloak, red cape, or red hoodie. You know, just in case. After all, who's going to suspect a Black man of racially profiling blonde women?

Looking up, Fury's expression darkened. "The global vampire situation, huh? Including our own backyard?" He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I was hoping for a quieter week."

John perked up. "So, we're doing something about it, right?" His voice practically oozed excitement.

Fury didn't bother with the usual pleasantries. "You've got a new mission. We might have pinpointed his location. Take a team and handle it."

John didn't even wait for a proper dismissal, practically throwing a hand over his shoulder. "Thanks, Fury. Catch you later!"

As soon as John was out the door, Fury dialed up Agent May and Agent Coulson.

"May, Coulson, in here," he said, not pausing for a moment.

After showing them the intel, Fury laid out the plan. "May, you're the point person on this one. I need a deep dive into the global vampire situation. Full report. Get me their numbers, and their activities. I want to know everything."

May, ever the professional, nodded once, her face as grim as always. "Understood." And then she was gone, leaving Fury to turn to Coulson.

He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Coulson, this is top priority. You figure out who's been keeping tabs on these bloodsuckers within S.H.I.E.L.D. I don't want any paper trails, no leaks. You report directly to me with whatever you uncover."

Fury stood there for a moment, watching Coulson leave before he sighed deeply. "What the hell is that billionaire young woman up to?"

...

Still high above Washington, D.C., in a sleek, modern high-rise building, thirteen men and women sat in tense silence around a large, polished conference table. The room, bathed in the soft glow of ambient lighting, was filled with decision-makers, strategists, and military leaders. At the head of the table, a middle-aged man, sharply dressed and radiating authority, broke the tension with a steady voice.

"Kevin, Leonard," he began, with the calm assurance of a man who'd won more debates than most had arguments, "why don't you two update us on today's situation?"

The room's attention shifted as Deputy General Kevin Stone stepped forward, his expression a study in quiet confidence. Despite the weight of the moment, there was an undeniable undercurrent of charisma, like he knew exactly how to hold a room hostage without saying a word.

"Gentlemen, ladies," he began, casually tugging at his sleeve as though revealing groundbreaking tech was just another Tuesday, "I have something that will change the way we think about warfare."

With a fluid gesture, Stone activated the projection system. The room dimmed, and the screen flickered to life, displaying an aerial view of a desolate, war-torn landscape. The footage felt visceral like you could almost hear the distant hum of helicopter blades. Below, a line of military tanks crawled across the barren terrain—until the Storm made its entrance.

The shift in the footage was dramatic, almost cinematic. The Storm sliced through the air with the precision of a scalpel and the ferocity of a shark smelling blood. Its miniature anti-tank cannon erupted in a concise burst, taking no time at all to reduce one of the tanks to a fiery grave. The explosion seemed to pause, just for a moment, as though even physics wanted the audience to appreciate its artistry.

And just like that, the Storm vanished into the clouds, leaving only its afterburners as a parting signature. The room's collective silence spoke volumes—awestruck didn't quite cover it.

Stone let a brief silence hang in the air, taking in the reactions with the confidence of a seasoned showman. "Impressive? Sure," he said confidently, "but there's plenty more where that came from."

The second video rolled out. This time, the mood shifted from aerial acrobatics to something more grounded—and eerie. A jeep, unassuming save for the boxy contraption trailing behind it, rolled onto the screen. The device looked almost laughably simple.

But when it came to life, laughter wasn't on the agenda.

The hum started low, barely perceptible, before escalating into something that vibrated in your chest even through the screen. The sound waves became visible, rippling through the air, and one by one, sheets of bulletproof glass cracked like they owed someone money. The devastation was clinical—wave after wave of resonant force until the glass surrendered in a final, thunderous crash.

In the room, you could hear a pin drop. The implications weren't just unsettling—they were revolutionary.

The middle-aged man nodded subtly, his approval measured yet evident. "Impressive," he said, his tone flat but his gaze sharp as it shifted to Leonard. With a single motion, he signaled him to begin.

Leonard, ever the optimist, stepped forward with the swagger of someone who believed in his own hype, even if the room didn't quite share the sentiment. Hammer Industries had poured untold resources into its advanced robotics division, but years of underwhelming results had left its reputation dangling by a thread. This was their last shot, and Leonard intended to make it count—or at least look like it did.

The screen flared to life with a flash of Hammer Industries' logo—more dramatic than necessary—and transitioned to footage of their latest robotic prototypes.

"After years of development," Leonard began with the enthusiasm of a man who'd practiced this pitch in his bathroom mirror, "we've completely reimagined the potential of robotics."

The footage told a slightly different story. Clunky humanoid drones stumbled awkwardly through test scenarios like they were auditioning for a slapstick comedy. One robot hefted a heavy crate, only for its arm to seize up mid-lift, sending the box crashing to the ground. Another attempted a simple leap over a small gap but moved with the elegance of a refrigerator on roller skates, tumbling into a heap of parts.

Leonard pushed forward, undeterred by the less-than-stellar visuals. "These robotic drones are designed to perform in high-risk environments where human intervention is too dangerous or too costly. They're quick to deploy, cost-effective, and capable of performing a wide range of tasks—from disaster relief to industrial work."

The room watched as the drones continued their wobbly attempts at productivity. In one scene, a robot staggered under the weight of a girder. In another, a pair of drones engaged in simulated combat, their sluggish punches and awkward movements looking more like a drunken brawl at a corporate holiday party.

