Chapter 26: Arrival of the Butcher

The embers of the destroyed shipment hub had barely cooled when the news of Anton Vasiliev's arrival swept through the underworld. The Russian hitman had landed in New York, and the city's criminal circles held their breath. Those who knew his work whispered his nickname with dread—The Butcher of St. Petersburg.

Alexander Reid stood on his penthouse balcony, his gaze fixed on the city below. He had felt the shift. The atmosphere was different. The tension that had been simmering now boiled over into fear. Vasiliev's name carried weight—the kind that made men reconsider their loyalty to Fisk, or pray they would not be called upon to stand in his way.

The wind was cool against his skin, but it did nothing to ease the heat of battle still coursing through his veins. His muscles ached from the night before, but he welcomed the pain. It was a reminder—a warning—that this war was far from over. He traced the skyline with his eyes, mentally marking the territories he had disrupted. Each point was a wound in Fisk's empire, but now the Kingpin had called for a surgeon who cut with cruelty.

Alexander had spent the night scouting, gathering what little information he could. Vasiliev was not subtle. His first message to the city had come in the form of a mutilated body—one of Fisk's low-level dealers who had dared to talk to the police. The corpse had been left hanging from a bridge, gutted like an animal, his entrails splayed out as if to mock the very concept of defiance. It was a warning to everyone: Vasiliev was here, and there would be no mercy.

Even the most hardened criminals whispered his name with unease. Stories of his brutality stretched from Moscow to Berlin. Men spoke of his efficiency, his precision, but it was his cruelty that defined him. Victims were not simply killed; they were made into examples. His signature was fear.

Alexander knew his time was running short. Vasiliev was not like Bullseye, who thrived on precision and flair. The Butcher was a force of brutality. He crushed those in his way, and he had the resources of Fisk behind him. He would not play games. He would burn everything to the ground to flush his target out.

That evening, Alexander prepared for what he knew was coming. He reinforced his penthouse's defenses once more. The system had made him stronger, faster, but he needed to be smarter. He set traps—tripwires at the entrances, silent alarms linked to his phone, and hidden blades within arm's reach in every room. The windows were double-checked, steel reinforcements hidden beneath the elegant glass. Cameras covered every angle—his sanctuary had become a fortress.

He spent an hour in front of his weapons, inspecting each one like a craftsman. His sidearm was loaded with armor-piercing rounds. His knives were polished, their edges gleaming under the dim light. He strapped a tactical vest over his chest, securing spare ammunition and a small combat axe—a weapon he had grown to favor for its brutality in close quarters.

As night fell, he received a message from Marcus.

"Vasiliev's hunting. He asked about you. He knows you're the one hitting Fisk."

Alexander read the message, his jaw tightening. He felt a surge of adrenaline—not fear, but anticipation. He welcomed the challenge, but he knew this was different. This was not just survival. This was war.

He replied with a simple message: "Let him come."

Marcus responded within seconds. "Careful, kid. This one's not like the rest."

Alexander placed his phone down and leaned back in his chair. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, feeling the weight of the battles behind him and the one to come. He thought of Bullseye, of the assassins, of the blood staining his hands. Each confrontation had pushed him closer to the edge—closer to becoming something more than human, something forged in violence.

He sat in the dark, his weapons within reach, his body ready. His breathing slowed, his senses heightening. The system pulsed faintly in his mind, reminding him of his growth. He had leveled up—in strength, in speed, but also in resolve.

The city outside was alive with danger, but Alexander Reid had become part of that darkness. He was ready to face the Butcher.

And he would not break.

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