Chapter 27: The Butcher’s Trail

Dawn broke over New York City, but for Alexander Reid, there was no comfort in the rising sun. His night had been restless, his thoughts consumed by the looming presence of Anton Vasiliev. The Butcher was here, and the city seemed to know it. The air itself felt heavier—the kind of tension that preceded a storm. Even the early commuters moved differently, heads down, eyes darting. The underworld whispered his name with caution. This was not fear of Fisk—this was fear of something worse.

Alexander moved through his morning routine with precision, each action mechanical but necessary. He reinforced his shoulder bandages, checked his weapons, and monitored his security systems. Every window, every door, every camera—all systems were green. Yet he knew that none of it would matter if Vasiliev wanted him dead. The Russian was a different breed—brutality wrapped in precision.

As he holstered his knife and adjusted his vest, his eyes locked onto his reflection. The face staring back at him was no longer the man who had arrived in this world. There was steel in his gaze, lines of wear that had not been there before. He was evolving, becoming what he needed to survive. He had to. There was no turning back.

Marcus called shortly after sunrise. His voice was low and sharp.

"He's asking for you in every corner of the city," Marcus said. "He's not hiding. He wants you to know he's looking."

Alexander gripped his phone tighter. Vasiliev was playing his own game. He wasn't lurking in the shadows; he was dragging Alexander into the open. It was psychological warfare—forcing him to move, to react.

"Any leads on his base?" Alexander asked.

"Word is he's operating out of an abandoned factory in Queens. But I can't confirm it. Might be a trap."

Alexander paced to his window, staring out over the city. He knew it was a risk, but he also knew he couldn't sit idle. He needed to see his enemy up close. He needed to understand the man who had come to kill him.

Night fell once more as Alexander made his way to Queens. The factory stood like a decaying relic, its rusted walls covered in graffiti, its windows shattered. The silence around it was unnatural. No vagrants, no gangs. Just stillness. The kind of stillness that felt deliberate—like an invitation.

He entered cautiously, his steps silent, his senses heightened. The system fed him subtle boosts to his perception, his heartbeat steady despite the tension. Each creak of the floor beneath his boots was calculated, his breathing measured. He found traces of activity—scuffed footprints, cigarette butts, fresh marks on the floor from dragged crates. Vasiliev had been here. Recently.

The deeper he ventured, the colder it became. The air was heavy with dampness and something else—the faint metallic scent of blood. He followed it into a dimly lit room. In the center stood a bloodstained chair, its surface marred by rust and dark splotches. Shackles hung from its arms, the metal smeared with dried blood. Torture. Interrogation. The Butcher's work. Alexander traced the marks with his fingers. Whoever had sat there had not left whole—if they had left at all.

A message was scrawled on the cracked wall in red—whether it was paint or blood, Alexander could not tell:

"Reid. Soon."

The letters were uneven, carved with intention. A signature in violence.

Alexander exhaled slowly. Vasiliev was not just hunting him—he was savoring it. This was a game to him. The Russian wanted Alexander to feel the weight of his approach. To dread it.

But fear was not something Alexander allowed himself to feel anymore. He let the rage simmer beneath his calm exterior. He would not be cornered. He would fight—on his terms.

He left the factory, his mind racing but his resolve unshaken. This was more than a battle for survival. This was a test of will. And Alexander was ready to face the Butcher on his own terms.

The hunt had begun.

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