Marvel: Son of TOAA

Chapter 10: The Silent Pursuer

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The city was cloaked in darkness, the only illumination coming from the occasional streetlamp casting long shadows on the wet pavement. Ethan Cross walked home from the precinct, his footsteps echoing in the empty streets of Hell's Kitchen. The weight of the day's revelations pressed heavily on his shoulders. He had uncovered a trail leading back to the Fisk Foundation, but the path was fraught with danger. He couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him.

As he turned a corner, a sharp sound sliced through the night—a metallic clink—followed by the unmistakable whistle of a projectile cutting through the air. Instinctively, Ethan ducked, narrowly avoiding a throwing knife that embedded itself into the brick wall beside him. His heart raced as he scanned the alley, but the assailant was nowhere to be seen.

"Who's there?" Ethan called out, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him.

No response. Only the distant hum of the city.

He reached for his service weapon, his fingers brushing the cold metal of his Glock 19. He had been trained for situations like this, but the suddenness of the attack left him momentarily disoriented. He needed to act quickly.

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Ethan sprinted down the alley, his boots pounding against the concrete. He could hear the faint sound of footsteps behind him, too light to be a normal person's. Whoever was following him was skilled, possibly a professional. He rounded another corner, hoping to lose his pursuer, but the alley was a dead end.

He turned to face his attacker, drawing his weapon. "Show yourself!" he demanded.

From the shadows emerged a figure clad in black tactical gear, a mask obscuring their face. The figure moved with a fluidity that suggested years of training. In their hand was a gleaming knife, its blade reflecting the dim light.

Ethan's mind raced. He had no idea who this person was or what they wanted, but he knew one thing: they were dangerous.

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The masked assailant lunged, the knife flashing toward Ethan's chest. He sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the strike, and countered with a punch aimed at the attacker's midsection. The blow landed, but the assailant absorbed it with a grunt, their stance unshaken.

Ethan's training kicked in. He aimed a low kick at the attacker's knee, forcing them to stumble back. He seized the opportunity, drawing his baton and extending it with a swift motion. The baton connected with the assailant's wrist, causing them to drop the knife.

Before he could capitalize on the advantage, the assailant performed a spinning kick, knocking the baton from Ethan's hand. The weapon clattered to the ground, out of reach.

Ethan was now unarmed, facing a highly trained adversary. He needed to end this quickly.

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The assailant advanced, but Ethan feigned a stumble, baiting them into overcommitting. As the attacker lunged forward, Ethan sidestepped and used their momentum against them, executing a judo throw that sent the assailant crashing to the ground.

Breathing heavily, Ethan stood over the fallen figure, his heart pounding. He reached for his handcuffs, but before he could secure the assailant, a sharp pain erupted in his side. He looked down to see a throwing star embedded in his abdomen, blood seeping through his shirt.

His vision blurred as he staggered back, collapsing against the alley wall. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the masked figure disappearing into the night.

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When Ethan awoke, he was lying on the cold concrete, the pain in his side excruciating. He tried to move but found his body unresponsive. A shadow loomed over him, and he looked up to see a figure in a red suit standing above him.

"You're safe now," the figure said, their voice calm and reassuring.

Ethan tried to speak, but his words were slurred. The figure knelt beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Stay with me," the figure urged. "Help is on the way."

As darkness claimed him once more, Ethan felt a sense of relief. Whoever this person was, they had saved his life.

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Ethan awoke in a hospital bed, the sterile smell of antiseptic filling his nostrils. His side was bandaged, and an IV drip was attached to his arm. He groaned, trying to sit up, but a nurse gently pushed him back down.

"Take it easy," she said. "You've been through a lot."

Ethan's mind raced as he tried to recall the events of the previous night. The attack, the masked assailant, the throwing star. And then... the red-suited figure.

"Who... who saved me?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

The nurse hesitated. "You were found unconscious in an alley. Someone called it in, but they didn't stick around."

Ethan frowned. He had a feeling he knew who that someone was.

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As he lay in the hospital bed, Ethan's thoughts turned inward. The attack had been a warning—a message from someone powerful, someone who didn't want him digging into the case. He had come too close to uncovering the truth about the Fisk Foundation and its connections to the city's criminal underworld.

But he couldn't back down now. The people he had sworn to protect were counting on him. He would find out who was behind the attack and bring them to justice.

And if that meant facing down the Kingpin himself, so be it.

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