More Lives

The people in the massive office stood frozen in place, as if they had all turned to stone. The room was crowded, filled with investigators, analysts, and experts, yet the silence was absolute, oppressive. It was as if the room had been vacuum-sealed, and no one was even daring to breathe. Their minds raced, trying to comprehend the extraordinary sequence.

They struggled to make sense of it, to mentally reconstruct the timeline of what had unfolded just minutes ago outside the FBI headquarters. Or more precisely, they were trying to convince themselves to believe what had happened.

The Scarlet Reaper, one of the world's top three snipers, had made an almost impossible assassination attempt: shooting through a window from 800 meters away, atop a speeding train, battling immense wind pressure, all within a brief window of time. Normally, such an act would be the stuff of legend—a godlike feat of sniping that would be celebrated in textbooks, a marksmanship miracle worthy of fame.

But today, it was nothing compared to what had truly transpired.

Not long ago, everyone in the room had believed that the red-clad gunman had been aiming through the building to kill Director Linton with a near-impossible shot, one that had barely missed its mark. Even with the miss, the audacity of that attempt had left them in awe.

Now, they realized they had been utterly wrong.

Yes, the sniper had flown through the air and taken a shot. But the shot hadn't been aimed at Linton at all.

The real target had been the Scarlet Reaper, who was racing past the building on the roof of a high-speed train, 800 meters away.

And the sniper hadn't missed.

He had hit the Scarlet Reaper with a headshot, killing him instantly.

The enormity of the revelation weighed heavily on the minds of everyone in the room. The sudden turn of events felt surreal, almost as if the world's natural laws had been upended. What the hell had just happened?

The assassination attempt on Director Linton was a matter of national security. Among the people invited to the scene were some of the best sniping experts in the world—people who understood the intricate science and delicate art behind long-range marksmanship. But what they had witnessed today had torn their understanding to shreds.

Sniping, even under the best conditions, is an art that requires precision, training, and nerves of steel. Hitting a moving target is hard enough. But hitting a target atop a speeding train? That was something out of a fantasy.

One of the experts, who had devoted his entire life to the science of sniping, felt his knees buckle under him. The decades he had spent studying ballistics, trajectory, and wind resistance suddenly seemed like a waste. The sheer magnitude of what had occurred before his eyes made his years of research feel insignificant.

A peerless sniper had emerged, a being whose skills dwarfed even the legendary Scarlet Reaper's. And no one in the room had any idea who this person was.

How could someone this skilled have gone unnoticed for so long? How could the most lethal marksman on the planet have appeared out of nowhere?

While the experts' minds were shattering under the weight of this revelation, Director Linton remained disturbingly calm. He sat quietly, absorbing everything, his mind working in silent calculation.

"Don't get comfortable," he said after a long pause, his voice cool and steady. "The Scarlet Reaper may be dead, but Black Sun hasn't made his move yet. The battle has only just begun."

The room stirred. His calm words had a grounding effect, forcing everyone to pull themselves back from the brink of disbelief. They had a job to do. Linton's voice, steady and sure, cut through the tension like a knife, refocusing everyone in the room on the tasks ahead.

"Yes, sir," someone responded, snapping the others out of their stupor.

The experts, investigators, and agents pushed down their awe and disbelief, forcing themselves to regain composure and focus on the mission. Black Sun was still a threat, and despite the mind-boggling events of the day, they needed to remain vigilant.

As the room cleared out, Director Linton was left alone. He returned to his office, staring out through the shattered glass of the window, lost in thought.

The question gnawed at him, tugging at the edges of his mind. Could it have been 'her'? Or perhaps one of her companions?

There was no real evidence, only instinct. But something told him she was nearby. He couldn't explain it, but it felt like she was somewhere close, watching, always watching.

Somewhere in the air ducts above, Cassandra remained silent, her breath steady as she observed.

…

To most of the experts, the sniper shot that had killed the Scarlet Reaper was beyond reason. It was a shot that defied all logic, something impossible for a human to pull off. But to Charlie Cooper, it was far less impressive than it seemed.

Unlike traditional snipers, who had to painstakingly line up their shots, calculating for wind, distance, and motion, Charlie's experience was different. For him, operating Deadshot was like playing an FPS video game. The mechanics were simple: point the crosshair at the target and fire.

For most people, aiming at such a high-speed target would require supernatural levels of skill. But Charlie had an advantage. Deadshot's abilities came with auto-aim assistance. It was like the aim-assist feature in modern console shooters: when the crosshair got near the target, the system would automatically correct the shot and lock on.

This passive targeting system made precision shooting easy. All Charlie had to do was get the crosshair close to the target, and the system would handle the rest, calibrating the shot to hit the mark with lethal precision.

But that wasn't all.

As impressive as Deadshot's auto-aiming ability was, it wasn't what had allowed him to track the Scarlet Reaper through the building walls and across the city. That feat came from another hero—Daredevil, the team's master of perception.

Teaming up with Daredevil had been the key. Daredevil's superhuman sensory abilities allowed him to "see" through walls and obstacles, mapping the world with a radar-like sense that was unmatched. It didn't matter how far away the target was or how many obstacles stood between them—Daredevil could pinpoint anyone's exact location.

Daredevil had been the one to locate the Scarlet Reaper, marking his position on the HUD that Friday had provided for Charlie. Friday had done the rest—calculating the Reaper's speed, the trajectory of the train, and the exact timing when the Reaper would pass by the sniper point.

With everything mapped out on the screen, all Charlie had to do was fly up at the right moment using Deadshot's grappling hook, take aim, and fire.

And even if he had missed, Cassandra, positioned in the ventilation ducts, would have had time to intervene and protect Director Linton from the Reaper's attack.

But that backup wasn't necessary.

While Black Sun remained unaware of the role Deadshot had played in the Scarlet Reaper's death, their intelligence network quickly picked up reports of the sniper's failure. The news that the Reaper had fallen from a moving train spread quickly, but the details of what had actually happened were still murky.

Meanwhile, three black vans sped down the highway toward Grace City. Inside were members of another Black Sun assassination team, led by James Avery, one of the organization's top enforcers. Black Sun had sent their best this time—they had no other choice. One failure after another in Grace City had left them with no room for error.

As the vans entered the city limits, James was on a call with Black Sun's leader.

"Yes, we've arrived… Yes, I heard about the Scarlet Reaper. That FBI director is a tough one… I can't believe the Reaper missed…"

He paused, then chuckled.

"Don't worry. I've brought our best. They're reliable. Just give us a few minutes, and he'll be—"

BOOM!

Without warning, the lead van exploded in a ball of fire. The blast sent debris rocketing across the highway, throwing the two trailing vans into chaos. A wave of searing heat hit the remaining vehicles, forcing them to swerve violently. Despite their attempts to avoid the wreckage, the vans collided with each other, metal screeching as they skidded out of control.

"What the hell?!"

James' phone was gone, thrown somewhere in the chaos. Dazed but alive, he climbed out of the wreckage, his head spinning.

As he stumbled to his feet, his vision blurry, James saw him.

A man was approaching through the flames, calm and deliberate. He wore full body armor, his figure towering and imposing. His combat suit was sleek and efficient, designed for war. A black and yellow asymmetrical helmet covered his face, giving him an air of menace.

He was armed to the teeth. Firearms of all kinds were strapped to his body, two swords rested on his back, and in his hands, he carried a black automatic rifle with a grenade launcher attached.

The most dangerous mercenary in the world.

Deathstroke.

The Reaper had come to claim more lives.