Still, Leonard's confidence was a force to be reckoned with. He waved to the screen as if the glitches and malfunctions were minor hiccups, not glaring red flags. "Despite their current limitations," he said, his tone rising as though he were about to unveil a blockbuster, "these drones represent the future of automated support. Scalable, adaptable, and inexpensive—they'll revolutionize industries and save countless lives in the process."

The presentation had all the polish of a high-budget ad campaign, complete with quick cuts and flashy transitions. But no amount of editing could hide the reality: the robots were far from ready.

Around the room, subtle reactions rippled—corporate representatives shifting in their seats, strategists exchanging knowing glances. Each attendee carried their own agenda, their interest in Leonard's pitch measured not by its potential but by its impact on their bottom lines.

The middle-aged man raised his hand abruptly, silencing Leonard mid-sentence. His expression gave nothing away, but the room felt the shift. "Alright, we've got the general idea," he said curtly. "Let's move on. There are others waiting to present."

He turned his attention across the table. "Aisha, Mike. What's the situation on your end?"

Aisha, a young blonde woman with sharp eyes and a crisp demeanor, glanced at the older Black man seated beside her. Mike, seasoned and steady, didn't waste time.

"Nothing significant," he replied bluntly. A pause, then a dismissive, "Next."

The man at the head of the table surveyed the room, his sharp gaze cutting through the uneasy silence like a scalpel. He leaned back slightly, hands clasped in a gesture of measured authority. "Let's hear it," he said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of a command. "What are your thoughts on the products?"

A murmur spread around the table. Some of the twelve remaining members shifted uncomfortably, their expressions a mix of skepticism and resignation. This wasn't just about cutting-edge tech or futuristic drones. Military procurement was a labyrinth, encompassing not just weaponry but logistics, electronics, and the unglamorous essentials that kept operations running.

And this year? The cutting-edge advancements—like the Storm's sleek lethality or Hammer Industries' robotic ambition—made most of their traditional offerings feel like relics from a bygone era. No one wanted to be the first to push a product that would be laughed out of the room.

The usual suppliers knew the game well. Internal procurement was a dream: submit the order, get funds disbursed, and move on. External tenders, though? That was a bureaucratic slog of bids, delayed production, and payments doled out in painful installments.

Not that it mattered much—the same players always got the contracts. The pie was divvied up before anyone even entered the room, and no one on the outside was getting a crumb. It was a system as immovable as it was frustrating.

What remained were the smaller battles: supplies, electronics, and the annual budget carve-up. These weren't the glamorous pieces of the puzzle, but they'd decide the allocation for the year.

The middle-aged man, ever the conductor of this symphony of power plays, glanced around the table and decided it was time to move things along.

"Alright," he said, cutting through the undercurrent of hesitation with a firm tone. "Since there are no further objections, let's proceed. Orders for Krypton and Hammer Industries are next on the docket. We'll handle this with a vote."

...

The room felt tense like you could hear every little sound, even the hum of the vents. Big decisions were on the table—ones that could change defense plans and affect company profits. Billion-dollar contracts weren't just business deals; they were all about power, survival, and politics.

As the middle-aged man's words hung in the air, everyone around the table shifted. Some leaned in, fingers twitching like they were ready to act, while others sat back, trying to seem uninterested, though their eyes showed they were deep in thought.

The touchpads on the table lit up, casting a soft glow over the room. The system looked sleek and neutral, but everyone knew it wasn't really unbiased. Options flashed on the screens: Approve, Reject, Abstain.

"Let's start with Hammer Industries," the man said, cutting through the quiet chatter.

The room fell silent. A low hum filled the air as people began casting their votes. Fingers hovered just above the screens, hesitating for a moment, showing the internal conflict behind their calm faces. Leonard's robots weren't perfect—far from it—but to some, they were a step forward. To others, they were overpriced junk with too many glitches.

A chime rang out, and the results flashed on the main screen:

Hammer Industries Proposal: Approved (8-5).

Leonard let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. A grin spread across his face, smug but satisfied. The margin didn't matter to him; even if it had been a single vote, he'd be celebrating like he'd just hit the jackpot.

"Congratulations, Leonard," the man said, his voice as calm as ever. "Your robotics project moves forward. Fix the mechanical issues before deployment. We'll be watching."

Leonard nodded quickly, already thinking about his next pitch.

"Next, Krypton Technologies," the man continued, his tone shifting slightly.

The room stiffened. The Storm had impressed everyone with its power and precision, but some people feared the potential dangers of autonomous weapons. Ethical concerns were bubbling under the surface, but in this room, practicality often trumped morals.

The touchpads lit up again. Some decisions were made quickly with firm taps, while others took a little longer, hesitation in the air.

Another chime.

Krypton Technologies Proposal: Approved (10-3).

Kevin Stone's lips curled up in a small, satisfied smile. He'd known this would happen.

The man at the head of the table scanned the room, his face unreadable. "The decisions are final. Hammer and Krypton will get the funding for the next stages of their projects. Budget updates will follow."

Murmurs ran through the room. Some looked relieved, others seemed resigned.

"Now," the man said, his gaze sweeping over everyone, "let's talk logistics and electronics. Aisha, Mike, you'll lead the proposals. Submit them by the end of the week. Meeting adjourned."

Chairs scraped back as the meeting wrapped up. People broke into quiet conversations—some happy, others less so.

Leonard and Stone exchanged quick nods, their quiet victories already fueling their next steps.

As the last few people left, the man at the head of the table stayed behind. The results still glowed on the screen: two projects that could change the world. He sighed, gathering his notes.

"Let's hope," he muttered under his breath, "we didn't just open a door we can't close."

He took one last look at the empty room, then walked out, leaving behind a silence that felt anything but settled.