Natasha Romanoff landed on the warehouse roof with feline grace, her black tactical suit absorbing the moonlight. Composite inserts in her boots silenced her landing, rendering her invisible in Mumbai's industrial district. Beside her, Clint Barton appeared, his bow ready, trained eyes scanning the surroundings, noting every detail.
The target building loomed a hundred meters away—a massive colonial-era warehouse repurposed for modern use. Rust coated its high metal walls, and sparse windows gaped like black voids. A single dim bulb above the entrance cast a faint circle of light in the darkness.
"Thermal shows activity on the second level," Natasha said into her comm, peering through a specialized scope. "Two signatures. One moving fast, the other… static."
"Copy," Coulson's voice crackled in her ear. "Remember: Kingo is priority two. Primary objective is capturing the target. If that fails, eliminate."
Clint aimed an arrow at a distant window. "Nat, something's off. Too quiet for a fight. If there's a battle, where's the noise?"
Black Widow narrowed her eyes. Her years of experience screamed danger, the air thick with tension. Clint lowered his bow.
"Maybe it's already over," she replied, checking her taser's charge. "Let's move. Standard formation: you go high, I go low. Thirty seconds to position."
They split. Clint headed for the fire escape to the roof, Natasha toward the main entrance. Their movements were synchronized, honed by years of teamwork.
Approaching, Natasha caught a scent—metallic, cloying, familiar from battlefields. Blood. Too much blood. Her stomach tightened; she'd seen horrors, but this was intense.
"Clint," she whispered, "it smells like a slaughterhouse."
"Got it. I'm in position. Windows are boarded, but there's a skylight. Ready to breach."
Natasha pulled a lock-picking device, but the door was unlocked—a bad sign. Seasoned criminals locked doors. Only the overly confident left them open.
"Going in," she reported, stowing the device and drawing a tranquilizer pistol. "Clint, wait for my signal."
Inside, the warehouse was dim, a maze of towering racks. The air reeked of that metallic tang. Natasha activated night vision and advanced, weapon ready.
Ten meters in, she found the first body—an elderly watchman slumped at a desk, head on folded arms. He looked asleep, but Natasha knew death's many faces.
"First body," she reported softly. "Watchman. Looks natural, but he's dead."
"Copy. I see movement on thermal. Something's happening in the center."
Natasha pressed forward, finding three more bodies: two young workers and a middle-aged woman. All posed as if working, no signs of struggle or wounds. Just death.
"Four bodies," she said. "Cause unclear. They all—"
A dull thud cut her off, followed by an explosion-like sound. A man's cry—furious, pained—echoed from the warehouse's depths.
"Clint, someone's alive."
"Coming down. Get ready."
Natasha moved toward the sound, weaving through racks, leaping obstacles. The noises grew louder: impacts, blasts, metal tearing. A desperate fight.
She emerged in the shadows near the warehouse's center—a wide space ringed by eerie red walls. What she saw froze her.
A man in an expensive shirt and trousers hurled golden energy blasts from his hands at an unseen foe. Each blast melted metal into slag. Kingo—she recognized him from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s dossier. A superhuman? S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn't known. Strange.
His opponent stayed hidden, betrayed only by red tendrils moving like living things, attacking Kingo from all sides. He countered with energy pulses.
"Kingo's alive," Natasha reported. "Fighting an unknown. I see… red tentacles?"
"Not tentacles," a voice said from the shadows, startling her. "Blood."
A figure stepped from behind a rack—tall, curly black hair, red eyes glowing. His aristocratic face held a cruel beauty, his smile predatory, gleeful.
"Special forces," he said, as if expecting them. "Predictable. I was just thinking the evening was getting dull."
Kingo seized the moment, firing an energy blast at the man's back. The explosion lit the warehouse, but when the smoke cleared, he stood unscathed, clothes in tatters.
"Rude to shoot in the back," he remarked, not turning. "But I expect no less from an Eternal."
Natasha aimed at his chest, firing a tranquilizer dart potent enough for an elephant. He caught it midair without looking.
"Tranquilizer?" He glanced at her, then the dart's yellow fletching. "How quaint. I'm afraid standard chemistry doesn't work on me. Unique metabolism."
She fired again. And again. He caught each dart effortlessly, like a child's game. His speed was inhuman.
"Get out, girl!" Kingo shouted, charging another blast. "He's not human!"
