51.Black Phoenix take action

As the drunken troublemakers staggered through a dimly lit alleyway, cursing under their breath about their ruined night, the leader of the group spat onto the ground in frustration.

"Fucking bastard thinks he's better than us," one of them muttered. "Just because he's famous, he thinks he owns the damn place."

"Should've taught those bitches a lesson before he showed up," another growled, clenching his fists.

Just as they turned the corner, they noticed a figure standing at the other end of the alley, barely illuminated by the flickering streetlight.

A woman.

Her silhouette was slender yet poised, standing with an unsettling stillness that sent a strange chill through the group. Her head was slightly tilted, as though she were waiting for them.

One of the men smirked, cracking his knuckles. "Well, well, look what we have here. Guess our luck ain't so bad after all."

The others chuckled, already considering using this encounter as an outlet for their bruised egos.

But then, the woman took a step forward.

The streetlight finally revealed her face—sharp, unreadable, and utterly devoid of fear. Her jet-black outfit blended into the night, but it was the emblem on her chest that froze them in place.

A crimson phoenix.

Black Phoenix.

The blood drained from their faces as recognition dawned. Logan Hamilton's personal operative. A ghost in the underworld. Rumors of her brutality spread through back alleys like whispered nightmares.

"Shit," one of them hissed under his breath, stumbling backward. "It's her."

She didn't say a word. Instead, she took another step forward, slow and deliberate.

"Wait, listen," the leader stammered, his arrogance evaporating in an instant. "We—we didn't know who she was, alright? We were just messing around. No harm done."

Still, she remained silent.

The air grew suffocating.

A blade flashed in the dim light, appearing in her hand as if by magic.

"Wait! We—we're sorry!" another man gasped, his voice trembling.

She finally spoke, her voice low and devoid of emotion. "Too late."

And then, the night swallowed their screams.

The gang of thugs, though terrified, weren't ready to surrender without a fight. The leader, a scarred man with a jagged grin, pulled out a switchblade with shaky hands, trying to mask his fear with bravado.

"She's just one woman," he hissed through gritted teeth. "We outnumber her. If we let her walk over us, we're done for."

The others hesitated, exchanging nervous glances. They had heard the stories—how Black Phoenix left no survivors, how she moved faster than the eye could track. But their leader's words struck a chord. If they didn't fight, they'd be at her mercy.

One of them—desperate and reckless—lunged first.

Big mistake.

In the blink of an eye, she sidestepped him, her movements fluid and almost inhumanly fast. Before he could react, her knee slammed into his ribs with a sickening crack, sending him flying backward into the alley wall. He crumpled to the ground, groaning in agony.

"Shit!" another thug cursed and rushed forward, swinging a broken bottle.

Black Phoenix pivoted, dodging the wild attack with effortless precision. With a flick of her wrist, she twisted his arm, forcing him to drop the bottle with a sharp yelp. In the same motion, she slammed his own fist into his face, breaking his nose with a brutal crunch. Blood sprayed onto the pavement as he staggered back, screaming.

The leader gritted his teeth and charged, slashing his knife in a wide arc.

Too slow.

She ducked beneath the blade, stepping inside his guard before he even realized it. A devastating elbow strike to his sternum sent him reeling. He gasped for air, his lungs refusing to cooperate. Before he could recover, she grabbed his wrist, twisted the knife from his grip, and drove the hilt into his jaw. His head snapped back violently, and he collapsed onto his knees, spitting blood.

One last thug remained, his entire body trembling. He took a shaky step back, then bolted toward the alley exit in sheer panic.

Black Phoenix sighed. "Coward."

Before he could escape, she threw a small dagger. It embedded itself into the wall just inches from his face, stopping him dead in his tracks. His breath hitched.

"Turn around," she ordered, her voice eerily calm.

He did as he was told, hands raised in surrender.

The leader, still coughing up blood, looked up at her with a mix of rage and desperation. "W-what the hell do you want from us?" he gasped.

She crouched to his level, her expression unreadable. "I want you to remember this moment," she said, her voice like a blade against his throat. "Remember how powerless you were. Remember how close you came to death."

His eyes darted around, looking for a way out, but there was none.

"Tell me," she continued, tilting her head slightly, "did you feel powerful when you cornered her in the restroom? When you and your little pack thought you could do whatever you wanted?"

The silence was deafening.

She leaned in closer. "You're nothing but filth. And filth like you…" Her eyes darkened. "Doesn't deserve mercy."

His breath hitched as she lifted her blade, its edge gleaming in the dim light. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable.

But the strike never came.

Instead, she stood up, flicked the blood from her knife, and turned away. "Go," she said, voice laced with disdain. "Crawl back to whatever gutter you came from. If I ever see you near Emma again…" She glanced over her shoulder, eyes cold and merciless. "I won't stop next time."

The men didn't need to be told twice. Scrambling to their feet, they stumbled away, leaving behind their wounded and their pride.

As their retreating footsteps faded into the night, Black Phoenix exhaled, twirling her knife before slipping it back into its sheath.

From the rooftop above, another figure emerged from the shadows—Logan Hamilton. He had been watching the entire time.

"She didn't even need backup," he murmured to himself, a small smirk playing at his lips.

Then, with a final glance at the bloodstained alley, he turned and disappeared into the night.