Michael landed in an old, abandoned church on the outskirts of the city. Stained glass lay shattered long ago, pews broken and covered in dust. It was quiet, forgotten… perfect.
He set the chained case down on the altar, its dark presence warping the air around it. The moment his fingers touched the latch, though —
"I was wondering when you'd show up."
A voice. Smooth, cold, unfamiliar.
Michael didn't turn around.
"Whoever you are," Michael said, his tone sharp, "you should leave… or you won't even realize when you die."
Without hesitation, he slipped the Darkhold into his inventory.
Turning back, he saw a woman step out from the shadows.
"You are?" Michael asked, raising a brow as she came into the flickering light.
Long white hair, black leather suit — he recognized her instantly.
"Black Cat," he mumbled.
Felicia Hardy smirked.
"That's me," she replied casually.
Her eyes darted around. "But where's the book? I know you had it."
Michael grinned.
"Find it yourself."
Felicia's smile sultry as she looked at him.
Felicia's smirk didn't fade, though her fingers subtly brushed against the small grapple hook at her hip.
"You know," she said, circling him like a panther, "normally, I wouldn't bother. But that book… it's worth more than you can imagine. And I've got a buyer who's very, very eager."
Michael chuckled, his eyes never leaving her.
"Lady, you don't even know what you're dealing with. That book isn't something you sell. It's something that eats people like your buyer for breakfast."
"I'll take my chances," Felicia shot back, lunging forward with sudden speed.
But before her hand could reach his coat, Michael caught her wrist in mid-air.
"Bad move."
A flick of his hand sent her skidding back across the dusty floor, though she landed gracefully, already rebalancing.
"Damn," she hissed under her breath. "Guess the rumors about you weren't exaggerated."
The air suddenly thickened as another figure appeared by the ruined doorway — a tall man clad in a dark cloak, face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat.
"Enough games," the stranger growled. His voice was gravelly, ancient.
Michael narrowed his eyes. "And you are?"
"Name's Varnak," the man replied, a wicked dagger glowing with runes in his hand. "And the Darkhold belongs to me."
Felicia scowled. "You weren't part of the deal, old man."
"I don't care about your deals, thief."
Michael sighed, cracking his neck.
"Man, I can't even stash a cursed book in peace without half the city crawling after it."
His hands glowed faintly as mist coiled from his fingers.
"Alright then… if you both want it — come and take it."
The church seemed to hold its breath as the three figures squared off.
Felicia moved first.
A flick of her wrist sent a trio of throwing knives toward Michael's face, their edges glinting in the flickering candlelight. But Michael didn't even flinch — the mist around him hardened into a spectral shield, the blades clattering harmlessly to the ground.
"Cute," he muttered, already stepping forward.
Varnak raised his dagger, ancient symbols glowing brighter as he chanted something guttural and old. A pulse of dark magic lashed out, slamming toward Michael like a wave.
"Move!" Felicia shouted, diving aside.
But Michael held his ground.
The magic struck him — or so it seemed. The mist around him expanded, devouring the attack like smoke in the wind. In the next instant, he vanished, reappearing behind Varnak in a burst of shadow.
"Too slow."
His fist crashed into Varnak's ribs, sending the old sorcerer sprawling against a shattered pillar. The impact cracked stone, dust billowing.
Felicia cursed under her breath. "Okay, maybe I underestimated this guy."
She darted forward again, this time aiming low. Grapple lines fired from her wrists, snagging Michael's arms and pinning them for a moment. She yanked hard.
"Got you now!"
But Michael only grinned.
A surge of mist burst from his body, ripping the grapple lines apart like paper. In one smooth motion, he closed the distance and caught Felicia by the collar of her suit, lifting her clean off the floor.
"Listen, kitten," he growled. "I don't have time for this petty thief crap tonight."
Before he could toss her, a flare of crimson light erupted behind him. Varnak was back on his feet, blood trickling from his mouth, both hands raised as a crimson sigil formed between them.
"You will die here, boy!"
The crimson sigil shot forward — a mass of writhing chains formed of cursed energy.
Michael released Felicia and spun to meet it.
"Not happening."
He thrust both hands out. The mist around him condensed into a spear of solid shadow, lancing forward to intercept the chains. The two forces collided in mid-air with a deafening crack.
The church trembled. Stained glass shards fell like rain.
Felicia coughed and scrambled back, watching as Michael and Varnak's powers clashed, darkness against cursed flame.
"Alright," she muttered, rubbing her neck. "Definitely not getting paid enough for this."
But as she turned to slip away, a figure emerged from the far corner of the church — another one.
This one wore a hood, face hidden, a long curved blade at their side.
"The book isn't his or yours."
Felicia groaned.
"Oh, come on."
Before the hooded figure could even take a step, a voice cut through the chaos, calm but edged with deadly confidence.
"I'd stand down if I were you."
The doors of the ruined church creaked open wider, and through them stepped a tall figure clad in tactical armor, skull-like mask gleaming in the dim light. A sword strapped to his back, shield across his shoulder, and a pistol in one hand.
Taskmaster.
Felicia froze. Even Varnak's concentration faltered for a split second.
"No way…" she breathed.
Michael arched a brow, mist swirling lazily around his shoulders.
"And you are?"
Taskmaster's voice was casual as always.
"Name's Taskmaster. I'm here for the book. Doesn't matter if it's you, old man, or cat burglar over there. Orders are simple: retrieve it, leave no witnesses."
Felicia swore under her breath, backing toward the shadows.
Michael grinned.
"I'm starting to think you guys just love dying for cursed books."
Without another word, Taskmaster moved — fast.
He closed the distance between them in a flash, sword drawn and swinging low. Michael caught it with a solid tendril of mist, but the force behind it sent him skidding back a step.
"Hmm. Not bad." Michael smirked.
*******
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