"Thanks for the clarification," the man sneered. "Though you're not exactly human either."
He waved a hand, and a wave of blood rose from the floor, forming sharp spikes. Kingo blasted them away, but more appeared faster.
Natasha, realizing tranquilizers were useless, switched to live rounds. Circling, she fired both pistols. The man dodged with unnatural grace, bending at impossible angles, sensing every bullet.
"Impressive reflexes for a human," he commented, evading. "But not enough."
A blood wave surged toward her. She rolled aside, but the tendrils followed, smashing racks, tables, walls.
An arrow struck the man's back, halting the blood wave. He paused, glanced at the shaft in his chest, and yanked it out without flinching.
"Nice shot. Near perfect."
Clint emerged from the shadows, nocking another arrow.
"Accurate for a human," the man added, examining the arrow. "But useless against me."
He hurled it back with such force it whistled past Clint's ear, piercing a metal beam.
"Damn," Clint muttered, diving for cover.
Kingo landed beside Natasha, who was reloading, his breathing heavy. "I've been fighting him for half an hour. He's not human. Normal attacks don't work."
"What does he want?" Natasha asked, checking her magazines. Seven left. Not enough.
"Don't know. He set a trap for me," Kingo said, eyes flickering, betraying hidden knowledge. Natasha had no time to press; she had bigger problems.
The man approached, red eyes glowing. Blood on the floor formed a protective cocoon around him.
"How disappointing, Kingo. I'm the predator, you're the prey. Simple. Or don't you want to share your sob story with them?"
His mocking tone grated. Clint fired a volley—explosive, shock, net arrows. The man deflected them with blood tendrils, but it gave Kingo an opening.
An energy beam sliced the air, aiming for the man's head. He ducked, the beam singeing his hair.
"Closer," he grinned. "Still not enough."
A three-way assault began. Natasha attacked from the left, using her acrobatic training—rolls, leaps, strikes at blind spots. Her moves were lethal, but he blocked with blood shields or dodged. Bullets were near useless against someone who sensed most of them.
Clint provided ranged support, arrows flying from varied angles: explosives to disrupt, shockers to paralyze, standard to multiply threats. The man caught, deflected, or absorbed them without visible damage.
Kingo was the heavy hitter. His energy attacks could level the building, but he held back—too many civilians nearby. Each shot was calculated, yet ineffective. The red-eyed man seemed to enjoy the hits, testing his new limits.
"Interesting tactic," he said, blocking an arrow with a blood barrier. "Coordinated. Professional."
He counterattacked. Blood tendrils lashed out, forcing the trio to dodge and take cover. Each move targeted vital organs.
"Why do this?" Kingo shouted, repelling a massive strike. "We thought you were dead! We forgot you!"
"Dead?" The man paused. "I can't be killed. I'm immortal. Your prison didn't stop me. Never will. Time to pay, as you moderns say. Or is that from action movies?"
Natasha used his speech to close in, hitting with a maxed-out taser—a risky move that could harm her. The charge struck his neck. His body jerked, red eyes dimming briefly.
"That hurt," he said, surprised. "Haven't felt pain in ages. Thanks for the reminder."
His hand moved faster than she could react, striking her stomach and sending her flying. She landed hard, ribs cracking.
"Natasha!" Clint abandoned cover, firing on the move toward his partner.
The man ignored the arrows, focusing on Natasha. He approached slowly, savoring the moment.
"I smell your blood," he mused. "So cold, so dead. You're empty inside, girl."
Natasha struggled to rise, pain overwhelming.
"Why kill them?" she gasped, buying time.
"All deserve death," he said, dodging Clint's arrows. "It's only a matter of when and how. Your blood… it's special."
An energy beam cut between them. Kingo, leaping dramatically like a movie hero, stood protectively, hands blazing.
"Leave her alone. Your fight's with me."
"Oh, no," the man smirked. "It's with all of you now. But you're the main course. They're just… appetizers."
He attacked all three. Blood rose, forming tendrils, spears, swords behind him. A swing. Each weapon moved independently, striking from every angle.
Kingo raised an energy shield, covering Natasha and Clint. Clint fired a sticky arrow to slow the blood.
"Smart," the man approved. "Not enough."
He clenched a fist, and the blood weapons struck as a whirlwind. Kingo's shield cracked under dozens of hits, then shattered. He flew back into the shadows. Clint took a hit to the shoulder, crashing into a wall, unconscious. A blood spear pierced Natasha's thigh.
