American Comics : God Of Avengers

A cold wind whispered through the silent courtyard as several figures clad in black hooded jackets and face masks slipped through the gate. Their movements were swift and practiced—no fumbling, no noise. They came armed, not with guns or heavy artillery, but with something arguably more dangerous: confidence, tools, and intent. Wrenches, lock picks, sharp knives—each man had his own set of instruments for tonight's quiet heist.

The leader, a thin, wiry man with darting eyes, subtly touched the small bulge at his waist—a concealed handgun. His voice was low, calculated.

"When we're done, we're taking that car," he said, pointing to a sleek black sedan parked in the courtyard, its polished surface reflecting moonlight.

"Perfect for a clean getaway," he added with a grin. "And afterward, we sell it off. Easy money—two birds with one stone."

One of his companions let out a soft chuckle. "With that ride, we can haul even more out. This fat sheep won't know what hit him."

"Yeah, let's fleece him good," the third thief added, eyes gleaming beneath his hood. "Don't forget—we don't want him calling the cops. That would ruin everything."

As they approached the main building, their pace slowed. A three-story home stood in front of them—an architectural masterpiece. Carved stonework adorned its exterior, and large bay windows glowed faintly, filtered through thick curtains. It had the quiet, rich charm of old money.

"Damn," one of the thieves muttered. "These rich bastards live so well."

"It's not fair," another grumbled. "Just look at this place. I'd punch that rich prick in the face if I saw him. How does someone get to live like this while we scrounge for scraps?"

Their envy curdled into motivation. This wasn't just theft—it felt like revenge. They crept toward the door.

The thin man, true to his reputation, had already disabled the home's security system earlier. There were no beeping alarms, no blinking red lights. With practiced ease, he inserted his lockpick into the front door's mechanism and turned.

Click.

The door swung open with barely a sound.

What greeted them inside was a scene that left them momentarily breathless.

The interior was luxury incarnate.

The living room opened up like a grand hall. Rich mahogany floors gleamed beneath an elaborate chandelier. Velvet drapes framed the windows, and an expansive mural covered an entire wall—a heavenly depiction of angels in flight, painted with almost divine realism. Hand-carved moldings traced the ceiling, and golden candle sconces added a touch of opulence.

"Holy hell…" one of the thieves gasped.

"This sofa… Italian leather," whispered the thin man, running his fingers across the supple material with reverence. "This isn't just furniture. It's craftsmanship."

Another knelt and brushed his hand across a Persian rug. "This has to be handmade. Look at the detailing. We're talking tens of thousands for this alone."

Everywhere they looked, there were signs of wealth. Expensive sculptures, rare paintings, and designer furniture filled the rooms. The thieves couldn't believe their luck.

"We hit the jackpot!" one of them shouted in a whisper. "This guy's loaded!"

"We're going to make a fortune off this place!"

They hurried up the winding staircase to the upper floors. There, the opulence continued. Marble countertops in the bathrooms, imported vases, and what looked like collectible antiques in glass displays. Yet as they searched more thoroughly, frustration crept in.

"There's no cash," one thief muttered, opening drawer after drawer. "No gold, no jewelry… just furniture."

"It's all bulky," said another, clearly irritated. "We can't carry all this!"

"And where's the owner?" one of them asked. "We haven't seen a single person. Did he go out for the night?"

The thin man frowned, scanning the rooms again. Something didn't add up.

"This is too neat," he said. "Too planned. A house like this… should have a safe. There's always a safe."

"But we've checked everything."

"Not everything," the thin man replied, eyes narrowing. "There could be a hidden room."

That thought lit a spark in all of them. If there was a secret room, there was treasure.

The three of them split up, combing the house for any inconsistencies—walls that sounded hollow, strange floor patterns, vents that didn't belong.

After several minutes, the thin man tapped a section of wall that gave a slightly different echo.

"Here." He grinned. "This wall isn't solid."

The others gathered around as he inspected it. They found a small groove—nearly invisible to the untrained eye. With a click, a small touchscreen display emerged.

The thin man's fingers flew over the interface.

In less than a minute, a low mechanical hum filled the room. The wall slid open, revealing a spiral staircase leading downward into darkness.

Their breaths caught.

"There's definitely something down there," one whispered, voice trembling with greed and nerves.

"I bet the fat sheep's stash is hidden down there," said another, eyes wide.

"Maybe he's down there too…" one of them said ominously. "If he is, we silence him."

The thin man didn't argue. "We can't afford witnesses. He's seen our faces."

They descended slowly, shadows stretching behind them as dim, amber lights illuminated the path.

The further down they went, the thicker the air became—humid, metallic.

And then they saw it: an old iron door with a slight crack open.

From that crack came a faint beam of white light, shimmering on the stone floor.

But the light wasn't the only thing.

They froze.

A sound was coming from the other side. A steady, rhythmic slicing.

Like meat being cut.

Followed by the unmistakable clacking of a keyboard.

And finally, the smell.

Blood.

Thick, iron-rich, unmistakable.

The three intruders stood frozen, a sense of unease crawling up their spines.

"What… the hell is that?" one of them whispered, voice cracking.

Another leaned in slightly, trying to peer through the crack.

Inside, what little he could see was enough to chill him to the bone. A dimly lit room, red-tinted by low lights, steel tables lined with surgical tools, and—

A shadow moving. Not pacing. Not panicking. Methodically working.

There was a body on one of the tables. It wasn't moving.

It wasn't whole.

The thin man backed away slowly, face pale. "This… this isn't a treasure vault."

"No shit," whispered one of the others. "This is a butcher's den."

A soft noise echoed behind them—like a step.

They spun.

Nothing.

Or… maybe something had just ducked back into the shadows?

"Let's leave," one said, almost begging. "Forget the money. This is wrong. Something's wrong."

Too late.

The iron door creaked open slowly—on its own.

Inside, a man stood in the glow.

He wore a bloodstained apron. His face was calm, but his eyes were dead.

No rage. No surprise. Just… silence.

In one hand, he held a scalpel.

In the other—a remote.

He clicked it.

The staircase slammed shut behind them.

The thin man raised his gun.

The lights went out.

All that remained were the sounds:

The clatter of metal.

The pounding of a heart.

The whispered realization in their minds that this had never been their score to steal.

They were never meant to leave this place with money.

They were meant to feed it.