Fritz

Dante Tahan managed to slip away just before the FBI raid closed in.

The days leading up to his escape had been torturous. One by one, criminals across the city—big and small, notorious and obscure—had been systematically hunted down by two archers, who seemed to strike from nowhere. Within just over a week, nearly every other target was eliminated, leaving Dante as the final holdout. The message was clear: it was only a matter of time before they came for him too.

The last few days had been a nightmare. Dante couldn't eat or sleep, spending each hour in a constant state of dread. Holed up in his safe room, he listened for any hint of danger, sweating as he anticipated the knock at his door. His once well-fed frame shrank with the stress, and his fear soon turned into desperation.

When Dante finally decided to flee, he took every precaution. He swapped his designer suit for a set of plain clothes, blending in with his lower-level associates. He left his car behind, choosing a nondescript vehicle from his fleet, hoping that the switch would keep him off his hunters' radar.

Dante kept off the main roads, taking winding back streets and narrow alleys. He was driving fast, each jolt of the car a reminder of the urgency. His path led toward the edge of the city, where a helicopter was stationed, waiting to take him to safety.

But his plan didn't go unnoticed.

As he sped down a dark, empty stretch of road, an arrow shot through the night, cutting through the air with a sharp whistle. It struck the car's windshield dead center, sending a loud crack through the glass. Before Dante or his driver could react, the arrow exploded, releasing a thick, sticky purple substance that spread across the windshield, covering half of it in an instant.

The driver yelled in shock, instinctively slamming on the brakes as his vision vanished. The car skidded violently, tires squealing as it lost control. 

Already on edge, they'd been speeding down this rough, twisting road in total darkness, constantly looking over their shoulders, terrified of pursuit. The car swerved off the path, veering toward a thick tree at the side of the road. There was a loud crash as the vehicle slammed into the tree, the front crumpling on impact, and a shower of sparks flew from the engine.

Tree branches shattered on the roof, splintering the remaining glass, and the occupants were thrown around like rag dolls. Some hit the seats hard enough to draw blood, but within seconds, Dante and his men were scrambling out of the car, stunned but alive.

Dante was the first to stumble out, glancing around frantically. Without a second thought, he began to run, abandoning his men to save himself. But after only a few steps, he froze, spotting a figure in the shadows ahead.

A man stood there, calm and unwavering. He was dressed in a black tactical vest, with a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder and a sleek black folding bow in his hand. It was one of the archers Dante had been dreading: Hawkeye.

Dante's heart sank. He recognized Hawkeye immediately; the archer's face was practically burned into his nightmares by now. In the past week, this man and his partner had dismantled every major criminal syndicate in the city, picking them off one by one. Rumor had it they didn't follow the rules, and for criminals used to finding loopholes, these archers were terrifying.

"Please… I'm begging you…" Dante tried, his voice trembling. He could feel his life slipping away.

But Hawkeye didn't respond. Silently, he pulled an arrow from his quiver, not a hint of mercy in his eyes.

Dante's breath hitched as Hawkeye drew the bow, the arrow aimed directly at him. He'd heard stories of people stronger and more powerful than him falling to this man's arrows. Some ended up in prison; others weren't so lucky.

Just as Hawkeye released the arrow, a hand shot out from the shadows, catching it mid-air.

It was a man—a tall, thin figure dressed in a dark combat uniform. He had a pale, almost sickly look, as though he hadn't seen the sun in weeks, but his gaze was sharp, his eyes reflecting a dangerous glint.

"Archer… Hawkeye, right?" the man said, inspecting the arrow he'd just caught. He turned it over in his hands as if examining a trinket.

Dante's men, bruised and bewildered, stared at the newcomer, fear mixing with disbelief. "Wait… is that… the Werewolf?" one of them muttered.

