The moment Nolan made his move, Bullseye reacted instantly.
His reflexes were sharp, honed by countless battles. With a flick of his wrist, a knife whistled through the air, aimed straight at Nolan.
But Nolan had already rolled off the couch and slid beneath it, narrowly avoiding the blade.
At that same moment, Executioner Unit-3 dropped down from above with a deafening clang. The robot's alloy body crashed onto the marble floor, splintering the tiles as if they were nothing but brittle glass.
Executioner-3's steel claws extended, gleaming with a cold light, and it lunged directly at Bullseye.
That primal survival instinct, sharpened by years of combat, screamed at Bullseye just in time. His body jerked sideways, narrowly dodging the killing strike. The robot's claws gouged into the ground where he had stood, sending shards of stone scattering in every direction.
"What the hell is this thing?!" Bullseye barked, his usual smirk fading into a grimace as his eyes locked on the mechanical monstrosity before him.
Executioner-3 didn't bother answering. Machines had no patience for words. Locked onto Bullseye's position by Nolan's command, the robot moved with mechanical precision, relentless and unstoppable.
Another knife flashed from Bullseye's hand, striking true but it was pointless. The steel blade clattered harmlessly off the alloy plating, sparking against the futuristic armor.
Bullseye's expression froze. A chill swept through him. His knives were his deadliest weapon, the skill that had carried him through countless life-and-death encounters. Yet now, against this thing, his trump card was utterly useless.
And so his gaze shifted to Nolan Locke.
If he couldn't kill the machine, he'd kill its master.
Nolan, of course, had expected this. He wasn't a fool. He knew that once Bullseye realized the Executioner was invulnerable, his only option would be to go after him.
But Nolan wasn't panicked. Not here, not in his own villa.
With a quick pivot, he bolted toward another room.
Bullseye, sensing his chance, gave chase. But as soon as he crossed the threshold, the blood drained from his face.
The entire room was filled with palm-sized spider-like robots.
Hundreds of them.
Their metallic eyes glowed red in unison, and the air was filled with the eerie clicking of mechanical limbs.
Even Bullseye, hardened by war and chaos, had never witnessed something so grotesque. Before he could retreat, the swarm surged forward.
In a heartbeat, the spider-bots were upon him, crawling up his legs, arms, and torso. Their needle-sharp limbs pierced flesh with every movement, leaving a lattice of holes across his body.
"AAHHHHHHH!"
His scream echoed through the villa, raw and agonizing.
Nolan flinched. Even for him, the sight was unnerving. To die like that, consumed by a tide of machines gnawing flesh from bone it was a fate worse than a bullet to the head.
When the swarm finally went still, the silence was deafening.
Nolan exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Uncle Charles," he muttered, dragging the corpse of Bullseye alongside Charles's body, "I suppose you won't be alone anymore. At least you'll have company in hell."
He gave a dry laugh, though his eyes betrayed a trace of unease.
Killing Bullseye solved one problem, but it didn't erase the shadow looming over him: Wilson Fisk the Kingpin.
Unlike common thugs, Fisk was far more dangerous. Nolan didn't even have a lead on his current whereabouts, and that gnawed at him.
If he couldn't locate Fisk, then all he could do was wait, countering blow for blow. But waiting for an enemy like Kingpin was a dangerous game.
After all, you can rob a thief for a day, but you can't guard against one forever.
Days passed. Bullseye never returned. By the second day, Kingpin's expression had already darkened. By the third, he no longer doubted what had happened.
His prized assassin was dead.
Kingpin's gaze grew cold and calculating. In all of New York, there were few who dared oppose him. Whoever Nolan Locke was, he had crossed a line that could not be ignored.
Nolan braced himself for retaliation. He expected Kingpin to strike immediately, to unleash hell upon him.
But the days ticked by, and nothing happened.
A week later, there was still no movement.
Nolan realized he had underestimated Fisk's patience. The silence was not mercy it was strategy. And that, more than any open assault, unsettled him.
Still, he couldn't afford to dwell on it. The Military Industrial Expo was approaching, and for Nolan, it was the opportunity he had been waiting for.
If there was any business that could turn a man into a giant overnight, it was weapons.
The expo gathered the titans of the arms industry. Stark Industries, of course, was the star of the show. Osborne Industries and Hammer Tech were also major players, each boasting innovations designed to woo the military.
Nolan's fledgling company, Locke Technologies, was barely a footnote in comparison. Despite introducing the K-01 power armor and kickstarting a new era of mechs, the larger corporations didn't take him seriously.
To them, Nolan was nothing more than a lucky amateur talented, perhaps, but still a small fry.
His booth had been shoved into the farthest corner of the expo floor, almost hidden from sight.
But Nolan didn't mind. He didn't need the approval of the corporate elite. He only needed one thing: the attention of the military.
His centerpiece for the expo was simple yet bold: the T-800 prototype, flanked by a row of SAR-1 combat drones.
The T-800 was far from finished. In truth, it was little more than a shell a carefully constructed illusion. But illusions had their uses. If he could secure enough funding, he could turn the dream into reality.
The SAR-1 units, however, were very real. They were his true selling point, built for front-line combat. Alongside them, he had prepared spy-bots for surveillance, autonomous jump mines capable of targeting enemies, and an improved variant of the K-01 suit rebranded for logistical use.
Nolan had one goal: secure a massive contract.
As he made his final preparations, an all-too-familiar voice cut through the air.
"Well, well, Nolan Locke. These are the toys you're bringing to the big stage?"
Tony Stark.
True to form, he arrived with his trademark arrogance, sunglasses perched on his nose and a smirk tugging at his lips.
Nolan barely glanced at him, uninterested in trading barbs. He wasn't about to give Stark the satisfaction.
But Tony pressed on, his gaze falling on the revamped K-01. "Is that what I think it is? K-01, huh? I heard about your little comeback, rebuilding your company from scratch. Honestly, I sympathize. But bringing junk like this to an expo?" He scoffed, his nose tilting upward.
He was brimming with confidence, certain that his own presentation would eclipse everyone else's.
Still, when his eyes shifted toward the SAR-1 drones, his smirk wavered. He knew the military would find them useful. They weren't flashy, but they were practical and practicality always sold.
But then, his gaze fell upon the T-800.
The smirk disappeared altogether. His pupils narrowed.
"What… is that?"
Before him stood a humanoid figure, sleek and imposing, its design radiating advanced technology far beyond anything on the floor. Even at a glance, Stark recognized its potential.
Nolan's lips curled into a confident smile.
"The T-800," he said softly. "My trump card."
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