The trick was to look tired, not exhausted. Exhaustion drew attention. No, just the kind of worn out that made people glance past you in the street, assuming you were another overworked professional trying to scrape by in the city that never slept.

Michael Morbius had perfected the act. Years of living as someone people would point and stare at taught him the skills to make himself into a person they wouldn't look twice at.

His black hair was slicked back neatly and dark rimmed glasses tinted red rested on the bridge of his nose, not entirely necessary, but effective. They softened his angular face, made him seem less severe, and did their best to hide his piercing crimson gaze. He'd tried contact lenses in the past, but let's just say taking them out with claws led to less than comfortable results.

He wore a charcoal button-up shirt, the top button undone just enough to look effortless. His pants were dark, tailored but not expensive, the kind a doctor or scientist might wear when they didn't expect an audience. Finally was his overcoat. It fit perfectly, sleek yet unremarkable, the type of thing that could belong to an underpaid forensic consultant or a man walking home from an expensive restaurant. The inside lining was silk, a rich deep purple, a hidden luxury only he knew about.

It was all part of Dr. Nikos Michaels, forensic consultant, hematology specialist, and a man with absolutely nothing to hide. Especially not that he was secretely Morbius, The Living Vampire.

The weather in Brownsville was as unforgiving as the streets within it. Cold bullets of rain battered down onto Morbius as he rushed through the streets, one hand in his pocket and the other holding up a now soaked newspaper in a futile effort to stop his hair from getting wet. The wind carried the scent of damp pavement, cheap cigarettes, and gasoline, all of it layering over the faint iron tang of blood that always seemed to linger on his senses.

He took a quick left down a set of concrete stairs and punched in a code on a keypad, being met with the satisfying click of the metal door as it unlocked and let him into the morgue. Two officers stood by the doors in raincoats, huddled together for warmth. One of them, a bored looking woman with a heavy NYPD jacket and a styrofoam coffee cup, nodded when she saw him.
"Some weather, eh, doc? Surprised to see you out this late."

Morbius adjusted the strap on his worn leather satchel, smiling back to her. "Strange cases tend to keep me up."

The officer chuckled, stepping aside to let him through. "Well, you picked a good one tonight."

Inside, the air shifted from the cold bite of the rain to the sterile chill of the morgue. The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly, casting everything in a stark, clinical glow. The scent of antiseptic, formaldehyde, and death pressed against his senses. Morbius exhaled slowly as he shook the water from his overcoat and adjusted his glasses. The morgue wasn't large, but it was efficient. Cold steel tables, rows of body lockers, a scattering of outdated computers and filing cabinets. It was the kind of place people avoided if they could help it, which made it one of the few places in the city where he could work freely without suspicion.

Dr. Neil Cavallero, Brownsville's resident medical examiner, was already at work, leaning over a sheet-covered body. His salt and pepper stubble and rumpled lab coat made him look more like a sleep deprived professor than a coroner. Morbius pulled off his overcoat, hanging it on a rusted hook by the door. "I heard we had another one." He flexed his fingers before sliding on a pair of gloves. "Same pattern?"

Cavallero let out a long, tired sigh and finally turned toward him, nudging the sheet covered body with the back of his hand. "You tell me." He pulled back the sheet.

The corpse belonged to a man in his early forties, lean, with short brown hair. There were no signs of struggle. No defensive wounds, no rope marks, no bullet holes or stab wounds. A clean, untouched body in a city where violent deaths were the norm. Morbius' eyes, as always, went straight to the throat, where he let his gaze settle on the thin, nearly invisible incision along the jugular. Something in his gut twisted.

"Cause of death?" Morbius asked, trying to keep his tone as neutral as possible.

"That's the thing." Cavallero stepped back, rubbing his forehead. "Autopsy says massive internal hemorrhaging. Every major organ bled out from the inside." He glanced at Morbius, tired eyes narrowing. "You ever seen anything like that?" Cavallero ran a hand over his tired face as he moved over to the coffee machine and poured himself a cup. He motioned an offering to Morbius but was met with a decline. "Third this month. Same age range, same lack of ID, same drop-off point. Dumped in an alley near Livonia Avenue. And just like the others, no missing persons report, no criminal record, no dental matches. Like the guy never existed."

Morbius looked closer at the incision on the deceased's throat. It was surgical in precision, sealed with a synthetic compound that looked almost like medical glue. There was no blood pooling around the wound, no bruising suggesting a violent attack. Whoever had done this had bled him carefully, methodically.

Cavallero folded his arms. "You see what I mean, Nik? This wasn't some back alley mugging. Someone took his blood, then patched him up after the fact. But why go through all that trouble if you were just going to dump him like trash?"

Morbius' fingers hovered over the wound, his pulse quickening despite himself. It definitely wasn't a frenzied, instinctual kill. This was controlled. Clinical. Someone in Brooklyn was harvesting blood, and doing it with a surgeon's hand, and for once it wasn't him.

Morbius swallowed, the hunger coiling in his gut like a tightening noose. He pushed it down, focused on the matter at hand. "I need to run a full panel on what’s left in his bloodstream." he murmured. "Something tells me this isn't just organ trafficking."

Cavallero sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Yeah? And what the hell do you think it is, then?"

Morbius exhaled slowly. "Something worse."

He let the words settle as he reached into his satchel, withdrawing a syringe and a few vials. His hands moved with practiced efficiency. He inserted the needle into the man's arm, drawing what little blood remained. It was thinner than it should be, paler. Something had been introduced to his system before death, something that had altered the blood's composition.

Cavallero watched him work, his expression caught somewhere between curiosity and concern. "You know, Nik, most consultants don’t get this hands on."

Morbius didn't look up. "Most consultants don't have a specialty in hematology."

Cavallero snorted. "Fair enough. Just don’t let the higher ups catch you poking around too much. They barely tolerate me asking questions." He took a sip of his coffee, wincing at the bitterness. "You think we should be worried?"

Morbius removed the vial and held it up to the light, watching how the blood clung to the glass. "I think whoever did this is careful. Experienced. And I think if they've done it three times, they’ll do it again."

A beat of silence passed between them. The morgue was always quiet, but now the air felt heavier, like the cold was seeping into the walls. Morbius glanced at Neil with a smile. "But you also don't strike me as the type to hang around Livonia Avenue. Plus, your blood is about 60% caffeine at this point, unless he's opening up a new coffee chain I'd say you're safe."

Cavallero let out a small chuckle, leaning back against a desk. "You want me to send the reports over when I finish up here?"

Morbius nodded, slipping the vials into his coat pocket. "Send me everything you can. And if another body shows up—"

"I'll call you."

The rain was still falling when Morbius stepped back outside, but he barely noticed. His mind was already elsewhere. This wasn't just a murder. This was something else. The precision, the blood extraction, the lack of any real forensic trace, this had purpose behind it. And that meant whoever was responsible wasn't finished.

Morbius adjusted his glasses, blending seamlessly into the night as he walked back into the city. If the killer thought they could drain people dry without consequence, they were wrong.

He would find them.

And if it turned out they were anything like him?

Well.

Then it would be a very different kind of hunt.

