Michael moved through the darkened corridors of the Crimson Talons' secondary base, his footsteps echoing off the cracked concrete and scorched steel. The walls bore signs of recent modifications—hidden compartments, hastily rerouted wiring, and concealed ducts used to smuggle both people and product. But most of them were either already emptied or destroyed.
He scanned the rooms methodically. Weapon caches? Cleared. Data servers? Fried. Labs? Bare. Not a single surviving hard drive or sample. Whoever was running this operation had either cleaned house... or known he was coming.
He entered a locked chamber at the very end of the hallway. A reinforced steel vault door had been partially melted down. Inside, he found a small lab—stained vials, torn notes, a few cracked tablets. But it was useless. The data was corrupted or self-wiped. There was nothing left to trace, no hint of a deeper thread.
"Tch," he clicked his tongue, clearly irritated. "Clever rats. They knew when to scatter."
With a lazy flick of his fingers, he summoned a projection screen from his wristband, dialing in a secure comm frequency.
Within moments, the screen flickered to life. Madame Hydra appeared, seated on a throne-like chair within Fisk Tower's command room. She was sipping wine, her expression calm, smug even—until she saw his eyes. Then she straightened instantly, the glass placed aside without hesitation.
"My lord," she said quickly, bowing her head slightly.
Michael's voice was cool, unimpressed. "The Brooklyn base was wiped before I arrived. Traps and scraps. Nothing useful."
Madame Hydra's lips tightened. "I suspected they might pull back once word got out about what happened in Manhattan. I'll dispatch my cleaners to retrieve any remaining data fragments."
Michael nodded, but his tone turned sharper. "You said you were 'trying' to root them out. Try harder."
She dipped her head again. "Understood."
He ended the call with a gesture, the projection fading out. His silver eyes scanned the scorched room one final time.
"No leads. No tech. No prey."
He stepped back into the hallway, already preparing to head to the next marked location.
"Fine," he muttered to himself, the wind curling around him as energy gathered at his feet. "Then I'll find whoever's still hiding… and I'll make them tell me everything."
With a flicker of light, he vanished—off to the next hunt.
Michael soared above the city like a streak of silver fire, the wind parting around him as he raced toward the fourth Crimson Talons base—a supposed tech lab buried beneath an old train yard in Queens.
By the time he arrived, the scent of scorched metal and ozone lingered in the air. The entrance had been blasted open, debris still warm. Someone had already come through, and violently. He dropped into the wreckage, scanning the surroundings.
Twisted servers. Smashed vials. No bodies—just bloodstains and shell casings.
"Too clean for a gang fight," he muttered, eyes narrowing. "Someone professional did this."
He didn't linger. As his boots lifted from the floor, he tapped the next location on his wrist display: the fifth base—an old warehouse by the East River, reportedly converted into a distribution center.
When he arrived minutes later, it was more of the same.
Gutted.
Vans missing. Supplies gone. The gang's signature crimson graffiti had been slashed out in black paint—an intentional erasure. Michael walked across the broken concrete, boots crunching over broken injectors of Vyre Dust and shrapnel from detonated crates.
"Whoever's doing this," he growled, "isn't just fleeing. They're cleaning up everything. Covering tracks."
Still calm but increasingly annoyed, Michael turned toward the sixth and final base listed from the Crimson Talon server—a subterranean facility beneath a nightclub in the Bronx. It had once served as a weapons lab and holding site for rival gang members.
He landed at the edge of the roof, looking down at the nightclub entrance. The music was silent. The club had been closed for weeks—but the gang was supposed to still be using the lower levels.
He broke through the security hatch with a flick of his aura-laced hand.
Darkness greeted him.
He descended through narrow stairwells until he reached the lowest level... and again, nothing.
Rooms abandoned. Computers smashed. Lab tables stripped. A single message was scrawled on a wall in what looked like dried blood:
"We were warned."
Michael stared at it in silence, then turned away. He called Madame Hydra again.
She answered immediately, tension in her posture now.
"Three more bases," he said coldly. "All cleared out. Someone is one step ahead of me, and I don't like it."
She bowed her head. "This level of coordination... It's not the gang. Someone else is directing them."
"I know," he replied, eyes glowing faintly. "And I'm going to find out who."
The call ended. The hunt would continue.
And Michael—no longer merely curious—was now angry.
"You're here, finally."
Just as Michael was about to leave suddenly one of the flickering TVs in the abandoned base flickered, the screen lit up on its own. A masked face appeared, familiar and smug.
"Taskmaster," Michael said coldly, eyes narrowing. "So it was you all along."
He took a seat in the lone surviving chair, arms resting on the sides as the TV displayed Taskmaster in real-time. The mercenary reclined casually, his iconic metal mask glinting under dim light.
"Why do you look so exhausted?" Taskmaster asked mockingly. "You seem worn down."
"Not tired," Michael replied, voice low and sharp. "Just annoyed. You've wasted a lot of my time. But now that you're in front of me, I'm more than just annoyed. I'm cursed with clarity."
"What made you come after me?" Michael's gaze sharpened. His Aura flickered around him like dawn's light—subtle, dangerous."you better have a good reason or you wish you were never born"
"That little speech of yours doesn't scare me," Taskmaster scoffed.
"Say that in front of me next time," Michael chuckled mockingly as he added. "Maybe then I will believe you."
Taskmaster leaned forward on screen, the light shifting to reveal more of his silhouette. "Test me, then. The address is just outside New Jersey—an old warehouse, long abandoned. If you're bold enough, come find me. I'll be waiting."
The screen went black.
Michael stood slowly, his eyes glowing faintly as a smirk crossed his face.
"Guess I just found my new pet," he muttered. The air around him shimmered as his Aura responded to his rising excitement.
He turned toward the exit. His destination: the warehouse Taskmaster mentioned. New Jersey.
*******
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