The night was deep, yet sleep never touched Mors.
He had never been fond of bloodshed.
But that didn't mean he wasn't fascinated by it.
Mors was, above all, a businessman. Killing was work for underlings.
His role was to watch, to profit, to enjoy the aftermath.
Just like tonight.
The rain fell heavy and cold, a curtain of water draped across Hell's Kitchen.
For him, it was the perfect setting for the funeral of Nolan Locke's little girlfriend.
He was savoring the moment when a thunderous explosion shattered the calm.
The front doors of his villa were blasted open.
Mors froze for a heartbeat, then his face darkened. He reached for the pistol he always kept by his side.
But before he could even aim, a figure stepped through the shattered doorway.
Behind that figure… shadows moved. He couldn't make out what they were.
Then came a voice he would never forget.
"Mors. Tell me where is the Irish Mob's headquarters?"
Mors's blood ran cold. "You… Nolan Locke? How how are you here?"
His fear was raw, his voice cracking. Nolan's voice had been burned into his memory.
Now, Nolan stood before him clad in the Delta-6 Rapid Assault Suit.
The armor encased his body from head to toe, a perfect fusion of steel and menace.
He had no intention of making mistakes in front of Mors tonight.
"I'll ask you one more time," Nolan's voice cut like a blade. "Where is your headquarters?"
"Don't be ridiculous!" Mors shouted, pulling the trigger.
The bullet struck Nolan squarely, sparking harmlessly against the armor.
The next instant, Nolan was in front of him. His gauntleted hand closed around Mors's throat like a steel vice.
"Mors, I'll give you one last chance. You know there are… many ways to make a man talk. You haven't exactly been trained to resist truth serums, have you?"
As Nolan spoke, one of the Killers sleek, bladed machines of war stepped up beside him.
Mors hesitated, sweat dripping.
"Unit 3," Nolan ordered coldly. "Take a finger."
The robot's blade whirred, and in one merciless swipe, it severed half of Mors's hand.
His scream split the night.
Nolan's face didn't flinch. He had no time for theatrics.
"Where is your headquarters?"
Mors's lips quivered. Silence lingered for a breath too long.
"Another finger," Nolan commanded.
"Wait! I'll talk I'll talk!" Mors screamed, panic drowning his loyalty. He was no hardened soldier, just a businessman wrapped in crime.
But his plea came too late. The Killer's blade struck again, and his entire hand fell to the floor with a sickening thud.
Nolan's voice was a growl. "One more time. Where?"
This time, Mors didn't hesitate. He shouted out the Irish Mob's location, desperate to keep the rest of his body intact.
The answer curled Nolan's lips into a cold smile.
"You think I want to kill people? You're wrong. The world is complicated. It isn't just us ordinary folk there are others, dangerous people with powers and secrets. All I want is to live, without stirring up too much trouble. But people like you…"
His armored hand tightened around Mors's throat, the suit's power amplifying his strength.
"…people like you won't stop until I'm forced to break you."
With one motion, he snapped Mors's neck. The light faded from the man's eyes, his final breath rasping out as though whispering to the darkness.
"Why… do you keep pushing me? Why?"
Nolan's expression twisted, rage boiling beneath his calm exterior.
It was supposed to be business. But in this cursed world, business always turned to blood.
Damn the Irish Mob.
Damn the men who thought violence solved everything.
He dropped Mors's lifeless body to the floor, his voice rising like a vow to the storm outside.
"You came after me. Then after tonight… the Irish Mob will vanish. Just like the Aryan Brotherhood before you."
A crack of thunder tore across the sky.
The storm broke open, sheets of rain lashing the city.
Nolan stepped into it, the suit's armor reverberating with each drop that struck.
His mind was already fixed on one name.
Finn Cooley.
If I find you, Nolan thought grimly, you won't leave this world alive.
Inside the Irish Mob's headquarters, Finn Cooley sat in silence, checking his watch.
"Why aren't they back yet?" His frown deepened.
The men sent after Jessica Jones should have returned by now.
Suspicion nagged at him. He picked up his phone and dialed Mors.
The line rang. No answer.
Finn's eyes darkened. Mors wouldn't ignore his call not tonight.
Something had gone wrong.
But who could have done it? Jessica Jones? Impossible. They had studied her extensively. She was strong, yes, but young and untrained. Her dossier held no secrets from them.
No… it had to be Nolan Locke. Or the power behind him.
Finn's mouth curved into a cold smile.
"Gather everyone. Mors is dead. Which means our enemy is coming for us next."
"Yes, boss!" his men replied.
Within minutes, half-asleep mobsters were roused from their beds, rifles shoved into their hands.
This was the strength of the Irish Mob. In Hell's Kitchen, territory was carved with blood, and they had no shortage of weapons to defend theirs.
By the time Nolan arrived, their five-story stronghold was blazing with light. Shadows moved across the windows, men pacing, preparing.
The gates were barred. Every weapon ready.
Nolan's eyes narrowed, his voice cold.
"So they're prepared. Good. It won't save them."
He raised his arm.
"SAR-1 Combat Robots open fire!"
The night erupted in fire.
Behind him, over twenty SAR-1s unleashed their arsenal, spitting streams of molten flame and gunfire.
The metal gates, meant to be impenetrable, were shredded in seconds. Steel crumpled like paper, riddled with holes.
Nolan inhaled deeply. His chest tightened with purpose.
"Charge!" he roared.
He surged forward, fists clenched. His armored hand smashed into the ruined gate, blasting it apart.
Behind it, the Irish mobsters stared in shock, guns trembling in their hands.
They never had a chance.
Two Killers burst through, blades flashing. The SAR-1s stormed in behind them.
Then came the swarm hundreds of palm-sized drones crawling along walls, ceilings, and floors, pouring into every crack of the building.
Flames roared. Blades tore.
Nolan stood tall in the heart of the mechanical tide, watching the slaughter unfold.
Gunfire cracked like thunder, mingling with the storm outside. Muzzle flashes lit up the darkness like lightning.
And blood poured like rain.
On the rooftop, Finn Cooley stiffened.
"Gunfire already?"
"Don't worry, boss," one of his men sneered. "There are thirty guys downstairs. No one's getting through."
But the gunfire stopped.
It lasted less than half a minute. Then silence.
The mobsters traded uneasy looks. Could their enemies really have been so foolish? To attack the Irish Mob and be wiped out in under a minute?
They smirked. Shook their heads.
And then, the doors crashed open.
A survivor stumbled in, his face ashen, his eyes wide with horror.
"Boss monsters! Mechanical monsters! They've slaughtered everyone on the first floor!"
The words hit like a bullet.
Finn Cooley's smile vanished. His hand closed around a rifle.
"So. Not an ordinary enemy." His eyes gleamed with malice. "Bring out the big guns."
One of his men, a hulking brute, dragged a heavy case into the room.
Finn's grin returned, sharp and cruel.
This was the city, his territory. He hadn't wanted to use such weapons here. Too messy, too loud.
But if Nolan Locke wanted war…
Then war he would have.
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