---

The night air was crisp, carrying the distant hum of the city, but here, on the outskirts where the docks met the industrial district, everything was quiet. I crouched on the rooftop of an adjacent building, watching the warehouse like a cat stalking its prey. It was an all-too-familiar experience, and the nostalgia of hundreds of similar nights and warehouses came rushing back.

The cold bit at my fingertips through my gloves as I observed the old brick building. Two weeks ago, it might have looked identical to any other structure in this forgotten corner of the city. Still, someone had recently attempted to turn the warehouse into a modest fortress. New security cameras dotted the exterior, and freshly installed, reinforced doors were a clear message to would-be intruders. It was the kind of message I had spent years ignoring.

The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on me.

“Anything on your end?” The voice hummed in my earpiece, steady as ever.

“Nothing yet,” I murmured, eyes sweeping the perimeter again. “Warehouse is locked up tight. No movement. How about you?”

“Same. Security’s on their usual routes. No sign of anything out of the ordinary.”

About twenty miles north, Daniel Rand was doing the same as me. He guarded another warehouse owned by the same importer—our client.

It was a simple enough gig. The client, proprietor of Brightly Imports, approached Heroes for Hire with a problem—his warehouses were being hit one by one without any sign of forced entry. There were no broken locks, hacked systems, or a single sign of any physical presence—just merchandise vanishing into thin air. So Brightly requested our services guarding the warehouses, catching the culprit red-handed, and, if possible, returning his stolen goods.

It was funny, really. If someone had told me years ago that I’d be sitting here acting as security for some wealthy businessman’s property, I would have laughed them right out of the room. Or I would have thought I’d be doing so as a ploy to gain access and take all the goodies for myself. Yet here I was, doing just that, not even for the first time. Between my part-time work with the Heroes and my own private investigation firm, this had become comfortably routine.

Sometimes, that degree of comfort left me feeling uncomfortable.

I slipped from my perch, silently dropping to the cold, cracked concrete two dozen feet below. The city’s lights bled into the horizon creating a cozy backdrop to the evening’s biting chill. I began making a slow circuit around the warehouse's perimeter, carefully keeping to the shadows as I maintained my vigil. It was the seventh time I had done so since arriving just an hour earlier, and I was making sure to do so at irregular intervals. I knew from experience that predictable security made for easy infiltrations—I had no intentions of making this easy.

That is, if anyone did show up as the client feared. Based on the information Brightly provided to Danny, his facilities weren’t getting hit every night. Instead, they had been broken into intermittently over the last several weeks. Though, broken into seemed to be a misnomer given the lack of any damages done. I had made a point earlier in the day to visit the last of Brightly’s warehouses that had been robbed. Much like the building I found myself walking around now, it had seen some security improvements, and I was mildly impressed by the amount of money that had been shelled out.

Not that any of it had done our client a lick of good. The culprit, whoever they are, never left a trace. Physically or otherwise. Brightly had sent over several hours' worth of surveillance footage to the Heroes for Hire offices, and Danny tasked me with reviewing them for any signs I might notice that others had missed. Yet, even the security cameras directly pointed at the storeroom where the crates of merchandise had been stacked failed to catch even so much as a flicker of activity. Despite this, when inventory checks were done the following day, the crates' merchandise had vanished without a trace.

My first inclination had been that the theft had taken place previously, before the shipment of goods even arrived at the warehouse. It would be a relatively simple heist to achieve, all things considered, but the client had assured Danny that this wasn’t the case. Apparently, they took daily stock of their inventory and knew for a fact nothing was missing ahead of time.

It was an intriguing puzzle, to say the least.

As I continued my circuit, I cycled through the various settings of my goggles. The lenses shifted from low light to infrared and even ultraviolet light before beginning the cycle again. I could spot the various bright flares of the camera systems easily, even from the shadowed outskirts. The yellow and orange signatures of the guards stood out against the cool purples of the night, and I paused to take in their patrol routes.

There were six security personnel outside the warehouse. I had been told that this was double what Brightly Imports usually employed, all part of the new and enhanced safeguarding measures. I knew from my initial reconnaissance of the structure that there weren’t additional guards within.

I tapped my comm. “Danny, what are you seeing on your end?”

There was a brief chirp of static before his voice came through. “Not a thing. If someone’s out here, they’re patient.”

Scanning the building ahead, I suggested that our mystery bandits were watching us watching them. A thought that had crossed my mind several times already.

“That’s a cheerful thought.” I could hear the grin in his voice.

I shifted my gaze back to the guards. “Danny, quick question.”

“Yeah?”

“What’s the security like over there?” I asked as I once again cycled my lenses through the electromagnetic spectrum.

“Same as yours, I suppose,” he answered. “Brightly said each of the warehouses got the same security package upgrade.”

“Six guards, all outside?”

“Yep. Competent, too. I spoke with one of them earlier to get a better understanding of the situation from their perspective, and the guy I talked to definitely knew their stuff. They’re a professional security firm, and they were brought on less than two months ago right after the first warehouse was robbed.”

I barely kept the scoff from escaping my lips. Danny blatantly making his presence known was a mistake. I should have expected that, given the usual jobs Heroes for Hire took on. Most of the time, all it took was for the criminals responsible to know there was a costumed do-gooder running around for them to make themselves scarce. The average petty thief would have no interest in crossing paths with Danny Rand, better known as Iron Fist, a man whose glowing hand could shatter steel. There was nothing average about this particular thief, however, and the odds were high that by now, if someone had been casing the warehouse Danny was watching over, any hope of catching them in the act was lost.

I didn’t bother pointing this out to Danny, though. The subtleties of a stakeout were clearly not a strong suit of his.

Instead, I brought to his attention something that had been nagging at me for the better part of an hour.

“You know what doesn’t sit right with me? If they’re worried about thieves, why aren’t there any interior guards? You’d think they’d have sat one or two on top of the goods.”

There was a pause before Danny replied. “Guess they thought more cameras and stronger locks would be the solution. Why? You think that’s significant?”

I didn’t answer. Something caught my attention as I did another infrared sweep across the perimeter—a faint heat signature on the ground along the side of the warehouse. Footprints in orange gradient. Fading fast, but still there. A sign that someone had just passed through that area moments before. Except I had already clocked all the guards’ routes, and none had approached the warehouse from that direction for several minutes.

I narrowed my eyes, the goggles picking up the subtle movement and reacting, the lenses focusing to produce higher clarity. I studied the prints carefully—one step, then another, then... nothing. The last footprint wasn’t complete. The heel and midsection were clearly defined, but the toes faded out. No, not faded. There was no shift in thermal colors. It was cut off—as if the foot had partially sunk into the wall itself, yet there was no indication anything had made contact with the surface.

I stared at it, my heartbeat picking up. I quickly switched my goggles’ settings to night vision and scanned the wall. I’m not sure what I thought I might find, but there was nothing. No holes, no seams. Just solid brick-and-mortar.

“Danny,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I think I’ve got something.”

---

Brooklyn’s night hums with its usual sounds—distant sirens, the rhythmic clatter of an elevated train, the occasional shout from someone lingering outside a bar. The air is thick with the scent of rain that never came, a damp promise not delivered. Streetlights cast their amber glow over the sidewalks, illuminating the scattered figures of late-night pedestrians. A light breeze moves through the streets, ruffling discarded newspapers. A scent, faint at first, weaves into the air—smoke.

