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?"