From behind the bookcase, Bullseye lunged forward, emerging with a flash of shame and frustration in his eyes. But instead of fleeing, he dropped low and sprang toward Lydia Hardy, launching a razor-sharp dart at her throat. The dart, barely five centimeters long, was thrown with such lethal precision and force that it could easily split flesh and bone.
Anyone struck by it would be dead in seconds.
By all accounts, Lydia Hardy should've been helpless. Bullseye wasn't just some street thug—he was a legendary killer. A pistol in her hand wouldn't have made a difference. Not against him.
But Daniel watched in shock as Lydia reacted with impossible speed. She darted to the right in a swift, fluid motion, dodging the attack like a trained operative. Without hesitation, she drew her sidearm and fired back. Her aim was good—several rounds hit Bullseye before he dove through the reinforced glass behind her.
Shards exploded across the room as Bullseye crashed through the third-story window and disappeared into the night. Lydia rushed to the window, but by the time she looked down, the assassin was gone.
A second later, the study door burst open. Hardy family bodyguards charged in, weapons drawn, but it was already over. Though only seconds had passed since the first shot rang out, Bullseye had vanished.
"Lock down the manor," Lydia ordered, her tone icy. "Search every corner. Don't miss a single room." Her eyes narrowed. "It was Bullseye—Jin Bing's man. Warn everyone. And double the detail on my daughter. I want someone watching Felicia at all times."
"Yes, ma'am!" the head guard snapped, already on his comms. Within moments, the Hardy estate was swept into full alert, veterans moving with swift precision to secure the grounds.
But Daniel already knew Bullseye was long gone.
For a hitman of his caliber—a ghost of the criminal underworld—slipping away unnoticed was second nature. He wasn't someone who got caught. If he had been, he'd have died a dozen times already.
Yet it wasn't Bullseye that concerned Daniel most—it was Lydia Hardy.
In his eyes, she had always been an ordinary woman. Felicia's respectable, aging mother. But now, in that moment of danger, she had revealed strength and reflexes that surpassed even Olympic-level athletes. At nearly sixty years old, her explosive agility had defied belief.
No wonder Kingpin had his eye on her.
Clearly, Lydia Hardy wasn't just some society matron. There was something more. Daniel began to speculate—was she a mutant? The product of biochemical experimentation? Some survivor of military super-soldier programs long thought buried?
Or maybe—just maybe—there were other secrets in the Hardy family lineage.
Daniel had seen Felicia Hardy up close several times. She was sharp, poised, and well-trained—but she didn't exhibit anything close to the physical power her mother just showed. Could it be that she didn't even know the truth about her own family?
And that raised an even more unsettling question: if Lydia was hiding this much… who was Felicia's father?
New York, Daniel mused, was a city of endless surprises.
Clearly, the Hardy family harbored powerful secrets. Otherwise, Kingpin wouldn't have moved so carefully, choosing espionage before aggression. But now, with Bullseye's failed mission, the covert war was about to become open conflict.
Daniel could feel the storm gathering.
Originally, he had no intention of getting involved. He simply wanted to master his magical training and stay out of other people's wars. But life rarely honored such simple ambitions.
The butler of the Hardy estate arrived, face composed, but his voice seething with cold fury. "Madam," he said, "shall I mobilize our people? If you give the word, I'll send a message to Kingpin that he'll never forget."
That kind of talk wasn't cheap bravado. Few dared threaten Kingpin openly. The fact that the butler could say it with such certainty made Daniel wonder again—who was backing this family?
But Lydia simply shook her head.
"No. Call the police," she said coolly. "Tell the staff to prepare all the evidence. Let the authorities handle this. And have them connect it to the university incident. I want to see how far Kingpin thinks he can go."
She opened a drawer and laid a single photograph on the desk. "And let's see who still dares to stand with Kingpin after this."
Daniel leaned in.
The photo was old—grainy, black and white. Taken during World War II in Italy. One man in the image was unmistakable: Captain America. The other was a bespectacled war reporter.
Daniel recognized him instantly.
He was a member of the Raiders—Captain America's elite squad. Not just allies in battle, but legends whispered about in secret corners of military history. And that "reporter" had to be Paul Asham Hardy—Lydia's ancestor.
The truth clicked into place.
Everyone knew the story of the Howling Commandos, but few knew the full truth of the Raiders. This was the true super-soldier team of the Allied Forces—assembled from across nations. Namor of Atlantis. The Ghost Flyer. A Knight of the Round Table. A speedster from France. The original Human Torch. Miss America, with lightning in her veins.
And, of course, Bucky Barnes. Toro. Legends of fire and steel.
After the war, their stories vanished—erased from the books, buried by governments who feared their power. But the people never forgot.
And neither, apparently, had the Hardy family.
That one photo spoke of power. If Lydia was willing to reveal it now, it meant she was prepared to force the NYPD into action, and to remind the city's elite who the Hardys really were.
Daniel was no fool.
Kingpin wasn't acting alone. If he still moved against this family knowing what lay in their past, then someone far more dangerous was backing him. And whoever that was, they wanted the Hardy family erased.
The real war was about to begin.
Sirens wailed outside. The police had arrived. Daniel saw, to his surprise, that the man leading them was none other than his neighbor: Director George Stacy of the 67th Precinct.
He moved with urgency, but not fear.
That made sense. George Stacy had attended Lydia's charity gala just weeks ago. Now he was here, taking the attack personally.
He didn't even wait for formalities—Lydia stayed upstairs, and he was escorted straight to her study.
Lydia stood calmly beside the shattered window, eyes fixed on the dart still embedded in the wall.
"This is the closest I've come to death in a long time," she said without turning. "I hope the NYPD has more to offer than excuses. Otherwise, I might start wondering what my years of donations have really bought."
Director Stacy swallowed, choosing his words carefully. Everyone knew Lydia was one of the NYPD's biggest private supporters. Her donations weren't just generous—they were essential.
"I need to confirm—are you certain it was Bullseye?" he asked.
Lydia turned, her expression unreadable. "The dart is his signature. Several witnesses saw him break through the window. And…" She handed him a flash drive. "This video survived. He thought he avoided the cameras. He didn't."
Director Stacy took it with a sigh of relief. "Good. That gives me enough to act."
Then he noticed the photograph on her desk.
"Is that… Captain America?"
Lydia's gaze held his. "Yes. Taken in Italy. The man beside him is Paul Asham Hardy. My grandfather. They fought together."
Director Stacy blinked. "They were comrades?"
"They were Raiders," Lydia said quietly. "And we still honor that legacy."
There was no need to say more.
—
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