A dull glow flickers to life in the upper floors of an old apartment building. At first, it could be mistaken for a television screen behind drawn curtains, but in seconds, the light swells, pressing against the glass like something alive. Long fingers of flame stretch across the windowpane. A sharp crack followed by a cascade of glinting shards cuts through the borough’s ambient noise. Heat rolls out onto the street, thick and oppressive. Flames burst forth soon after, curling hungrily upward.

The fire spreads quickly like liquid gold, leaping from window to window with unnatural urgency. A third-story window flies open, and a face streaked with soot stumbles into view—a woman. Her coughs become swallowed by the now roaring blaze behind her. Further inside, shadows move—more people, trapped. The fire escape should be their way out, but the metal is warped, dark with heat, and already useless.

On the street below, onlookers hesitate, caught between self-preservation and the instinct to help. A few pull out their phones—voices sharp and grave speak hurriedly into the devices; others point their lenses at the growing danger. A couple take tentative steps forward, then think better of it. The distant wails of sirens near, but the flames do not wait. They claw further into the open air, raking across the neighboring buildings.

The woman at the window grips the frame, her breath in shallow gasps.

The smoke thickens.

The building groans.

The flames climb higher.

---

The financial district moves with a rhythm of its own, even in the late hours. The streets of Lower Manhattan buzz with restless energy—cabs honking impatiently as they weave through traffic, pedestrians shuffling between blinking crosswalk signals, and storefront lights flickering as late-night businesses prepare to close. Amid it all, an armored transport truck rumbles along its usual route, slow and steady, an unremarkable sight in an unsleeping city.

Then, something fractures the rhythm.

A sharp, percussive crack splits the air—then another. The truck’s front tires detonate in rapid succession, sending the vehicle into a violent lurch before grinding to a halt. The night seems to pause for half a second, a vacuum of silence before the city exhales again, this time in chaos. Pedestrians turn toward the commotion, confusion flashing across their faces before instinct kicks in. Some freeze. Others run.

From the shadows, six figures move in. They emerge with precision, clad in dark tactical gear, their movements crisp and rehearsed. Two immediately raise their weapons and unleash a barrage of automatic fire at the truck’s cab, forcing the guards to stay locked inside. The bullets spark against reinforced plating, the deafening clatter echoing off glass storefronts. Each shot is deliberate—weapons discharge in controlled bursts, hammering the driver’s side and passenger doors.

Another pair moves to the rear of the truck. One reaches into a side pouch and produces a compact device, no larger than a book. Slapping it against the heavy steel doors, the device comes to life instantly. A low hum fills the air. The metal surrounding the device darkens, distorts, and then glows. The reinforced plating groans in protest as heat spreads like an infection. These armed figures do not stop to admire their work—one remains fixed on the device while the other turns, scanning their surroundings, weapon raised, breath measured.

The last two members of the crew split off, moving to secure the perimeter. Their rifles sweep over the street, discouraging interference without a single word. Across the avenue, bystanders scramble for cover, ducking behind parked cars and diving into doorways. The gunmen are aware of them, but they don’t react. There’s no panic, no wasted movement. Every second is accounted for, and every action is a part of a larger plan.

The city is loud, but these men work in silence. The gunfire has ceased, their presence alone enough to hold the scene hostage. The device on the vault door hisses, the last layers beginning to break down. Sirens wail in the distance now, but they are far—too far. By the time they arrive, this crew will be nothing more than a ghost in the night—their job done, their escape already in motion.

Alias Investigations, Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan
11:21am

---

---

Jessica wound her way through the stairwell leading to the apartment she rented out. She had been asked time and again why she didn't move somewhere else. Somewhere where she could have a nice office with an elevator that worked all the time. Jessica said it gave her work "character". After all, people remembered going to her office and seeing the holes in the wall and hearing the yelling and banging from the other tenants.

She stepped into the main part of her office and saw her ever-present secretary, Avery. Avery was 25 years old. While she presented as a stereotypical secretary, a blonde bombshell with light brown eyes like melted chocolate, she was anything but. Whip-smart and eager to prove herself as more than someone doing the paperwork, Avery had a keen head on her shoulders and didn't take shit from anyone. She may have been a regular joe without superpowers, but she could hold her own. It was part of the reason Jessica hired her. That and Jessica hated dealing with people initially.

"New client in your office. Been waiting 20 minutes now."

Jessica sighed. "I'm a little bit late. Sorry, I was hugging my daughter goodbye." This was only partially true. She did see her daughter off for the day, but she was late because some moron was talking on his phone loudly on the subway right next to her and she had to make sure he didn't bother any other New Yorker. She was sure he'd wake up on that subway bench any minute now.

Avery smirked as if she knew, but let it go. "His case seems legit. Hear him out before you go off on him please."

Jessica nodded, but didn't hold out much hope. She stepped into her office proper and saw a man sitting on one of her chairs. He looked to be in his late 40's, slightly bald with a downtrodden face that Jessica figured was handsome at one point until life decided to sucker-punch the poor man. He looked up at her as she stepped around to sit in her chair. She folded her hands and leaned on the desk. "What can I help you with?"

The man looked like he has been expecting someone else, and perhaps he did. She didn't look like your average private investigator. She wore her leather jacket, a dark purple t-shirt with some popular band's name on it. Dark wash jeans and leather boots completed the ensemble. To his credit, his face returned to its former depressive affect before he continued. "My cat's up a tree."

Jessica stared at him. Did she hear that right. She continued staring but the man was firm. She looked out past the door to see if Avery was listening. She returned her gaze back to the man. "You're serious." It wasn't a question. It was more of an exacerbation. "Yes."

"Are you fu-" she started before Avery spoke up, loudly, "Hear him out!" Jessica sighed and gestured for the man to continue. "This seems a typical call for firefighters, but go on, I guess."

"Mr. Mittens is not your typical cat. Firemen are not equipped for him."

"First of all, it's firefighters. There are women and non-binary firefighters in our proud city. Second, they handle cats in trees all of the time."

"If Mr. Mittens was a typical cat I would agree with you. He isn't."

"Is he...what an exotic animal? You bought like a tiger or lion and it got out? That's still not a case I work."

"No Mr. Mittens is a regular cat. Or, rather, looks like one. But...umm..."

Jessica rolled her eyes. "Spit it out!"

"He has superpowers!"

Jessica stared at the man again. This time it was in disbelief rather than outright contempt. She closed her eyes and felt a light headache coming on. "Your cat has...superpowers?"

The man nodded and pulled out a picture from...somewhere. He showed it to her. The picture was an orange tabby cat. Looked young. Looked like your run-of-the-mill cat. "I found Mr. Mittens, that's the name that was on his collar, out one day. When I found him I tried finding his owner. There was no phone number on his collar and no identity chip. He was healthy so I assumed someone would be looking for him. I made posters and put them all over the neighborhood. Someone called me and said it was his cat and that he would come pick him up. The man showed up and...well...he wasn't there for the cat, it turns out. He came into my apartment with a gun and threatened to kill me. He wanted money. While I was gathering what I had Mr. Mittens came over and the man attempted to shoo him away, push him and eventually tried to kick him. Mr. Mittens then....vaporized him."