The name triggered a ripple of recognition. Many of Dante's men, particularly the older ones, had heard of this man—the infamous Werewolf. His real name was Fritz Whitman, an assassin who had once been as feared as Black Sun, one of the last remaining super-assassins. In his early days, he'd earned the nickname "Werewolf" for his rumored preference to kill during full moons. But like Black Sun, he'd faded from the public eye, retreating into legend.

Fritz studied Hawkeye with a faint, mocking smile. "You've been making waves, haven't you, 'Robin Hood?' I'd heard stories about you tearing up Wendelani's underworld. I thought it was about time I paid you a visit."

"Bad idea," Hawkeye replied, his tone cool. "This'll be the biggest mistake you've ever made."

Hawkeye didn't wait. He nocked three arrows and released them in one smooth motion. Two arrows targeted Fritz's vital points, while the third was aimed at Dante, hoping to trap him with a binding arrow so he couldn't flee.

But Fritz's hand moved like lightning, producing a blade that flashed in the dark. He swiped it through the air, intercepting the arrows mid-flight. The third arrow, which had been meant for Dante, snapped in two and veered off course, landing in the dirt and exploding in a harmless burst of purple gel.

Dante and his men watched, their faces ashen as they realized how close they'd come to being trapped.

Fritz spun the dagger in his hand and stepped forward, his gaze locked onto Hawkeye. Without looking back, he barked, "Get out of here. Now."

Dante and his men snapped out of their daze, turning and sprinting down the road. A few yards ahead, they saw another man near an open well. He waved for them to follow, and, without hesitation, Dante gestured for his men to follow him down. They climbed into the well, disappearing into the sewer system as the man closed the cover behind them.

Once inside the dank tunnel, Dante looked at his guide with wary eyes. "I don't know who you think you are, but don't expect my gratitude."

The guide, unfazed, simply smiled. "We don't need your gratitude, Mr. Tahan. We know what you're capable of—that's why we believe you're worth our invitation."

"Invitation?" Dante asked, still on edge. "Who exactly are you?"

"We're the Rebels," the man replied. "We're the ones who lost everything—people pushed out of their lives, forced into hiding. We're the street enforcers, the unemployed, the assassins who were put out of business by these so-called 'heroes.' We're made up of politicians, entrepreneurs, ordinary workers, and even those who live outside the law. Our organization spans cities, even countries. We're united against a common enemy."

"You want to go up against those costumed lunatics?" Dante scoffed. "Count me out. Clearly, you don't understand what you're dealing with. Here in Wendelani, those two archers alone took down our entire underworld, and that's nothing compared to what Iron Man can do."

"Oh, don't worry, Dante," the guide replied smoothly, leading him into a brightly lit underground room.

A voice echoed from the far end of the room, firm and composed. "Mr. Tahan, we've prepared for this."

The room opened up into a massive space, bustling with activity. Fighters, engineers, and strategists filled the area, all working in a coordinated effort. Dante's eyes widened, stunned by the scale of the operation. This was no small gathering; it was an army.

And then he saw the man who had spoken: it was Fritz, the Werewolf, standing calmly as if he hadn't just been fighting Hawkeye.

Dante gaped. "Wait… weren't you just…?"

"Fighting that so-called Hawkeye?" Fritz smirked, his tone dripping with disdain. "You thought he'd catch me? You clearly don't know me."

Dante glanced around, realizing just how powerful the Rebels might be. He'd seen the archers' strength firsthand and had assumed no one could challenge them. Yet here was Fritz, having not only escaped but arrived here even faster than Dante himself. It was a reminder that Fritz's legendary reputation wasn't just talk.

"You think we Rebels don't stand a chance against these so-called heroes," Fritz observed, noticing Dante's uncertainty. "It's natural to think that. Ordinarily, you'd be right. But this time… we have some divine help."

Dante's skepticism began to waver as he met Fritz's unwavering gaze.

"Yes," Fritz continued, his voice filled with conviction. "God is watching over us and has granted us the strength to fight back. Those so-called heroes think they can just waltz in, ruin our lives, take over our cities. But it's time for them to pay."

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