Super Killer

One hour ago, Hydra base, location classified.

Crimson ripples spread like a tidal wave, violently battering the white brick walls and one-way glass of the sealed room. The ultra-reinforced glass, strong enough to withstand a rocket-propelled grenade, hummed faintly under the intense impact, even developing a shallow crack.

Inside the room, a girl in white knelt weakly on one knee, her long red hair tumbling messily down. She gasped harshly and with difficulty, traces of blood seeping from her mouth and nose, her delicate face pale as a sheet of printer paper.

Outside the room, an elderly man in a white lab coat adjusted his glasses and carefully shuffled from the console to the side of his stern-faced superior. Baron Wolfgang von Strucker stood ramrod straight, his expression grim as he stared at the girl slumped on the floor behind the one-way glass, displeasure clearly written on his face.

"Failed?" he asked, glancing sidelong at the old man in charge.

"No, not entirely, sir," the old man replied, frowning. "But things have taken an unexpected turn."

"How so?"

"We hoped to amplify the psychic sensitivity she displayed earlier and use it to lock onto the 'Black Knight's' location." The old man looked at the girl behind the glass, who was now curling into a tight ball as if trying to warm herself. "Instead, it seems her ability resonated with his instead."

Strucker stared coldly at him.

"Resonated?"

"Yes," the old man affirmed. "I believe we have reason to think he might be a superhuman of a similar type to her, and their similar abilities created a mutual resonance. But from what we can tell, his control over his own power far surpasses hers. The moment they made contact, he pushed her out. A shame—if it had lasted just a little longer, we might have gotten his identity."

"So in the end, we got nothing?" Strucker asked icily.

"No, that's not it," the old man said hastily. "We're still short of his true identity, but we did manage to pinpoint his current location! If we act quickly."

Strucker snorted, casting one last look at the girl in the isolation room.

"Lock her back in her cell. Starting tomorrow, increase the dosage and training intensity. I need her to speed up."

With that, Strucker turned and strode out, speaking to his deputy following behind. "Also, notify Pierce. Tell him what we know. He'll take it from here."

"Yes, sir."

***

One hour later, now.

Ballroom venue, rooftop of the building directly opposite.

The stairwell door was kicked open from inside, and a burly, muscular man ducked low as he stepped onto the roof. He wore a black tactical vest and a mask, with a large black bag slung over his right shoulder. His left arm was a silver-white metal cybernetic prosthetic, a red star painted on the shoulder.

The Winter Soldier—Hydra's ace, a super-soldier, a brainwashed top-tier assassin, a killing tool managed by Alexander Pierce.

He crouched at the edge of the rooftop, setting down the bag. From it, he pulled out a launch tube, firing mechanism, infrared night-vision scope, and an 84mm rocket warhead, swiftly and expertly assembling a matte-black rocket launcher.

Kneeling at the rooftop's edge, he hoisted the launcher onto his shoulder, locking onto the ballroom across the street. He held his breath, still as a hunter hidden in the brush, his finger resting on the trigger.

But after a few seconds of waiting, a command came through the earpiece in his right ear.

"Change of plans," the commander on the other end ordered. "Whoever the target is, he's been confirmed to have disappeared from inside. Mission canceled. Withdraw immediately."

Without a second thought, the Winter Soldier released the trigger and began disassembling the launcher to pull back.

He was a blade, a secret weapon for precision assassination. And weapons don't ask questions.

"In a hurry?"

The mechanical low voice came from directly behind him. The Winter Soldier didn't hesitate for a moment—he turned in one fluid motion, a Colt M1911A1 automatic pistol appearing in his palm like magic.

The trigger pulled, the gunshot rang out. A vicious muzzle flash propelled the 11.43mm bullet from the chamber, aimed straight at the head of the man who had spoken.

The bullet's muzzle velocity was roughly 246 meters per second, and the distance between them was no more than five paces. The bullet should have hit its target long before human reflexes could react—that was how it was supposed to be. Yet, bizarrely, the bullet stopped dead less than half a centimeter from the man's face, as if someone had hit pause and frozen it at that frame.

Only then did the Winter Soldier get a clear look at his opponent—a suit of black, modern industrial-style armor, with white stripes on the limbs and chest. The pistol round he'd fired hung eerily still before the V-shaped visor of the helmet, refusing to move an inch.

The Winter Soldier. So Hydra had finally played this card. But Michael still hadn't figured out how they knew to send the Winter Soldier after him. He was fairly certain he hadn't slipped up in any of his actions so far.

No matter. He'd find out soon enough.

Michael twitched his finger in a gesture like "go," and the suspended bullet seemed to regain its momentum in an instant—only in reverse. The Winter Soldier dodged by instinct, the spinning bullet whizzing past him along its original trajectory.

The Winter Soldier was just a puppet. Even if Michael caught him, he wouldn't get any useful information. He knew that well, so he had no intention of wasting time.

He raised both palms, firing two pulse cannon blasts in quick succession at the Winter Soldier. The Winter Soldier dodged nimbly, lunged forward, and flicked his right hand, producing a combat knife. He leaped, a silver blade arcing down in a overhead slash.

Michael sidestepped, flipping his left palm to fire another blast. The Winter Soldier tilted his head to avoid it, then reversed the missed slash into an upward stab aimed at the joint of Michael's gauntlet shoulder. Michael reached out to grab it, his fingers less than half a meter from the blade, when the Winter Soldier suddenly changed his move, curving the knife in a strange arc toward the weak joint of Michael's neck armor.

He had to admit, Hydra's ace lived up to its reputation. As a top-tier assassin, the Winter Soldier was flawless—his combat instincts and technique were impeccable. Just these few exchanges showcased his formidable battle prowess.

Too bad the opponent he faced wasn't entirely a fighter.

The cold gleam of the blade stopped dead just millimeters from the armor at Michael's neck. Sparking magical chains, as if shooting from the void itself, brutally clamped onto the Winter Soldier's wrist mid-swing, halting his strike. The force of his cybernetic arm couldn't push the blade even an inch further.

But he reacted fast. In the split second of the bind, he changed tactics again. He let go of the knife, letting it fall, and caught it with his mechanical left hand. Reversing the grip, he slashed out again with the blade, boosted by the prosthetic's power.

Michael raised a palm to block. The Winter Soldier shifted again, thrusting straight for his visor. Michael parried, then grabbed, seizing the Winter Soldier's wrist in a counter-grip. The Winter Soldier strained, his mechanical arm humming faintly, its strength multiplying geometrically—but no matter how hard he pulled, he couldn't break free from Michael's iron-like hold.

Michael clamped the Winter Soldier's arm with his left hand, then shot his right fist from under the man's armpit, a cold metal punch slamming into his jaw, rattling the super-soldier's brain. Michael immediately let go, opening his palm to point at the Winter Soldier's abdomen, firing a low-power point-blank pulse cannon blast. The Winter Soldier, still dazed and staggering back, took the hit and flew like a kite with a cut string, flipping over the edge of the rooftop and plummeting down.