Jessica looked around. She was being Punk'd surely. Ashton Kutcher was bound to come out and say this was all some elaborate prank. When MTV didn't show up, she continued. "Your cat...vaporized a man?"

"A criminal, to be fair. One who was threatening me. But yes. It was like some beam shot out of Mr. Mittens' eyes and one second the man was there, the next he was a pile of dust on the floor. Naturally I panicked and tried to scoot him back out but...I guess he took a liking to me. And now he is up a tree and I am worried if someone else tries to get him out he will...you know."

Jessica had to admit, this was a first. She was going to kill Avery for allowing this, but also give her a raise. "So you want to hire me to get your cat out of the tree for you?"

The man shook his head. "No. Well, yes, at the start. But I want to hire you to find out who Mr. Mittens' original owner is. Someone experimented on this cat and caused this. I worry there are other animals, potentially more dangerous, out there. Or animals that are locked up and being worked on, maybe even killed, over whatever this person's goal is. I have money. I can pay."

Jessica leaned back in her chair and put her feet up. She had been hoping for more work. She had been bored. This was..interesting.

"Where's the cat?"

Crimson trickled down his pale white chin as his fangs sunk into the neck of the drug pusher. He'd taken a risk, these dealers often got high on their own supply, tainting their blood and creating a potentially dangerous cocktail for Morbius to consume. He'd had issues with hallucinogen laced blood before, but this was an emergency. He could feel the hunger becoming too much for him, he could feel himself getting too close to going on an uncontrollable feeding frenzy. This would have to do, the risk was too great.

It had been a few days since meeting Cavallero at the morgue and it felt like they were making no progress at all. Morbius had been stalking the alleyway at Livonia every night, on the lookout for whoever was dumping the bodies, but no one ever turned up, and it had seriously impacted his feeding schedule. Michael Morbius was a very impatient man, both in terms of when he got to feed, and also when he got results.

His suit helped him to blend in to the almost abject darkness. It clung to him like a second skin, sleek and seamless, a deep black that gleamed under the streetlights when he glided by them. Thin, violet lines traced along his torso and limbs in intricate, almost organic patterns, pulsing faintly with his unnatural psionic energy. From just above his elbows to his ribs were a pair of dark purple, bat-like wings. Not true wings, but a membranous cape stitched into the suit itself, jagged and torn at the edges. A little addition to his costume that helped with gliding, and with his persona.

He left the dealer in a slump on the ground, brushing back long black hair with his long, gloved, clawed hand as he rose to his full height. His glowing red eyes gleamed in the night as he made his way over to the edge of the building where he perched. Brooklyn's heartbeat pulsed below him. He could hear it. The layered rhythms of countless lives moving through the streets. Cars idling at red lights, voices rising in laughter or argument, the click of heels against pavement. It was all so loud. A symphony of the living, carrying on as if the night did not belong to creatures like him.

Then, something different. A scent on the wind, acrid and bitter, cutting through the familiar stench of the city. Smoke. Morbius’ head snapped toward the source, a column of black rose against the darkened sky, thick and suffocating, curling high above the rooftops. Fire. Somewhere relatively nearby. His thoughts were cut short when his enhanced hearing picked up on the distant, panicked cries echoing out from the building.

His claws tightened against the buildings edge as instinct warred with reason within him. This was not his concern, it was a job for the fire department. He had more important matters to attend to; the bodies in the morgue, the unknown killer, and of course the ever-present hunger gnawing at his insides, demanding him to feed even after his recent meal. And yet?

A scream broke his concentration again. A woman's voice crying out for help. For a moment his mind shot back to the fateful night of his first feeding. His mind shot back to memories of Martine, his former fiancee.

Morbius moved. In one fluid motion he leapt from the rooftop, his wings snapping open to catch the air as he flew through the nightsky. The city blurred beneath him as he glided toward the inferno, the violet tracings on his suit flickering with each shift of his body and leaving a fading trail of purple psionic energy as he cut through the air like a knife.

Closer now. He could feel the heat against his skin, hear the violent groan of the building as it struggled against the flames. The fire was already spreading, crawling hungrily across the structure, consuming it from the inside out. The onlookers below stood frozen, helpless, useless. Some filmed. Others shouted in horror. But none of them acted. Morbius did not hesitate.

His claws found purchase on the blackened brick as he scaled the burning building with unnatural ease. Embers floated past him like fireflies, smoke coiling around his limbs, but he did not stop. A window shattered just ahead, a woman leaned out, coughing, her pained face illuminated by the flickering light behind her.

His glowing red eyes met hers.

She recoiled.

Of course she did.

He was used to that.

The fire behind her surged, swallowing the ceiling in a wave of fire. If she waited a moment longer, there wouldn't be a choice. Morbius didn't wait for her to decide. He lunged forward, crashing through the half-shattered window, talons raking against the frame as he hauled himself inside. The heat wrapped around him like a vice, but he pushed through it. he landed in a crouch in front of her. The woman stumbled back, eyes darting wildly between him and the collapsing room. He could hear her pulse, it was like a hammer pounding her heart against her ribs.

He straightened to his full height, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the heat. His glowing red eyes locked onto her. "Your fire escape is…inconveniently melted." he remarked, his voice smooth yet tinged with wryness. "I suggest we find another exit."

The woman coughed violently, her legs unsteady. "W-what the hell are you?" she rasped, barely able to get the words out.

Morbius sighed. "Do we really have time for existential questions? I could give you the long answer, but…" He gestured toward the flames creeping across the ceiling. "Something tells me you have more immediate concerns."

She flinched as another wooden beam collapsed behind her, sending a shower of sparks into the air. Morbius took a step forward, his clawed hand outstretched. "Come now, let’s not linger. I'd hate for my good deed to go to waste."

Smoke curled around them, dark and choking. The fire climbed the walls, devouring cheap wallpaper and old wooden beams with frenzied hunger. The whole building groaned in protest, its foundations shifting beneath their feet.
Morbius reached for her and the woman flinched. Just for a second and then, realizing there was no other option, she grabbed onto him.

Morbius pulled her close, shielding her from the thickening smoke as his eyes quickly scanned the room for exit. The fire was encroaching towards them closer by the second, and worse yet had began to burn its way towards the window, their only exit.

They had seconds at best.

With a powerful leap, Morbius pushed off the ground, aiming for the shattered window, but something gave way. A section of the ceiling collapsed with a sickening crack, sending flaming debris tumbling between them and the exit. The force of it knocked the woman from his grip, sending her sprawling onto the blackened floor. She let out a strangled cry, scrambling backward as another burst of fire surged between them, licking at the walls with greedy fingers.

Morbius was on her in an instant, leaping through the wall of fire like a wraith. His taloned hands caught her shoulders, steadying her. She was terrified, close to fainting.

From the outside, through the shattered window, the scene told a different story. The woman, barely conscious, slumped in his grasp. Morbius hunched over her, his clawed fingers tight around her arms, his fanged mouth close to her throat. His jagged wings stood taut against his arms, catching the firelight, making him look less like a savior and more like a predator about to feed.

