Bronx, New York.
Just a block away from Yankee Stadium, nestled in the heart of the Bronx, stood one of New York's most infamous underground clubs, Bloody Mary. Known for its wild energy and violent reputation, the place was a favorite haunt for criminals, thugs, and anyone who knew how to bleed.
A battered yellow cab rattled to a stop in front of the nightclub's iron-plated entrance, a door that looked more like it belonged to a steel vault than an entertainment club. The second the passenger door creaked open, a wiry young man with a foxlike grin stepped out, Ash Ward. Before the cab door even shut, the nervous driver hit the gas and vanished into the night.
Ash didn't mind. He smoothed down his coat and looked up at the entrance with casual amusement.
As the de facto headquarters of the Russian mafia in New York, Bloody Mary wasn't just notorious, it was sacred territory. Eight hulking guards stood stationed at the door, all muscle and menace, with automatic weapons bulging beneath their coats.
Two of them stepped forward, blocking his path like iron statues.
"Standard procedure," one growled, eyes cold.
Ash narrowed his eyes, then suddenly raised his voice with theatrical outrage, "Come on guys! This how you treat your guests?!"
He turned on his heel dramatically, smirking inwardly. Trying to test me? You amateurs mother fuckers.
Before he could take three steps, a booming voice erupted from inside. "Ash! My friend~!"
A blond mountain of a man burst through the door, fury in his eyes as he kicked one of his own guards. "Idiots! Is that how you welcome my guests?"
He strode up and swept Ash into a crushing bear hug.
Vladimir, Russian mob boss, crime lord, and reeking of expensive cologne that did nothing to mask the thick cloud of body odor around him, was the very image of a Russian brute. Tall, hairy, filthy rich, and soaked in blood money.
"Jimmy, you bastard!" Ash laughed, slapping the man's back. Their earlier tension vanished in an instant as the two entered, arms slung around each other like old comrades.
The first floor of the club was dark and empty, the dance floor hadn't opened yet, but the shadows were crawling with armed goons. Dozens of them, lurking like wolves, eyes glinting in the dark. Their firepower could shred a tank, much less a man.
On the second floor, the VIP suite was already filled.
Vladimir's top men were present: his right-hand man Anatoly, a few high-ranking Russian gangsters... and two unfamiliar faces.
Ash's eyes immediately zeroed in on the man at the head of the table, a sharply dressed American in a pristine cream-colored three-piece suit, red pocket square, slicked blond hair, and a smile as oily as his personality. He screamed "privileged bastard."
Behind him sat a grungy, long-haired Russian covered in tattoos, chewing a toothpick and twirling a glowing orb wrapped in metal wire between calloused fingers.
"Have a seat, Ash," Vladimir said, lighting a cigar and settling into his chair. He gestured toward the suited man. "Almost forgot! Let me introduce you. This is Justin Hammer, CEO of Hammer Industries. And that's Ivan Vanko, a brother from the Motherland. And this guy here, this is my dear friend Ash. Owns a little antique shop on 33rd Street. Sells the strangest trinkets."
Ash gave a polite nod.
Justin's face twisted in annoyance. "You kept me waiting thirty minutes for a damn pawn shop owner?" He cast Ash a dismissive glance. "If you hadn't screwed up, I'd be dining with the Governor in California right now!"
Ash's smile remained untouched. "Small gadgets solve big problems, Mr. Hammer."
Vladimir's eyes glinted. "I trust Ash will be helpful to our... current situation."
Justin scoffed but sat down. Ash took a seat near the end of the table, still smiling, his expression unreadable.
"So," Ash said, "what happened? I've heard some ugly rumors."
Vladimir's tone darkened. "Justin and I were working a deal. A private one—off the books. He wanted something that's... not available on the open market. I was to deliver. But last night, the entire shipment was stolen. My men were butchered."
Ash blinked. "Who were you buying from?"
Vladimir hesitated before answering, "Kingpin."
"Wilson Fisk?" Ash whistled in mock shock. "What on earth were you buying from that old devil? His reputation's... less than stellar."
"That's not your concern," Justin snapped, glaring.
Ash narrowed his eyes. Their stares clashed. Justin lasted all of three seconds before looking away, rattled.
Vladimir broke the tension with a dry chuckle, then leaned forward. "It couldn't have been Fisk. He wouldn't dare steal from me. Besides, my people reported that even Fisk's men were hit last night."
Ash arched a brow. So the rat tried to play both sides? Smart. Dirty. Classic Fisk.
Vladimir tossed a stack of photos on the table. "Got these from a cop friend. Look at this mess."
Bodies sprawled across a dark alley, twisted beyond recognition.
"They emptied entire magazines into the attackers," Vladimir muttered. "And still didn't leave a scratch. Not even a strand of hair. Ghosts, maybe?"
Justin scoffed.
"I lost the shipment," Vladimir growled. "So I owe Justin. Ash, my friend… I need your help. Find the bastards who did this, and I'll make it worth your while."
Ash leaned back, considering. "Jimmy, you know I'm just a shop owner. You've got an army. I'm a one-man shop. But… perhaps I can offer you something helpful. Business is business, after all."
Justin let out a derisive snort. "God, are you all mad? He's a junk dealer. A glorified trash picker! And you need his help?"
He stood, slamming his hand on the table. "Vladimir, I smuggled Vanko to Monaco on your word. That race incident cost me billions. And now you're gambling with amateurs?"
Vladimir rose like a titan, towering over the American. His glare could melt iron.
Justin didn't back down. "Don't forget who I am. I'm Justin. Fucking. Hammer. I've got more friends in the Pentagon than you have bullets. If I wanted, I could wipe out your entire crew in sixty seconds."
He jabbed Vladimir's chest. "So get off your ass, send your dogs out, and find my ore. Right. Now. Got it?"
From the corner, Anatoly's hand drifted to his gun.
Ash clapped once, breaking the tension. "Every man, no matter how small, has his value."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a foggy glass vial. As he opened it, a strange mist coiled around his body, swallowing him whole, and in a blink, he vanished.
His voice echoed from nowhere. "I think I can help recover your property… assuming the price is right."
Justin's jaw dropped. Even Vanko froze mid-motion, the orb in his hand forgotten.
"You—what the hell—are you a mutant?!" Justin stammered, stunned.
Ash reappeared, sitting calmly again, all smiles. "No, no. I'm just a humble merchant, like you. And like my friend Vladimir said—some of my little trinkets are… special."
Justin's eyes gleamed with greed. "My God. Stealth tech? Invisibility? Can anyone use it? Could I use it?! How does it work?!" He scrambled forward, suddenly all charm and desperation. "Mr. Ward! Forgive my rudeness earlier. Truly. I apologize."
He leaned in close. "We can work together. Name your price. One hundred million? Five hundred? A billion? Hammer Industries can afford anything!"
Ash chuckled, gesturing for Vladimir to sit back down. "Dear Mr. Hammer, I think you misunderstand. I may be a mere shopkeeper, but your money… it's not even good enough to wipe my ass."
The room fell silent.
"If you want to buy from me," Ash said softly, "bring me something of real value. Not paper. Until then, you're not qualified to do business with me."