Night fell rapidly, casting long, jagged shadows over the industrial outskirts of New York. A heavy-duty garbage truck rumbled slowly through the fortified gates of the Fraternity's headquarters—a textile mill that, from the outside, bore a striking resemblance to a grim, windowless medieval fortress.
A few minutes later, the hydraulic lift of the truck groaned, dumping a heavy, limp object onto the concrete floor of the loading bay.
It was the body of the Butcher.
"Fuck!"
"How is this possible?"
The Exterminator, the Apothecary, and Fox—along with the newly minted assassin, Wesley Gibson—stood in a tense, grim semi-circle. They stared down at the Butcher's corpse. The damage was extensive: a shattered kneecap, a gaping hole in his chest, and a clinical, perfectly centered entry wound right between his eyebrows.
'Cross is really losing his mind,' Wesley thought, a cold shiver racing down his spine. But beneath the fear, his resolve hardened; he wanted to be the one to put a bullet in Cross's head more than ever.
Clearly, Wesley assumed the Butcher had fallen to their rogue legendary assassin.
However, one of the men working the disposal line hesitated. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, stiff card, handing it to the emotionless figure standing in the shadows—Sloan, the Director of the Fraternity.
Sloan took it without a word. Fox, the Exterminator, and the Apothecary leaned in to inspect it. The card was a deep, obsidian black, identical in size to a standard business card but far heavier.
Printed on it in stark, silver lettering were the words: 『NOTIFICATION OF SIN』
"..."
"This is..."
"The Texas Sin Hunter?"
"What Sin Hunter?" Wesley asked, looking between them with a mixture of confusion and ignorance.
Fox glanced at the young man and offered a clipped, professional summary: "A freelance operative who's been making a hell of a name for himself in the Texas underworld over the last two years. Code name: Peerless. The police call him the Sin Hunter because he only targets criminals, and he has a signature habit of leaving these cards behind. Real name: unknown. Age: unknown. Gender: unknown. Apparently, this 'Peerless' made a move right here in New York just a few days ago."
She directed the last sentence at Sloan, her eyes narrowing. Why would a Texas vigilante suddenly set his sights on the Butcher?
"What was the Butcher's objective today?" Fox demanded, her voice sharp as a blade.
A nearby assassin glanced at Sloan before answering. "He went out to execute the Mandate."
Fox immediately turned her gaze back to the Director. Sloan merely raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable.
Ten minutes later, Fox held a file in her hands. It belonged to Locke Broughton.
"Him."
Fox scanned the data: the impeccable grades, the recent transfer, the photo of a young man in a tailored blazer who looked mature for his years but was undeniably sixteen. Then she looked at the fragment of woven cloth with Locke's name on it, and the specialized decryption manual beside it. She found the "point of interest" almost instantly. "You think he's the Peerless assassin?"
"What?" The Exterminator barked a short, mocking laugh. "Fox, look at him. He's sixteen. Peerless appeared in Texas two years ago. If this kid is the killer, that means he started his career at fourteen? That's absurd."
Fox shot him a look, then reconsidered. The math didn't quite add up.
"Besides," the Exterminator continued, "the Butcher's body was found near the New Jersey water plant. I checked Locke Broughton's cell signal. He hasn't left the city limits of New York all day."
"Then..."
"I don't know."
Sloan's face was a map of deep, weathered wrinkles, his mood souring by the second. The trouble with Cross was already a massive drain on their resources, and now a ghost from Texas had appeared out of nowhere? What was this—did people think the Fraternity was a stepping stone to build their reputation in New York?
Suddenly, a phone rang. One of the "interns"—the low-level lackeys Sloan exploited for free labor under the guise of training—spoke rapidly into the receiver. "Director, Captain George Stacy of the NYPD and Captain Corlen of the Jersey City Police are at the gate. They're demanding to see you."
Sloan looked at Fox, who was still gripping Locke's file. "The Mandate stands. Take Wesley. Carry out the judgment."
Fox nodded curtly. The group dispersed into the shadows of the mill.
A moment later, Sloan's withered face stretched into a practiced, hospitable smile. He stood to greet the incoming officers. George Stacy and Captain Corlen—a burly, broad-shouldered man with the unmistakable air of a Texas cowboy—entered the room.
The NYPD was the largest municipal police force in the US, and its influence was vast. While the FBI had jurisdiction across the country, in New York City, they were often treated as secondary. If the Feds wanted a case, they didn't just take it; they usually had to wait for the NYPD to decide if they were willing to share.
The reason for the captains' visit was simple: overlapping evidence.
Yesterday, the identity of the "flesh remains" that had crushed Locke's car had been confirmed. The man was an employee of this textile mill. This afternoon, the body of a taxi driver had been recovered in New Jersey—and he, too, was on the mill's payroll.
Corlen, having moved from Texas to Jersey City, had maintained a close friendship with George. When he mentioned the taxi driver's death, George's instincts had flared. Two employees of the same obscure textile mill dying violently in two days? That wasn't a coincidence; it was a pattern.
George had originally planned to come tomorrow, but he had promised Gwen he would drive her to her interview at Oscorp in the morning. Since Corlen was already in town, they decided to shake the tree tonight.
Danger? George wasn't worried. No one was suicidal enough to engage in a direct, open confrontation with the NYPD on their own turf.
...
Outside the textile mill.
Locke crouched on a distant rooftop, cradling a customized Super Magnum sniper rifle. He stared through the high-powered scope at the open gates of the Fraternity's fortress. A single, familiar patrol car was parked near the entrance.
"I was just getting ready to go 'Dynasty Warriors' on this place, and my future father-in-law shows up?"
"Bah!"
"Does Helen know George is still out this late wandering around?"
Locke felt a wave of frustration. Seconds ago, he'd had a mill employee in his crosshairs, intending to use a "wounded bait" tactic to draw out more targets. But just as he was about to squeeze the trigger, the patrol car had swerved into view with stylish authority.
He checked the thermal signature. Yep. George Stacy.
Locke flicked the safety back on, his finger hovering near the trigger guard. He didn't want a stray shot—or a panicked reaction from the assassins—to end George's life tonight.
But something was bothering him. As he scanned the building with his thermal binoculars, he realized the place was strangely empty. Aside from a dozen or so guards and the people in the office, the main force of the Fraternity seemed to be missing.
He lowered the binoculars, a realization dawning on him.
Wait... tomorrow is...
Saturday?