The flames cast monstrous shadows against the walls, distorting his silhouette into something other. Something inhuman. To anyone watching from the street, it was a nightmare unfolding before their eyes. A fire made worse by the addition of the Vampyre.

And if any so-called hero had come to play savior tonight, they would only see one thing:

A monster in the fire.

For Michael Morbius his good deed might not have gone to waste, but it definitely wasn't going to go unpunished.

M O O N K N I G H T
M O O N K N I G H T

"Streets are quiet tonight... Something's about to happen," I murmur to myself.

Another night out and about, hopping and gliding between rooftops as I patrol Manhattan. The financial district is a hotspot for all kinds of criminal activity, usually bank robberies. I'm not expecting to find anything big and even if I don't find anything, the night is still young. Plenty of time to find something in another part of Manhattan.

Then I hear it. An explosion, followed by gunfire. There it is. I fire my grappling hook at the ledge of a roof, flying up to meet it and letting the momentum shoot me up higher into the sky. My cape goes rigid at my touch and I glide my way towards the sounds I had heard. I fly by a few city blocks and before I know it I find myself crouched on a rooftop overlooking the scene. An armored truck being ransacked by five, no- six assailants, all decked out in paramilitary gear with rifles.

Okay, no time like the present. Let's swoop down and show these bastards what for. I'm about to leap off the roof and glide down to meet the men when I see someone swoop in with the same idea. A woman it looks like, wearing a white and black costume and fighting like Spider-Man with webs and fancy flips. She takes down one of the men and swings around the truck to avoid gunfire.

Huh. Must be new in town. Let's see about giving her a helping hand.

I jump off the roof and glide down, aiming myself right at one of the assailants who's too busy shooting at the woman to see me coming. I lift my legs up and throw myself into a dropkick, hitting him square in the head and causing him to crumble to the ground. I land on my feet and pull out my batons before throwing myself at the nearest crook with a flurry of swings aimed at his head.

Finding my way to the apartment fire isn't hard. For one thing, H4H keeps records of any business--or in this case, residential block- that hires us, meaning we've got the building's location in our GPS. And for another thing, even if I didn't have its exact location on my phone, it's simple enough to follow the sound of sirens and the big-ass cloud of smoke billowing over the Brooklyn skyline.

The place is called Spring Water Flats-- hell of an ironic name right now-- an old five-story apartment building in Red Hook. Anyone's guess how it caught fire: crossed wire somewhere, oily rags left out, a gas leak, who knows. Old buildings like this, half the shit in it isn't up to code anymore, if it ever was in the first place. Last time I patrolled this place, I told the landlord he needed to get it back in shape. Once I'm done earning my pay, I'll be sure to serve him up a plate of told-you-sos.

When I pull up to the scene, the NYPD has already got the streets blocked off, and the FDNY's got a truck parked out front, with a crew hooking a hose up to the nearest hydrant. Most of us in the cape-and-tights crowd like to swoop in all dramatic, save the day, and split before the authorities can ask any questions. When you're a professional, though, you've gotta at least pretend to follow due process.

"Luke Cage, Hero for Hire," I say as I step out of the car, showing the cops the little ID card Danny had made for us as credentials. "The people in that building are paying clients, an' I'm here to help."

One of the cops sneers. "Sorry, pal, we've already got this under control, and we don't need some spandex-wearing freak interfering in--"

The flames roar higher, and while the firefighters struggle with the blaze, I hear screams from inside.

"....ah, maybe we can let you through," a second cop says, nudging his buddy aside.

Striding past, I give the first cop a side-eye. "'Spandex-wearing freak,' my ass. This is silk, man."

Speaking of, I unbutton my nice shirt and jacket and set it down by the fire truck-- it's gonna get dirty, sure, but dirty's better than burnt.

"Hey," I call out to the fire captain. "Here to help, I'm--"

"Luke Cage, thank God," the fire captain says. Nice to see every once in a while there's someone in uniform who's happy to see me. "We could use your help. There's a couple dozen people trapped inside, and the main passageway's blocked by heavy rubble."

"Got it, move the heavy stuff," I nod. I may not have the most out-there powers, but it does at least mean I get to keep things nice and simple. "Got a map of the place? If I'm gonna start knockin' down walls, I wanna make sure I don't hit anything load-bearing."

"The walls around the elevator are reinforced concrete," he says. "Other than that, just don't hit the main corners."

"Cool," I say, taking off my shoes so I don't get them scuffed. Can't do much about the pants, though, without causing a scene. "You got a spare oxygen mask in there?"

The fire captain raises an eyebrow. "Aren't you supposed to be, like, indestructible?"

"From the outside, yeah," I say, "But a lung-full of smoke is gonna be just as bad for me as the next guy."

He nods, and gestures to the other members of his crew, who are quick to hook me up with a mask and a tank of O2.

"Here goes," I say as I tighten the oxygen mask over my face, crack my knuckles, and charge into the burning building.

Crashing through the front door, a wave of unbelievable heat washes over me. "Gahh!" I shout. Thanks to my steel-hard skin, I don't burn, but just because I don't burn doesn't mean I don't feel it. I still gotta have nerve endings and pain receptors like normal so I can do things like open a door without crushing the knob, or shake someone's hand without ripping their arm off. Which means that being on fire still feels like being on fire.

Still, ain't like I've never been on fire before. If I couldn't handle a little pain, I'd never have gotten into this hero business.

"Is anyone in here?" I call out. "We're gonna get you out!"

"Help! Helllp us!" comes a cry from what sounds like a little girl on the first floor. "We can't get out!"

"On my way," I say, shoving flaming debris aside as I make my way to the apartment door. "Take a step back from the door, sweetie, cause I'm comin' through!"

I loudly count to three, then kick the door down. Inside, there's a family of four--a girl who looks about seven, a mom and dad in their forties or so, and a grandma--but the girl is the only one still conscious. All around the little apartment, flames close in.

"Hey there," I say gently, putting on what Danny calls my 'big teddy bear' voice, trying to make sure the girl doesn't freak out at the sight of a guy my size crashing through the door, "My name's Luke. I'm a superhero, an' I'm here to get you to safety, okay?"

Wide-eyed and scared half to death, she nods.

"Okay, we're going to get you out first, then your grandma, then mom and dad," I say, holding out a hand.

"...and Mister Mittens?" she asks, pointing to the far wall.

I start to nod, thinking she means a little kitten or a puppy, or maybe her favorite stuffed animal.

But no.

On the far wall, they've got a terrarium. And inside that terrarium is the biggest damn pet tarantula I've ever seen. 'Mister Mittens' must've got his name because he looks like two grown-ass human hands wearing furry gloves.

"Oh, sweet Christmas," I mutter.

I can do fires, I can do gangsters, I can do terrorists and super-villains any day of the week.

But spiders? No. Helllll no.

"Pleeeease," she pleads, "you've gotta save Mister Mittens too!"

She looks up at me, her eyes welling up with tears, and I sigh.

"This building doesn't pay us near enough," I say as I pick up the girl in one arm, the terrarium in the other, and get to work.

