"Her identity is a complete mystery," came the steady voice in the Punisher's earpiece. "We've scanned every database, but there's no trace. No background, no digital footprint. Whoever she is—she's powerful. If you can keep her attention for just five minutes, we might get something."
"Five minutes?" Frank Castle, the Punisher, muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing beneath his skull-emblazoned vest. "You people better hope she's not in the mood for blood."
The vampires inside the wrecked Bronx bar snarled, their blood-slicked fangs gleaming in the flashing strobes and chaos of a shattered rave gone wrong. The corpses of humans lay scattered—throats torn, limbs twisted—while dozens of undead closed in on Frank, hungry and unafraid.
Until a woman dropped from the ceiling like a divine judgment.
She landed in a crack of stone and flash of golden light, shattering the already fragile floorboards with the force of a meteor. The smoke swirled around her tall frame. She wore a tailored black lady's suit with gold trim, white gloves, and perfectly polished Oxford leather shoes. A white V-shaped mask concealed her face, but her presence didn't need eyes to command the room. Her aura hit like a storm surge.
A deathly silence fell over the vampires.
"Who... are you?" one of them hissed, not out of curiosity—but instinctive fear.
Bella didn't answer right away. She turned her gaze toward the mangled bodies on the floor, her masked face tilting slightly, as though silently lamenting their needless deaths.
After a beat, she finally spoke, her voice calm and chilling. "Filth like you should've been burned away long ago."
The moment the words left her lips, the floor cracked again.
Bella vanished from sight—at least to the ordinary human eye—and reappeared in front of a dreadlocked vampire. One gloved finger tapped his forehead. The vampire didn't even get to scream. His body froze. His senses flared in terror. For the first time in decades, the creature felt real fear—fear of death.
"No—please, have mercy—"
The black vampire's plea was cut short.
A pulse of radiant gold burst from Bella's fingertip. The vampires shrieked, retreating in terror. Light filled the entire bar, drowning out every shadow, coating the walls, ceiling, and floor with holy brilliance. The Punisher flinched, momentarily stunned by the heatless glow. It wasn't fire—it was something purer, more absolute. Magic turned to divine light.
For the undead, it was death incarnate.
One by one, the vampires combusted. Flesh turned to ash. Bones vanished. The air smelled like scorched leather and dust.
It was over in under thirty seconds.
When the light faded, all that remained were piles of ash, broken glass, and overturned furniture. The heavy bass from the half-functional sound system thudded awkwardly in the background. The Punisher, still holding his shotgun at the ready, blinked.
"What the hell..." he whispered, stunned. He lowered the barrel slowly.
Bella turned to leave.
Frank stepped forward on instinct. "Wait—"
She stopped at the base of the broken ceiling, not turning back. She heard the whisper in his earpiece. Heard it all.
"I know you're stalling, Frank Castle."
Frank's grip tightened. "You heard that?"
Bella's tone was light. "Of course."
Without another word, she took a single step. Her form lifted off the ground and soared through the shattered roof like an arrow loosed into the night.
Frank stood there a moment, watching the hole she left behind, before stepping out from behind the bar. He calculated everything he had just witnessed.
"Strength... speed... energy output similar to ultraviolet magic..."
He was already filing through possibilities. Not mutant—no known mutant on record matched that. Not an Avenger either, unless they picked up someone new. Not an Inhuman. Not a vampire hunter like Blade.
Who the hell was she?
The bar door creaked open.
A tall, bald black man in a long leather coat stepped in, a black eye patch covering his left eye. Behind him, a dozen agents in tactical suits filed in with precision, sweeping the space, collecting samples, securing the scene.
Frank didn't flinch.
"Nick Fury," he said flatly. "You finally crawl out from under your rock."
Fury gave a faint smirk. "Looks like you let her get away."
"She killed over a hundred vampires in less than three seconds," Frank said, crossing his arms. "Didn't think I should try my luck playing hero."
"She's not the enemy," Fury said coolly, tapping on a tablet. "Not yet, anyway."
Frank glanced at the screen. It was footage—grainy, obviously shot from a cell phone through a window. It captured a glowing beam of golden light piercing through a thundercloud, lighting up the night like the heavens themselves were descending. The screen shook as thunder cracked and wind screamed. The perspective zoomed shakily toward a mountainside in the far distance, now charred black and cratered. The flash ended. The screen cut to a still photo of Sheldon Manor. Or what was left of it.
A fifty-meter crater filled with rainwater. Nothing remained but shattered stone and ash.
"You tell me," Fury said. "Is she just a vigilante? Or something worse?"
Frank stared at the screen for a long time. Finally, he said, "If that power gets aimed the wrong way, there's no force on Earth that stops her."
Fury nodded once. "Exactly."
The two men stood in silence for a moment, watching as agents tagged vampire remains and collected forensic samples. Outside, the storm was finally beginning to ease, but the unease lingered.
Frank cracked his neck. "You planning on bringing her in?"
Fury didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned away and said, "We'll monitor for now. Let's see where the storm goes next."