Early morning in Queens. In a quiet apartment, a key turned and a beautiful woman with a burgundy ponytail, dressed in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, walked in.
She closed the door, set her keys on the fridge, pulled out a bottle of milk, and drank. When she finished, she tossed the bottle in the trash and sank onto the couch.
Her phone rang.
She answered. "Phil Coulson."
Coulson got straight to it. "In the past two days, he bought two kilograms of silver at a Queens gold shop, then commissioned six custom weapons from a store called SG."
"Four cruciform swords and two Gurkha-style blades."
"Common base materials, but the outer layer is to be coated with silver powder."
"What's your read, Natasha?"
Natasha Romanoff frowned. "Silvered weapons? Those are classic anti-vampire tools."
"But vampires don't exist. Is he just collecting?"
As a spy, she knew more than most about the world's unknowns—but she'd never seen proof of vampires.
So why had her target suddenly ordered silvered weapons?
Was it a hobby? Or had he actually identified vampires?
Possible?
She didn't know.
"What else has he been doing?" she asked.
"In the last few days, wandering multiple districts across New York—aimlessly on the surface. Nights, he gravitates to bars and nightclubs. He's too young to get in," Coulson said.
"Odd," she murmured.
"It is odd," Coulson agreed. "If he's who you think he is, there's a reason behind the pattern."
Natasha heard the subtext. After several encounters, she was increasingly certain the Rainy Night Butcher was the Asian teen calling himself John Shaw. His history, traits, and recent shifts all matched the profile.
Would someone that rational and capable suddenly act without purpose?
Maybe he'd snapped—lost in a private madness after too much killing?
Possible, but unlikely. In their conversations, she felt confidence and control in his eyes and bearing. He looked bright and easygoing, but that core temperament bled through.
She'd met brilliant madmen before—well-disguised, smooth talkers, confident or arrogant or hollow—but beneath it all, there was always a ravenous insanity.
This boy wasn't insane.
Which made his behavior worth studying.
"How do you feel about your contact so far?" Coulson asked, shifting gears.
"Dangerous. Extremely dangerous," Natasha said.
"Under the sunny exterior is deep unrest. He feels like a sleeping beast. If it wakes, it'll tear apart anything in its path."
"He's terrifying, Phil. Every second near him, my pulse spiked. I had to fight the urge to get away."
Coulson was silent for a beat. "I've never heard you describe anyone like that."
"He's too dangerous—and too perceptive. I think he's already suspicious of me."
Natasha rubbed her brow. This was the kind of target that made her consider walking away.
Years of fieldwork had honed her instincts—an uncanny sixth sense.
She felt like he could read people down to the bone.
She dropped any idea of tailing him in person. She stuck to her cover as "Jenny," the private therapist. Surveillance routes and camera pulls were her suggestion; sending bodies to shadow him would just get burned. With the Butcher's methodical mind, if he chose to keep killing, tracking him would be a nightmare.
Unless they went overt—large-scale deployment, direct pressure.
But her current orders were observe and make contact—not provoke a break.
"What's your next move?" Coulson asked after a moment.
"Keep observing and maintain contact. He likely hasn't confirmed me—just suspicion. Until the Director gives different orders, if I sense real danger, I'm pulling out."
"Good luck, Natasha."
She ended the call, stood, and moved to the window. She looked across to the third floor of a neighboring building—the apartment where Ben Shaw lived.
"What happened to you?"
"What are you hunting? Do you just hate gangsters?"
Her eyes narrowed, thoughts unspooling in silence.
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