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The bombing had shaken the United States. More than fifty people were injured, and thirteen lost their lives. Despite frantic investigations, no one could find the explosives responsible for the carnage.
The appearance of the Mandarin on television sent a fresh wave of panic through the country. His message was chilling, his presence unmistakable. The government scrambled for a response, and the public's anxiety soared.
In this atmosphere of fear, Colonel James Rhodes—War Machine—was hailed as the nation's hero who will save them all. With the government desperate for a symbol of strength, Rhodes stepped forward, accepting the mission to hunt down the Ten Rings and eliminate the threat. The media followed his every move, eager for a hero to reassure the public.
John watched the news, his brow furrowed. "Is this the explanation you're giving me?" he muttered, incredulous. The so-called explanation was nothing but chaos. Just after the new year, the Ten Rings had returned to spread terror once again.
"Mandarin, huh?" John stared at the video. Was this yet another puppet, propped up by hidden powers? Or was there something more?
He shook his head. "Let it be. Americans have their own luck. If things get out of hand, Tony will handle it." John had no intention of getting involved. This was not a supernatural crisis, after all.
But just because he chose not to care did not mean the problem would not come knocking at his door.
Tony Stark was also glued to the news. When he saw his old friend Rhodes take action, Tony felt reassured. No one knew the War Machine's true strength better than Tony himself. He had designed the armor, and after the military's modifications, it had become a true instrument of war.
Tony's eyes narrowed as he watched footage of the explosion—an explosion with no trace of explosives. "Jarvis," he said quietly.
"I know, sir," Jarvis replied, his voice as calm as ever.
Tony flexed his fingers, stretching his arms as he prepared for a long night. "Bring up all surveillance footage from the incident."
It was an odd coincidence. No explosives, yet a devastating blast. It reminded Tony of another incident—one that had nearly killed him. The similarities were too great to ignore.
"Mandarin?" Tony wondered aloud. Could the Mandarin have been behind his own attack as well?
He trusted Rhodes, but he could not sit idle. Jarvis, with his unmatched intelligence-gathering abilities, began scouring the internet for clues. Tony paused his armor upgrades, focusing entirely on the investigation.
*****
Two months passed. Christmas had come and gone, leaving the city blanketed in snow. The holidays were over, but evil did not rest in Hell's Kitchen.
Matt Murdock—Daredevil—found himself facing a new competitor. This was not a rival, but a challenge to everything Matt believed in. The man in question was not content with justice; he wanted blood.
A blue-suited figure prowled the streets, and wherever he went, death followed. The people of Hell's Kitchen whispered a new warning: "Do no evil in Hell's Kitchen. The Night Ghost is always watching from the shadows."
Three bodies had been found in an alleyway over Christmas. Ever since Daredevil and the Night Ghost had crossed paths at the docks, corpses had begun to appear with alarming regularity. The police increased their patrols, but it was useless. The Night Ghost was a phantom, slipping in and out of the shadows, unseen and unstoppable.
Only one person seemed able to track him—Matt himself.
Standing on a rooftop, Matt let the city's sounds wash over him. He filtered out the noise, searching for the telltale signs of violence, for the presence of the Night Ghost.
"You're destroying Hell's Kitchen," Matt whispered to the night.
Suddenly, a terrified scream echoed through the alleys. "No, I was wrong! Someone help me! It's the Night Ghost!"
The cry ended abruptly. A throwing knife found its mark, silencing a robber who had just been released from prison and already returned to crime.
Behind the blue figure, a couple clung to their son, their faces pale with fear.
"The evildoer has been executed," the masked man intoned. He drew a circle on his forehead. "You are safe now."
The husband swallowed hard. "You… you're the Night Ghost?"
"Yes, you guessed right," came the reply.
The Night Ghost pulled his knife free and wiped the blood on the dead man's clothes. The husband whispered to his wife, "Let's go, quickly." She nodded, her fear undiminished.
When they had gone, a new voice cut through the night.
"You're not here for justice," Matt said softly. "You're here because you enjoy the killing."
Dax looked up, recognizing the familiar silhouette. "Daredevil," he said, slipping his knife back onto his belt. "I just saved a family."
"Hell's Kitchen is falling apart because of you," Matt replied, his voice tight with anger. "That family will never feel safe again—only more afraid."
"Why?" Dax was genuinely confused. "I saved them. They should be grateful. I am a hero!"
"No," Matt said, shaking his head. "You're a murderer."
Dax's eyes flashed with rage. "You're wrong. I am a hero."
Matt vaulted down from the rooftop, landing in front of Dax. "You've killed too many."
"They were all criminals!" Dax insisted.
The two men faced each other, tension crackling between them. Dax's hand hovered over his throwing knives. "You'd better get out of my way, Daredevil."
"This ends here, Night Ghost. No more killing." Matt said firmly.
He drew his billy club, twisting it apart to reveal two short sticks. He was ready for a fight.
Dax's killing intent was palpable, prickling Matt's skin like icy needles. Matt knew the man before him was no hero—just a madman who took justice into his own hands.
A knife flashed from Dax's fingers, slicing through the air toward Matt. The battle began.
Matt's heightened senses allowed him to dodge the first knife, but Dax was relentless. He pressed the attack, knives flying in rapid succession. Matt weaved and ducked, but Dax closed in, wielding his blades with deadly precision.
In the cold night, the gleam of steel cut through the falling snow. Matt struck Dax's shoulder with both sticks, the blows sharp and punishing. Any ordinary man would have had his bones broken, but Dax wore the most advanced body armor Taran Industries could provide. He barely flinched, countering with a slash that opened a cut on Matt's arm.
Matt staggered back, and Dax seized the opening. More knives flew, and Matt struggled to dodge, but one found its mark.
Realizing Matt's agility, Dax switched tactics. He pulled out five rubber balls from his belt and hurled them with force. The balls ricocheted off the walls, striking Matt and knocking the wind out of him. These were not toys—they were specially made, strong enough to shatter bricks.
Dax saw Matt's weakness and pressed the advantage, using the balls to block his retreat. Matt was battered, bruised, and running out of options.
Dax readied another knife, but just as he was about to throw, the sound of police sirens pierced the night.
The family had called the police.
Dax glared at Matt, then leapt up the fire escape and vanished into the darkness.
Matt did not feel like a victor. He had been attacked more than a dozen times, his body aching from bruises and cuts. Gritting his teeth, he slipped away before the police arrived.
The officers found the body in the alley. One of them gasped. "Bryce?"
"You know him?" the police chief asked.
The old cop nodded. "He was in for robbery. Just got out today."
"Looks like he went right back to his old ways," the chief said grimly. "This is the third time this month. That Night Ghost always finds the criminal."
"It stops crime, but it makes us look bad," the chief muttered, frustration in his voice.
The old cop frowned. "According to the caller, Bryce was killed by the Night Ghost not long after he showed up. Almost as if he knew Bryce would commit a crime."
The chief's eyes narrowed. "How could that be? Unless the Night Ghost is following these guys, waiting for them to slip up. Or… maybe he has access to police records."
Either there was a leak in the department, or the Night Ghost was an insider.
It was a chilling thought.
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