"It seems New York isn't going to be peaceful these days… huh."
Screams echoed across the night, ripping through the silence like a jagged blade.
"Ah! Help!"
"Run—quick!"
"No, please! I've never killed anyone! Please, I beg you—"
Shrill cries and desperate pleas filled the air, turning the night into a chaotic cacophony. In a luxurious penthouse suite high above the commotion, Vincent wiped cold sweat from his brow. Beside him stood a pale, bespectacled man in his thirties—a powerful superhuman that Vincent had bailed out of prison for a hefty sum.
The man had quickly proven his worth, becoming Vincent's right-hand enforcer. In just a few months, his presence had expanded Vincent's influence across the city's underworld. With his help, Vincent had taken down the leader of a rival gang single-handedly—an operation that saw him walk away unharmed despite facing hundreds of armed thugs.
It was a statement.
And now, Vincent ruled one of New York's largest gangs. With nearly 800 well-armed members under his command—not even counting the outer affiliates—he was a force to be reckoned with.
Ordinarily, Vincent would be proud of his rise to power. But he'd always been a cautious man. Though his operations grew aggressively, he remained low-key, keeping a public image so clean it was easy to forget he was a gang boss at all.
And then… the Goddess of Judgment appeared.
Since her arrival, Vincent had felt a chill in his soul that he couldn't shake. The criminals she set her sights on? Obliterated. Without exception. No survivors.
Fortunately, her focus was mostly on super-powered offenders, so most gangsters hadn't been targeted yet. If she'd broadened her scope, the criminal underworld would've either gone underground or pooled their resources to hire powerful mercenaries from the superhuman circuit to take her down.
Vincent, once ruthless and defiant, hadn't taken the Goddess seriously at first. But everything changed the moment he watched the live broadcast of the Manhattan Bridge incident. Those few minutes etched a deep fear into his heart.
From that day on, he started walking more cautiously, keeping his superhuman subordinate close—his security blanket.
Yet despite all his precautions… she found him.
"Damn that Goddess of Judgment!" he snarled, his voice cracking. "Why me? Why now?!"
His curses turned to panic. "No, I have to get out of here!"
He fumbled with the lock on his wall safe, sweat dripping from his trembling hands. Inside were bundles of gold bills and diamonds, meticulously stacked. He grabbed what he could, stuffing two thick wads of m-gold and handfuls of diamonds into a sleek black briefcase.
Turning to his silent companion—his deadly lieutenant—he snapped, "Let's go."
There was no response.
Vincent didn't wait. He sprinted to the iron security door at the back of the apartment, punched in the passcode, and ushered them into a narrow passageway. The corridor led them out into a shadowy alley, one of several secret escape routes Vincent had prepared in case of emergencies.
They emerged into darkness, where only rusted trash cans and the rank stench of decay kept them company. The alley was pitch black, save for a sliver of moonlight slicing through the gloom. Their footsteps echoed down the empty path, heavy and hurried.
Vincent's heart pounded as images of the Goddess flashed in his mind—her cold eyes, her white mask, the glowing cross of divine punishment. His pace quickened.
Then… footsteps.
Not theirs.
Someone else.
Vincent froze. So did his companion. Slowly, they turned.
But no one was there.
Before either of them could speak—
CRACK!
A white-gloved hand shot out of the darkness and grabbed the superhuman's head. In a flash, it slammed him against the alley wall with inhuman force. A deep thud echoed through the night as his skull embedded into the concrete, shattering the wall into a spiderweb of cracks. Dust and gravel fell like snow.
The man's body went limp. His eyes turned white. Blood oozed down from the crater where his head now rested. He was dead.
Just like that.
Vincent dropped the briefcase, stumbling backward in horror. The contents spilled across the grimy concrete—gold and diamonds, now meaningless in the face of death.
His breath hitched. His knees buckled.
Bathed in the faint moonlight stood a slender figure—cloaked in a black suit, the iconic white V-shaped mask glowing faintly. The golden glimmer in her eyes cut through the shadows like twin suns.
It was her.
The Goddess of Judgment.
Her mere presence radiated power. Authority. An oppressive, divine force that made sinners tremble and the guilty weep.
Vincent fell to his knees.
"I—I beg you! Please, great Goddess of Judgment, have mercy! Spare me!"
His voice was thick with desperation, face twisted in fear. He clasped his hands in prayer, sobbing uncontrollably.
But the voice that answered was colder than death.
"In May, there was a riot at Aston Prison. Seventeen inmates died. Four guards lost their lives."
Vincent's eyes widened.
"In June, a shootout erupted on Park Avenue. Four innocent bystanders were gunned down. One was a three-year-old child."
"No… no… please—"
"In July, a trafficking ring was exposed in Hell's Kitchen. Twelve victims. You arranged the cover-up."
Each word was a dagger to his soul.
Charge after charge. Crime after crime.
A list of sins too long to be recited in full.
Vincent's sobs turned to silence. His eyes, once full of pleading, were now blank with despair. He knew. She knew. There was no redemption.
Then, without fanfare, she raised her hand.
Her right index finger glowed with a golden cross—brilliant and absolute.
Judgment.
A beam of radiant light shot forth like a divine spear, piercing Vincent's forehead in an instant.
Plop.
His body fell backward with a dull thud. His eyes stared blankly at the sky, lifeless. Blood pooled around him, seeping into the filth of the alleyway.
Justice had been served.
Bella turned without a second glance.
Her voice rang out, cold and calm:
"Tell me… what kind of courage made you point sniper rifles at me?"
There was no one left to answer.
Only silence.
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