She screamed, blood soaking her leg.
"First blood," the man said, pleased. "Tasty. I sense resolve. Experience."
Kingo roared, rising and focusing. His attack melted part of the ceiling and wall. The man vanished into a blood mist.
"Too predictable," his voice echoed. "Emotions weaken you."
He reappeared behind Kingo, but the actor was ready—a trap. An energy palm aimed for the man's neck. It passed through, harmless.
"What the hell?" Kingo gasped, stepping back.
"I am blood," the man smiled, turning to mist again.
Reforming behind, he struck with a hand-turned-spike, aiming for Kingo's heart. The actor dodged, but too close.
Clint's arrow hit at the last second, three explosives knocking the man back. He rolled, recovering fast, and lunged at Clint.
A blood tendril wrapped Clint's legs, hurling him against a wall with a sickening crunch.
"Clint!" Natasha reached for her gear, leg useless.
"Don't worry about him," the man said, swatting Kingo aside. "Worry about yourself."
He lifted Natasha by the throat, red eyes gleaming.
"So beautiful," he murmured. "So deadly. What does a born killer's blood taste like?"
She swung a knife, but he caught her arm, crushing it. Bones snapped, the knife fell.
"No rush," he whispered. "Savor death."
Kingo tackled him, abandoning energy for hand-to-hand, using millennia of combat skill. A punch to the solar plexus forced the man to release Natasha. Rapid strikes—eyes, throat, groin. Kingo fought like a mortal warrior.
"Now that's interesting," the man blocked a hit, countering. "A real fight."
They clashed, each blow deadly. The floor trembled.
Clint stirred, cradling his broken arm. His bow was shattered, but arrows remained. He threw them by hand—less accurate, still lethal.
An arrow hit the man's back as he aimed a final blow at Kingo. The distraction let Kingo drive an energy-charged hand into his chest.
"It worked!" Kingo gasped.
The man looked at the hand in his chest, then at them.
"It did," he agreed. "Not enough."
He pulled the hand out. The wound closed instantly.
"How?" Kingo whispered.
"I'm immortal, remember?" the man said.
He gestured, and all the warehouse's blood rose, forming a massive red sphere.
"Time to end this game," he said. "It was fun."
The sphere split into hundreds of fist-sized projectiles, aimed at the trio. They launched.
Kingo's weakened shield cracked at the first hit, doomed to fail. As he braced for death, everything changed.
Automatic gunfire erupted. Holes appeared in the man's body, and the blood projectiles fell, losing form.
"More?" he turned.
Ten figures in unmarked black tactical gear stormed through the main entrance, moving with professional precision, wielding cutting-edge weapons.
"Target acquired," one shouted. "Open fire!"
Silver bullets tore into the man.
He laughed, even as they pierced him. "Silver? Really? I'm not that kind of vampire."
But the bullets bothered him. He winced, regeneration slowing.
"Interesting chemistry," he said, examining a bullet from his arm. "Still not enough."
He waved, and a blood wave swept away half the newcomers, their screams echoing like they burned.
The survivors fired cautiously, using cover.
"Brave mortals," the man said, pulling another bullet from his chest.
His body transformed—muscles bulged, fangs lengthened, eyes blazed brighter. The human mask fell, revealing the monster beneath.
"God," a soldier whispered into his radio. "What is that?"
What followed, Natasha recalled in fragments, pain clouding her mind. The man moved like a tempest, hands now blades. Each strike was lethal, precise. Soldiers tried to retreat, but he was faster. Crunches, tears, severed limbs. A haze of carnage.
Kingo fought on, but his energy waned, attacks growing feeble. The man ignored him, focusing on the new prey.
Screams. So many screams. Then silence.
He stood among the bodies, clothes shredded, unscathed. He breathed deeply, savoring the blood's scent.
"Better," he said, satisfied. "Much better."
He approached Natasha, crawling toward the exit.
"Now," he said, "where were we?"
His hand gripped her shoulder. Her strength faded.
"Don't fear," he whispered. "The pain won't last."
Kingo's final, weak energy blast flickered like a dying candle. Then darkness.
Natasha jolted awake, sitting up in a hospital bed.
"Damn… what happened?"
She was in a sterile S.H.I.E.L.D. medical bay—antiseptic scent, humming equipment, soft lighting.