Two down, about twenty more to go. And not much time left to get the rest of them....

---

I clung to the warehouse wall, my claws biting into the aged masonry as I perched just outside a grime-streaked window. My vision shifted through a sequence of kaleidoscopic colors as I scanned the interior of the building with the lenses of my goggles. Each setting sliced the shadows apart in a different spectrum. Night vision bathed the inside in sickly green, revealing rows of neatly stacked crates and cold metal shelving. The warehouse mainly appeared untouched, not just because the would-be thief hadn’t yet left their mark, but the wide-open space itself gave the distinct impression of being largely unused.

I switched to infrared, and instantly, my vision flared with lively shades of orange and red. The interior walls still clung to the day’s warmth, patches of residual heat where the sun had kissed the metal. But what caught my attention wasn’t the structure—it was the faint imprint of footprints, fresh but fading fast. Someone had been inside, likely still was, unseen and moving with purpose. I angled myself to follow the diminishing trail, but the footprints led toward the far side of the warehouse just outside my vision.

“Entering now,” I breathed out before rapidly tapping my communicator three times. A signal to Danny that I was going radio silent. Whatever ghost I was following, they possessed either advanced tech or superhuman abilities. Either way, I figured it best to err on the side of caution.

Slipping inside the building was second nature. A careful press of my claws, a shift of weight, and I was through the window and gliding across the floor, landing without a sound. I crept forward slowly, keeping to the shadow-touched walls, and following the glowing footsteps from afar.

It was one thing to catch an intruder in the act—another entirely to understand their goals. I knew better than most that people steal for all kinds of reasons. Desperation. Greed. Revenge. Orders from someone higher up the food chain. This all struck me as too methodical for desperation. And, in my experience, when your intent is revenge, you want your mark to know who is responsible. Whoever this was, they were doing a good job of staying anonymous..

Which left greed or orders. Both options seemed odd given the client’s business. A thief of this skill and ability going after a middling imports company didn’t track. You don’t waste that kind of talent on small game.

There was a flicker in my peripheral as the infrared lens picked up a signature. It moved quickly and without hesitation. I had a clear view now and crouched lower to blend further into the shadows. The shape was unmistakably humanoid. They looked slightly taller than me but of a much more solid build. I watched as the figure moved deliberately toward a row of crates near the far end of the warehouse. Even without visible features, their movements spoke of experience. There were no wasted motions, no unnecessary pauses.

Operating on a hunch, I manually toggled the settings on my goggles and switched them back to night-for-day. The figure immediately vanished from view, and all I could see was the stack of crates. Flipping back to infrared revealed the human-shape again, clad in fiery hues.

Invisibility—a handy trick for any thief. No wonder the guards and security cameras never picked up a trace. But like any magic show, the illusion is never as effective once you know the truth. It would be as simple as advising the client to install infrared sensors and post guards inside. Which meant, technically, my job was done. I could radio into Danny, alert the exterior security, and even if the thief got away they’d get caught the next time they tried this phantom act.

But it didn’t feel like the job was done. It didn’t feel like I had all the answers yet.

I watched as the figure bent slightly, hands gripping the crates stacked on top. Then, slowly, methodically, they moved the crates aside without even looking inside. Once those in the front were out of the way, the thief made a path to the crates tucked in the back.

If my curiosity wasn’t already piqued, it was now. That wasn’t the action of an opportunist looking to score. They weren’t looking for something valuable at random. Those were the actions of someone who knew exactly what they wanted, and where to find it.

Then, the figure reached down to the very base of the bottommost crate in the rear. They reached down and through the crate’s solid wooden exterior. The thermal signature showed the entire hand disappearing to the wrist right at the crate's edge. Then the hand rematerialized, but now it held something—a small object, no bigger than a tube of lipstick. The thief pulled several free from the depths of the crate one by one before tucking them into some unseen pocket or bag. Just as I expected, there was no rummaging, no examining.

I could have watched longer and gathered more intel, but I had enough. My arm extended, and I flicked my wrist, the concealed grapnel launcher in my left gauntlet firing. The line shot across the warehouse, uncoiling like a striking serpent. It wrapped around the thief's legs, the cold steel contrasting against their heat signature. And then, just as quickly, the cable collapsed in a heap onto the warehouse floor as the figure stepped through it.

Damn. I really should have predicted that.

The head turned, or at least, I thought it did. What I assumed was the heat signature of a face locked onto my position. Then, without a single sign of urgency, they walked straight through the nearest wall.

I swore again under my breath, already moving. I brought my communicator back online and quickly rattled off a brief explanation to Danny. I didn’t expect the warehouse he was stationed at to get hit as well. It didn’t fit the M.O. as we knew it, but just in case, I wanted him prepared for any invisible threats.

I didn’t bother chasing after the ghostly figure. By the time I exited through another window and circled back to their last position, they’d be long gone. Instead, I sprinted toward the crates they had been rifling through. If I couldn’t catch them, I could at least figure out what they were after.

I began by running my fingers over the crate’s surface. Just as I thought, no signs of forced entry. Switching back to my night vision, I scanned the container from which they had removed the merchandise. There was no visible distortion, nor could I discern any markings that would indicate this particular box as a target over any others. And yet, the thief hadn’t thought twice about their actions.

Popping a claw, I worked the edge of the lid, carefully easing it open without damaging it. The inside was packed with textile goods—mundane, harmless, and entirely undisturbed. I sifted through the fabrics, methodically checking every fold for some sort of hidden treasure. Finding none, I removed each item from the crate, giving them a second glance, before scanning the container's interior with several optical modes. Everything appeared ordinary.

In my experience, though, very rarely was anything ever truly ordinary.

I shifted my attention to the crates that were moved aside. Maybe it wasn’t this crate that was special, but all the rest that weren’t. I performed the same check on each container, but they were all the same. Same merchandise. Same labels. Same arrangement.

Every instinct I possessed was screaming at me. I was missing something, some detail that was eluding me. I felt like I was doing a jigsaw puzzle, but I was missing one crucial piece that would lead me to seeing the whole picture.

The whole picture.

I quickly repackaged and rearranged everything to how it had been just minutes before. Standing, I took several steps back until I could see the entire stack of crates all at once. There had to be something there, something the thief had known to look for, or to ignore. There were three rows of crates front to back, aligned four crates wide and five crates high. Each container was a perfect cube roughly two feet in each dimension.

Then I noticed something that made me reconsider that. Each crate seemed identical up close as I examined them, but if that were the case, why could I see the tops of the backmost rows? They stood out, just barely, but enough that I could see the lips of the container lids from my position—but only those of the third row, with the first two perfectly flush with one another. If the dimensions were all the same, unless the warehouse floor was sloped, that shouldn’t be possible.

And the floor was definitely not sloped.

Moving back to the stack, I pulled the crates free until I had three sat side-by-side, with the middle being the crate the thief had targeted. Sure enough, they weren’t a perfect match. It was such a slight difference, an inch, maybe less. Not something you’d notice in most circumstances, but the middle crate, and in fact all of the containers from the backmost row, were just barely taller than the rest.

