Massacre

It was truly ironic.

Salvatore was a vampire, but when he felt an appetite for his own kind, he restrained that impulse and actively sought his own death, hoping to avoid becoming someone he was not.

Some humans, however, revered the vampires' strength and long lifespans. They eagerly pursued the chance to become vampires, even using their status as humans to serve them, all for the opportunity to receive the First Embrace—even if it meant giving up the ability to walk in sunlight and having to feed on their former kind.

For example, Salvatore's plane ticket had been provided by a vampire worshipper. There was no need to make any conspicuous arrangements that might alert the ever-vigilant S.H.I.E.L.D. Instead, many unrelated humans had been given orders to buy several tickets on every flight. Once the Parker couple boarded, the ticket for their flight would be handed over to Salvatore. There was an especially apt, if somewhat old-fashioned, term for people like them: the Ha-gui tribe.

Salvatore's unusual behavior caught the attention of the flight attendants. A middle-aged stewardess, who had been a beauty when she started the job thirty years ago, came over to ask, "Sir, is there anything you need?"

The former vampire smiled. With his handsome features, the smile was quite charming, and the stewardess couldn't help feeling a flutter of attraction, despite herself. But Salvatore's words sent a chill through her: "I need to kill two people, then kill myself."

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents immediately tensed. They would only act if Salvatore targeted the people they were protecting or threatened to involve them. Otherwise, they would watch from the sidelines like any other bystanders.

A mission was a mission. It always came first.

Mixing personal feelings into a mission, or meddling in matters beyond its scope, was a major taboo for agents. It was a lesson countless predecessors had learned through blood and tears. Even if they survived the mission, they would face disciplinary action and be permanently transferred to desk duty. That would mean not only having their pay cut in half, but also losing the chance to skim extra money from the mission budget through cooked-up expenses. Then car loans, mortgages, and other problems would come rushing in.

The Parker couple weren't meddlesome do-gooders, either. Though they hadn't served as agents for many years, they still had the discipline not to rush in and cause unnecessary complications.

Before the agents could move, an air marshal disguised as an ordinary passenger stepped forward. He pointed a Taser at Salvatore and said, "Sir, stay in your seat and raise your hands."

But Salvatore had no intention of doing as the air marshal said. He smiled again, and his body began to change.

Amid a cloud of scalding steam, Salvatore transformed from a human into a monster. A humanoid bat, mostly dark red with patches of black, appeared in his place. The air's violent expansion produced a booming blast. The plane, which had been flying smoothly, lurched several times, and alarms rang out.

The passengers in the nearby seats had no time to escape before the pressurized steam scalded and cooked them. The stewardess and the air marshal were blown backward, crashing into the cabin walls or seats. Flammable materials began to catch fire.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents sprang into action, pulling the Parker couple and the other passengers who could still move on their own out of their seats and urging them to run away from Salvatore. Then they drew their weapons and aimed at the nightmare-like humanoid bat as it slowly rose to its feet.

But how could weapons meant to subdue humans, and incapable of even piercing the plane's cabin walls, inflict any meaningful damage on Salvatore? All the agents could do was watch as the monster, over two meters tall, slowly stood up and lumbered toward them through a hail of bullets, as if the shots striking him were nothing more than raindrops.

Salvatore casually slapped away the weapon in one S.H.I.E.L.D. agent's hands, breaking the agent's arm along with it. Before the agent could even scream from the pain, Salvatore seized him by the throat and lifted him to his mouth. A pair of massive fangs sank into the agent's neck.

A moment later, Salvatore tossed the agent's desiccated corpse to the floor and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth. In a deeply regretful tone, he said, "You used to be such delicious food. Now you taste like water from a rusty pipe."

Then Salvatore began his bloody slaughter. Unarmed humans were no match for a vampire, let alone a powerful pure-blood noble—especially one further enhanced by an injection of Amazon Cells.

For a time, terrified screams filled the cabin. A few passengers were so overwhelmed that they forgot their fear and swung whatever they could find at Salvatore, attacking him in vain before meeting their deaths.

There wasn't much room on a plane. Even if the remaining passengers ran for their lives, where could they hide? Passengers couldn't parachute from a commercial airliner. There weren't enough parachutes, and even if they had brought their own, the moment they opened the doors and jumped, the engines would suck them in and shred them.

Even an emergency landing would take half an hour, since the nearest airport was that far from the flight path—never mind contacting ground control and handling everything else.

In the mechanical laboratory at Osborn Industries, which belonged exclusively to Wei Xiuming, he set down his pencil while sketching a design and took a phone from his pocket. The caller ID showed an unknown number.

His phone was specially made. It could stop bullets, and his number was confidential. Unless someone knew the correct way to call it, even the top phone-scam capital of the world would never get through.

Only a handful of people knew how to contact him. They included Doom, whose full name was unknown, Norman Osborn, the heads of the various laboratories at Osborn Group, and Nick Fury.

When the call connected, a gentle male voice came from the other end. "Is this Mr. Clark Kent? My name is Phil Coulson, and I'm with S.H.I.E.L.D. Nick Fury gave me your number. He said you'd believe me once I identified myself. May I ask if you're free right now?"

Glancing at the newly designed Knight System suit, Wei Xiuming said, "Of course. I've got plenty of time. He asked you to call me—what's this about?"

"Yes, but Fury didn't tell me the specifics. They're above my clearance level." Coulson paused, then continued, "From what Fury authorized me to disclose, it has to do with the failure of one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s missions. He asked me to invite you somewhere. He said it's related to something you warned him about."

"I understand. Where should we meet?" Wei Xiuming picked up the gas mask beside him, stood, threw on his lab coat, and headed out.

"The vehicle is parked in section B-2 of the parking lot at Osborn Industries. It's very conspicuous. You'll see it as soon as you get there."