Nick Fury, eyepatch and coat unmistakable, and Phil Coulson, holding a folder, sat beside her.
"Finally," Coulson said. "We were worried. You were out for eighteen hours."
Natasha tried to sit up, pain flaring in her ribs.
"Clint? Where's Clint? And Kingo?"
"Barton's in the next room," Fury said. "Broken arm, concussion, but he'll recover. Kingo… it's complicated."
Fury pulled a chair closer. "Tell me everything. From the start."
Natasha closed her eyes, piecing it together. "We reached the warehouse. Found bodies—guards, workers. Looked like natural deaths, but they weren't. Then we found Kingo…"
"He was fighting," Coulson prompted.
"Yeah. With a thing. It controlled blood, turned it into weapons, shields. Our gear was useless."
Fury leaned in. "Describe it."
"Tall, curly black hair, red eyes. Aristocratic face. He spoke like he knew Kingo forever. Said a group imprisoned him, and they'd pay."
"What else?" Coulson asked.
"He called himself a predator, us prey. Said he's immortal."
Fury and Coulson listened intently.
"Go on," Fury said.
"We tried to stop him. Clint shot arrows, I used tranquilizers, then live rounds. Nothing worked. He caught arrows midair, bullets didn't faze him. Only the taser hurt him, briefly."
Natasha touched her bandaged thigh. "He stabbed me with a blood spear. I remember pain, then those black-ops showed up. It's foggy—carnage fragments, hard to separate reality from delirium."
Fury and Coulson exchanged a graver look.
"What?" Natasha frowned. "They were pros. Coordinated, with modern weapons, silver bullets. Someone knew what they were facing."
"Exactly," Fury said darkly. "That's what worries me. Ten operatives in top-tier gear appeared from nowhere. No comms, no traceable transport."
Coulson opened his folder. "We examined the bodies. No IDs, no tattoos, no scars to trace. Even their dental work was untraceable."
"Ghosts," Natasha whispered.
"Worse," Fury said. "Ghosts leave traces. These didn't. And their weapons…"
"What about them?"
"Silver bullets with an unknown metal alloy. Our labs can't identify it."
Natasha forced herself upright, ignoring the pain. "Someone knew about this thing. Knew regular bullets wouldn't work. Crafted special ammo and sent a squad."
"Exactly," Coulson said. "But who? CIA denies involvement. Military too. They're not ours."
Fury stepped closer. "What happened after they arrived?"
Natasha closed her eyes. "They stormed in, fired on the creature. The bullets slowed its regeneration, caused pain. They had some chemical in them. But it wasn't enough."
She paused. "He killed them. All of them. Transformed into something worse—bigger, stronger, hands like blades. It wasn't a fight; it was a massacre."
"Then?" Coulson pressed gently.
"Then fog. He came for me, grabbed my shoulder. I felt my strength drain. Then… nothing."
Fury walked to the window. "After you blacked out, it got weirder. The Quinjet pilot, on approach, saw it all through thermal."
"What did he see?"
"A feast," Coulson said. "Not normal. The creature didn't just kill—it drank their blood. Completely drained them."
Natasha shook her head, incredulous. "All of them?"
"Seven of ten, fully exsanguinated," Coulson said. "The rest died from trauma, but still lost critical blood."
Fury turned. "Kingo kept fighting, even after that. The pilot saw energy flashes for five more minutes. But he was weakening."
"Where is he now?"
"Unknown," Fury said grimly. "The pilot saw Kingo's last strike. He fell, didn't get up. The creature leaned over him, then it was over."
"And?"
"Kingo's thermal signature faded—not like death, differently. Like all his heat was drained. Maybe exsanguinated. But no body."
Coulson added, "The Quinjet landed five minutes later with a local strike team. They found only corpses and you two, unconscious. No creature, no Kingo."
"He just left us?" Natasha whispered.
"Yes."
Her chest ached. "So Kingo's dead?"
"We don't know," Coulson said honestly. "No body. Maybe the creature took him. Why? No clue."
Fury broke the silence. "We've got two problems. One: a creature that drinks superhuman blood and gets stronger. We know vampires, but this is worse. Silver doesn't stop it. Sunlight probably won't either. Two: an unknown group that knows more about paranormal threats than we do."
"They could be allies," Natasha suggested.
"Or enemies," Coulson countered. "Too many unknowns. Who are they? How do they know about creatures like this? Why not contact us?"