With that in mind, I reexamined them. I ran my fingers along the surface again, and this time when I reached the bottom edge I felt it. A hairline seam—too clean, and too precise.

False bottoms.

I worked the hidden latch, and the panel popped free. It was a narrow compartment, and it was empty—save for six shallow slots. Each slot was about the size of my finger. Or a tube of lipstick.

Funny. The client hadn't mentioned secret compartments.

Not even bothering to hide my actions from the security cameras that I knew were pointed my way, I moved to check each of the other crates from the third row. By this point, my discovery of the smuggling recess would already be evident, and I was past the point of caring.

I exhaled slowly, rising to my feet. All three other crates had a secret chamber, and I had scared the thief off before they could steal from them, too. Seventeen vials lay nestled firmly within their shallow slots. The thick glass tubes were filled with an amber liquid.

“Danny,” I called over the comms. “I think you should call for a meeting with our client.”

“Why, what are you going to do?”

I held up the eighteenth vial, rolling it between my fingers, and watched the viscous fluid cling to the inner tube as it lazily rippled inside.

“I’m going to pay an old associate a visit.”

Marcus Garvey Park, Manhattan
12:44pm

---

---

"I'm almost at the park. While I am here I need you to look into something."

Jessica strode along the street as she made her way towards Marcus Garvey Park where Mr. Mittens was said to be in a tree. Jessica was thankful it wasn't at Central Park with its hordes of tourists, or likely victims if Mr. Mittens decides to go wild on them. On the other side of the call Avery sat at her desk, a file in front of her.

"You mean like investigative work? You sure you don't need me to brew some coffee? Perhaps pick up your dry cleaning?"

"Avery, when have I ever asked you to pick up dry cleaning, mine or otherwise? You said you wanted to learn how to investigate I am giving you your chance."

Avery did a little wiggle of excitement before she got back to 'serious mode'. "Ok, tell me what you need."

"I need you to look into other instances of animals displaying superpowers. Scour online sources. I doubt it would be in any newspaper or more people would be talking about it, but check out local neighborhood forums, Reddit posts, videos, etc. If someone saw it, they definitely posted it. We live in the age of the cell phone, someone had to see something. Gather all that and have it ready."

Avery wrote it all down. "Got it. Anything else?"

Jessica pondered. If Avery was already looking online, perhaps she could look into one more thing. "Yes, see if there is any real estate that was recently up for grabs but is no longer. I want to find out where, if at all, these animals are being experimented on. Could be a wild goose chase but see if there's any listings. My guess is an escaped animal or two means they would pack up quickly and get out."

"I can do that. I have a cousin who works real estate. She may know something."

"Good, and be careful. If we are on the right track these people are performing dangerous experiments on defenseless animals. I doubt they would give up willingly if found out." She hung up, fully knowing Avery would get the job done. It was why she hired her.

Now to tangle a mutant cat.

---

Marcus Garvey park was small, but it still boasted a gorgeous view in a city surrounded by steel. Jessica looked around and listened. No screams. No cries. No sirens. There were a few people milling around but otherwise, things seemed calm. That meant Mr. Mittens had either moved on or no one found him yet.

Jessica looked up as she walked, keeping a close eye on the branches. She nearly collided with another walker and bit her tongue before she lashed out. She had been doing her best to not let anger get the better of her. For herself as well as her daughter. She stopped and mentally slapped herself.

She pulled out her phone and sent a quick text to her husband.



She should have sent that before but in the streamline of this case she had forgotten.

As she approached one of the northern edges of the park she heard a small sound. She stopped and listened. She heard it again. The tiniest noise but she heard it more when she approached a tree in the corner. She looked up and saw the branches move just slightly.

She continued to stare, hoping it wasn't just some squirrel. As she did she noted a splash of color. She heard the sound again and it was more familiar this close to it.

A small meow.

"Gotcha Mr. Mittens."

Jessica flew up slowly. She didn't want to freak the cat out and have it...well...vaporize her. As she flew up and up she kept an eye out. Eventually she reached the top and, on one of the extended branches, sat an orange cat. It looked at her. She looked at it. It kept still but its attention was diverted to licking itself. "Ok Mr. Mittens. I just want to take you home to your dad. Can we be cool?"

She flew closer. Again slowly. As she did she reached out, hoping to pet it a bit to show she was here in good faith.

Her hand got closer and closer. She almost felt it's her on her fingers when she noticed Mr. Mittens had turned its head to face her. She inched more so before she saw something.

She faced him again and noticed its eyes were...green?

"Oh shit!"

Jessica dropped just as Mr. Mittens unleashed a blast from its eyes. It scorched some of the branches and leaves but it missed her.

She looked up and the cat stared at her again, but didn't seem to want to attack.

Jessica looked around to see if anyone noticed. Surely someone would have seen the blast of green laser shooting off.

No one was panicking it seemed. Then she heard it. A small cry and a crash. Jessica hesitated to look but she knew she had to. One of he light posts in the park had fallen, sliced through and laid on the ground. Thankfully no one was hurt, but people were still rightfully concerned and looked in her direction. And, like true human fashion, began walking over.

Things got a lot more difficult.

*This post takes place approximately one week prior to the events of Black Cat #1 --EB

Mott Street
Chinatown, Manhattan

Mahjong tiles sail through the air as my kick sends a thug crashing through a nearby table. Near as I can tell, this makeshift gambling den was once a storeroom for the restaurant above. Wooden shelves line the walls, and there are a few crates and sacks of rice tucked away in the corners. Even in the best of times, it would never have been called “spacious,” and the surfeit of card tables and folding chairs only compresses the available space. Dimly lit and reeking of old tobacco, it's far from welcoming – even before you factor in the thirty or so triad members trying to take off my head.

Tonight's adversaries are the Golden Tigers, a gang with whom I've quarreled in the past. Judging by the murderous reception, they've neither forgiven nor forgotten. They're no match for me in a straight fight, but the confined space limits my movement and evens the playing field. Fortunately, I'm not here on my own. Across the room, Colleen Wing is dealing with the triads the best way she knows how: by proving that she's as effective with a sheathed katana as any swordsman alive with bare steel. Together, we carve a path through the gangsters, albeit much more slowly than either of us would like.

“Fist!” As she calls out my name, Colleen ducks a switchblade lunging at her face. Spinning under the attacker’s outstretched arm, she rises up with an elbow strike to the chin that does not miss. Locking eyes with me, she shouts, “Over there!” indicating the direction with a nod of her head. No sooner has she finished than the next contender closes in, only to be rewarded with the blunt end of her pommel.

Meanwhile, I turn aside a telegraphed haymaker to see where she's pointing. Sure enough, I spot our quarry trying to use the chaos as cover to slip away unseen. Sun Feng, as identified by Colleen’s client, is largely unremarkable; in his silk shirt and tailored suit, he could pass for a twenty-something investor if we were a mile further south. But Nightwing Restorations has it on good authority that Feng is a rising player in the Golden Tigers organization, and he's been implicated in the kidnapping of the client's daughter – hence the need to have a little chat. He's the only reason we're here, and I'll be damned if I let him get away.

