The alleyway behind Mott Street was choked with rusted dumpsters, rotting cabbage leaves, and a steady, greasy drizzle that turned the pavement into black glass.
Four hitmen—veterans of Fisk’s Union Allied cleanup crews, dressed in heavy leather jackets with silenced 9mm pistols tucked under their arms—stolen-stepped through the back service entrance. Their boss was facing federal indictments, their offshore accounts were frozen, and they wanted blood. Specifically, the lunatic in the trench coat who’d ruined their pensions.
"Third door on the left," the lead hitman whispered, cocking his piece with a slick CLICK. "Fisk said five hundred grand for his head. Don't waste time talking. Just drop him."
Before his boot hit the second stair, the rusted fire escape door above them swung open with a shrieking, metallic groan.
Jack was sitting on the iron railing twenty feet up, his legs swinging loosely over the drop.
The dim yellow streetlamp caught his chalk-white face, the dark smudged hollows around his eyes, and that horrific, wide, wet crimson smile stretched across his jaw. He was wearing his purple silk shirt unbuttoned at the neck, holding an old brass umbrella like a conductor's baton.
"Evening, boys!" Jack rasped, his voice echoing off the brick walls in a wild, bubbling cackle. "Are you here for the late-night matinee? I gotta warn you, the front-row seats get a little... splatter-y! HAHAHA!"
The lead hitman gasped, stumbling back two steps as he pointed his gun up into the dark. "What the hell... is that on his face?!"
"It's greasepaint, dummy!" Jack cackled, dropping straight off the railing without warning.
THUD!
He landed heavily on top of a industrial dumpster, his broken ribs screaming through his bandages, but the [10.8% SYNCHRONIZATION] muted the agony into pure, electric adrenaline. He popped right back up, his eyes wide, bloodshot, and gleaming with unadulterated madness.
"You like the red?" Jack purred, stepping to the edge of the dumpster lid, leaning down toward the four frozen men. "I drew it myself! It’s my happy face! See? HAPPY, HAPPY, HAPPY!"
"Shoot him! Shoot the freak!" the leader yelled, his voice cracking with sudden, overwhelming panic.
POP! POP! POP!
Three silenced shots bit into the heavy leather of Jack’s coat and the rusted dumpster wall. One bullet grazed his left shoulder, tearing through skin and fabric, spraying a faint line of red across his purple shirt.
Jack didn't flinch. He didn't even cover his face.
Instead, he threw his head back and burst into a hysterical, screeching laugh that rattled the rusted pipes along the alleyway wall—a sound so loud, dry, and unhinged it sounded like a dying engine tearing itself apart.
"HAHAHA! THAT ALL YOU GOT?!" Jack shrieked, wiping a smear of blood off his shoulder with his thumb and casually dragging it across his white-painted cheek, adding another crimson streak to his face. "YOU'RE MISSING THE TARGET, BOYS! THE HEART IS RIGHT HERE! DARE TO HIT IT! DARE TO TRY!"
He scrambled down the dumpster like a giant, rabid spider, grabbing a heavy iron pipe from the trash heap and charging straight at them into the dark.
"He... he didn't even care he got shot..." the younger hitman whimpered, dropping his gun onto the wet pavement as he scrambled backward in sheer terror. "He's not human, man! HE'S A MONSTER!"
"RUN! GET OUT OF HERE!"
Three seconds later, all four hitmen were sprinting back toward Mott Street, screaming bloody murder, dropping their weapons, phone chargers, and slickers into the gutter, leaving Jack standing alone in the alleyway under the dripping streetlamp.
Jack stood there, his iron pipe resting over his shoulder, his body dripping with rain, white paint running down his neck in long, pale streaks.
He dropped the pipe with a loud CLANG, leaning against the brick wall, his chest rising and falling as he wiped his wet crimson smile with his sleeve.
From the fire escape above, Natasha stood in the shadows, her arms crossed, watching him with a cold, unblinking intensity.
"You're completely out of your mind, Jack," Natasha said softly down into the alley. "They were armed. They could’ve put one between your eyes."
Jack looked up, his bloodshot eyes glowing behind his smudged black makeup, his crimson mouth opening into a long, quiet, raspy hum.
"...dare 'em to try, Red..." Jack whispered, his chest vibrating with a low, satisfying cackle as he slowly trudged back up the fire escape. "...dare 'em to break the show... HAHAHAHA!"
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