Marvel: Silver Hand

A month had passed since Alexander arrived in New York.

A month of searching. A month of frustration.

Thor was nowhere to be found.

Alexander had followed every lead—news reports of strange weather patterns, eyewitness accounts of a "lightning man," whispered rumors in the underworld—but all had led to dead ends. It was as if the Asgardian was a ghost, always just out of reach.

And with no answers, Alexander had thrown himself into something else: the hunt.

The criminals of New York had begun to fear the night.

The first few times were simple—muggers, gangsters, drug dealers. A fist here, a kick there, a broken rib, a shattered jaw. Then the branding, the mark of the Silver Hand seared into their flesh. It didn't take long for the name to spread.

The news had taken notice.

"Who is the Silver Hand—Hero or Villain?"

"Vigilante terrorizes criminals in Hell's Kitchen."

"Branded in Fire: The Mark of the Silver Hand."

The streets whispered his name in fear and awe. Every night, criminals looked over their shoulders, terrified that they might be next.

But tonight? Tonight, Alexander was out for more than just a hunt.

Tonight, he needed an outlet for his rage.

---

The screams were faint, almost lost in the hum of the city.

But Alexander's enhanced hearing caught them.

His fists clenched. His eyes narrowed.

He moved.

The old warehouse sat in the shadows of Hell's Kitchen, a rotting husk of brick and rusted steel. The stench of sweat, rot, and something fouler clung to the air. From the outside, it looked abandoned. But inside...

Inside was something much worse.

Alexander crouched on a rooftop overlooking the building. Through the grime-streaked windows, he saw them—men in tattered clothes, hollow-eyed children, bruised and battered. Some carried heavy crates. Others scrubbed the floor. A few whimpered as a man with a baton stalked through the room, striking anyone who moved too slowly.

A child, no older than eight, tripped over a loose floorboard and spilled a crate of pills across the ground.

The baton came down on the boy's ribs.

The boy screamed.

The rage inside Alexander ignited into a firestorm.

"We end this," Celebrimbor growled.

Alexander didn't bother responding. He moved.

---

The guards outside didn't even see him coming.

Alexander moved in a blur, faster than human sight. One moment, the men were smoking and chatting by the entrance. The next, they were on the ground.

Bones shattered. Teeth flew. Their screams never even made it past their lips before his fists silenced them.

He didn't brand them. Not yet.

The kids came first.

With a flick of his wrist, the power of the ring wrapped around him like a shroud. To the world, he became nothing more than a whisper in the wind. Unseen. Unheard.

He moved through the warehouse like a specter, one by one lifting the children and workers in his arms, carrying them outside at inhuman speeds. The guards inside never noticed.

Not until it was too late.

Not until he came back.

---

The criminals inside turned as the main doors slammed open.

A cold gust of air swept through the warehouse, snuffing out several dimly lit bulbs. Shadows stretched and twisted. A wave of unnatural silence fell over the room.

Then he stepped inside.

The criminals saw him.

And they knew fear.

The Silver Hand had come for them.

One of them reached for his gun.

Alexander was on him before the barrel even cleared the holster. He grabbed the man's wrist and twisted—SNAP. The man screamed, dropping the gun. Alexander caught it and drove the butt of the weapon into his temple.

CRACK. The man crumpled.

The others erupted into chaos.

Some ran. Some fought.

None escaped.

Alexander moved with brutal precision.

One man tried to flee toward the exit—Alexander caught him by the throat, hoisted him into the air, and slammed him into the concrete floor. Blood sprayed as the man's skull cracked like an egg.

Another swung a crowbar at his head—Alexander ducked, caught the bar mid-swing, and drove it straight through the man's knee. The scream that followed was inhuman.

One by one, he broke them.

Ribs shattered. Arms twisted. Flesh burned.

With every criminal he left writhing on the ground, he marked them. The burning imprint of the Silver Hand seared into their chests, their backs, their faces. A permanent reminder of their sins.

Finally, only one remained.

The leader.

A fat bastard in an expensive suit, his face twisted in horror as he crawled backward, hands trembling.

"Please," he whimpered. "I can pay you. Whatever you want."

Alexander's voice was cold. "Money won't bring back the lives you ruined."

The man turned to run.

Alexander was faster.

Turann materialized in his grasp, the weight of the wraith hammer familiar in his hands. With a single swing, he brought it down on the leader's knees.

SPLINTER.

Bone burst from skin. The leader shrieked as he collapsed onto the ground, legs bent in unnatural angles.

Alexander wasn't done.

He grabbed the man's wrist, placed a hand on his elbow—

And tore the arm clean off.

A wet, sucking sound filled the air, followed by a howl of agony as blood poured onto the floor. The leader convulsed, body going into shock.

Alexander seared the wound shut with divine fire. The flesh blackened, the smell of burnt meat filling the air.

The man wasn't screaming anymore. He was just... shaking. A broken thing, barely conscious.

Alexander pressed his glowing hand against the man's face.

The Silver Hand branded him.

His mind shattered.

The man's body twitched violently, eyes rolling back as the full force of the wraith's torment consumed him. When it was over, he wasn't a man anymore. Just a husk, left in a state of permanent terror, forever reliving the pain he had inflicted on others.

Alexander exhaled.

It was done.

Then the webbing came.

Alexander sensed it a fraction of a second before it hit.

He dodged, flipping backward as a line of webbing splattered against the floor where he had just stood.

He turned.

A figure clung to the rafters above.

Red and blue. White eyes narrowed beneath a mask.

Spider-Man.

The hero stared at the carnage below—the broken bodies, the screaming men, the stench of burnt flesh.

Even through the mask, Alexander could see the horror on his face.

"...Jesus Christ," Spider-Man whispered.

Alexander chuckled, stepping over a man who was still twitching on the floor. "Took you long enough."

Spidey's fists clenched. "You better come quietly, Silver Hand. You just murdered—"

Alexander laughed. Cold, sharp, cruel.

"They beat children, Spider-Man. They sold them like cattle." His eyes glowed like molten silver. "Why should I care what happens to them?"

Spider-Man dropped to the floor. His voice was firm.

"Because murder isn't the answer."

Alexander's smile vanished.

"Then let's see if you can stop me."

With a flick of his wrist, Turann spun through the air—

And Spider-Man dodged.