“On it!” I announce. A triad member goes low, perhaps hoping to take out my legs, so I somersault over his head, landing on the table behind him. The thing wobbles but gratefully holds, and I drop into a spinning kick to clear the surrounding area. Spring-boarding ahead, I land between three goons who thought they had more time to prepare; two quick palm strikes and a roundhouse kick dispatches them easily, and suddenly I've got room to maneuver. I take off running after Feng, ducking and evading errant swipes in my direction.

Feng ducks through a PVC curtain, and even before catching up, I can feel the cooler air seeping through the partition. Bursting through, I find myself in an all new environment; crumbling plaster and old wood are replaced by cold, industrial steel. Raised voices echo off the walls of this cold storage area, easily drowning out the clamor of the other room. Feng looks back at me as he begins forcing his way through a crowd with their backs all turned to the door. Some annoyed Tigers turn to see the cause of the commotion, and their eyes go wide at the sight of the Iron Fist. Distracted and disorganized, it's easy enough to shove past them in pursuit of Feng.

Feng clambers into an open area cordoned off by a wall of wooden pallets. I don't need the assembled crowd or bloodstains on the floor to tell me that this is some kind of hastily assembled fighting pit. Leaping into the pit after him, I grab the end of Feng’s sleeve and pull him close. “Give it up, Feng,” I warn, but he pays me no heed. Instead, he twists in my grasp, snaking his arm out of the sleeve and stumbling free, leaving me holding an empty jacket. I make a move to go after him, but something takes a hold of my shoulder first.

The next thing I know, I'm thrown through the air, my flight only ending when I crash into an upturned pallet; the wood splinters and cracks under the force of the impact. I scramble to my feet and come face-to-face with a large, bare-chested pit fighter. It's difficult to say at a glance whether more of him is muscle, fat, or scar tissue. Behind his towering physique, I can see Feng scrambling over the barricade, so I can't afford to mess around. The big man must go down.

I open with Viper Strikes from the Grass, a lightning quick stunning strike that the behemoth simply absorbs. As he swings a meaty hand for my neck, I drop into Spider Crab stance and follow up with Torrent of a Thousand Geysers. The man actually laughs at me and kicks out one of my legs with quickness I did not anticipate. As I begin to fall, he lands a blow of his own, connecting center mass and sending me sprawling backwards.

I hardly have time to find my feet before he's on me again; Moonlight on the Pond spirits me out of danger, and I deliver a jump kick to the side of the head that should daze any man. The giant – who I can now see has a full back tattoo of an ox – shakes it off like a bad sneeze and squares up again, easy as that. I've given him a nosebleed, for whatever that's worth, but he pays it as little mind as the chanting of the assembled crowd. <<“You fight well for a little man,”>> he grunts in Mandarin, smiling through a gap in his teeth.

A quick survey of the room shows no sign of Feng. All I can do is hope that he doubled back into Colleen's waiting arms. For that matter, I could really use Colleen right about now. The ox stomps towards me, and I know what I must do. Reticent though I am to resort to this against common foes, I have a feeling the big man can take it – and that it might be the only thing that can put him down.

Blocking out the noise, I channel my essence… everything I am, every dream I have, every fear… the whole of my chi begins to travel down my arm, gathering in my fist… it begins to glow and smoulder… until it becomes – like unto a thing of iron! And with the full force of Shou-Lao the Undying, I drive my fist into the larger man's gut, picking a spot that's least likely to cause long-term damage. The Iron Fist sends him careening across the pit, shattering the barricade and bowling over more than one row of spectators.

Panic sets in then, and the Tigers who’d been rooting for their champion realize that the fight has gone the other way. They trip over each other rushing for the exits, as I stand in the center of the ring, fist still cooling off. Moments later, Colleen pushes through the stampede, regrettably all by herself. She scans the faces of the fleeing triads, but I already know she won't find the one we need. Turning to me, she says, “No sign of Feng, huh?”

I shake my head, striding across the pit to where I was first thrown. “No, but we're not leaving completely empty-handed.” I bend down and retrieve Feng's jacket, left behind when he made his escape.

"Come on out, Mister Mittens," I say, calling out to the big-ass pet tarantula of the little girl on the first floor. Getting the girl and her folks to safety was easy enough, but in the middle of all the excitement, a piece of debris knocked the tarantula's terrarium out of my hands, and it broke open on the floor. I've cleared out everyone on the first floor now, except for that damn bug.

I was gonna leave it at that, but the girl started crying, and well, here I am, back in the towering inferno. Maybe raising Danielle has made me go a little soft, but I can't stand to see kids cry if I can help it.

"Niiiice, tarantula," I say gently, picking through the rubble to get to the next floor. "Gooood tarantu--oh jeezus!"

Out of nowhere, the big furry hand-like body of Mister Mittens drops down from the ceiling right onto my shoulder. My reflex is to swat the damn thing, but I stop myself just shy of splatting it, then it skitters down my back and I start to squirm. God, I hate bugs.

Before I can grab him, the tarantula scrambles off to where I can't see it.

"Get back here, you eight-legged freaky--"

There's a scream from upstairs, and I sigh.

"This ain't over, Mister Mittens," I call out. "I'm gettin' your ass before this is done."

Bounding up the stairs, I grumble to himself, wishing Spider-Man was here so he could control that thing with his spider-telepathy. He can do that, right? Or am I thinking about Ant-Man? One of the bug guys, I know that.

There's a buzz on my hip, and I see it's a text from Jessica. Not a lot of time to sit here chatting, but I always check when it's from the Missus in case it's important.

"Hey, on a case atm. Unsure how long it will be. I'll try to get home at a reasonable hour, but no promises.

And sidenote: heard of any animals demonstrating superpowers? Indulge me

Love you

I tap a button to go talk-to-text as I run up the stairs. "We talking like Lockjaw? You might wanna ask the Thing about something like that. Dealing with a fire right now, call you back when I'm done. Love you too."

Making it to the upper floor, the damage from the fire's a lot worse. Flames lick up the walls, the ceilings are blackened with soot and smoke...

...and speaking of smoke, why haven't I heard any smoke alarms? I told the super here that this place wasn't up to code, that they were gonna need to renovate if they wanted H4H to keep their current rates. "Second time today some cheap-ass landlord is causin' me trouble," I mutter to myself.

Going floor by floor, I kick in doors, clear the way for the FDNY to put out the blaze, and get as many people as I can to safety. Working my way to the top, I know there's only a few places I haven't checked.

"Okay, folks," I call out, "Things are gonna be okay, just stay calm and--"

Part of a wall gives way, and I see something in the blaze.

"...oh, sweet Christmas..."

The flames cast monstrous shadows against the walls, distorting his silhouette into something other. Something inhuman. To anyone watching from the street, it was a nightmare unfolding before their eyes. A fire made worse by the addition of the Vampyre.

And if any so-called hero had come to play savior tonight, they would only see one thing:

A monster in the fire.

For Michael Morbius his good deed might not have gone to waste, but it definitely wasn't going to go unpunished.

As if blood-sucking landlords weren't bad enough. Now I gotta deal with an actual damn vampire.

"Hey gruesome!" I shout out, cracking my knuckles. "You best take your hands off that lady. Or I'm gonna send your ass back to Transylvania in a bucket!"