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After Justin Hammer finally offered a sharp, decisive nod to Minotaur Noss's proposal, the atmosphere in the room shifted. Noss, still partially obscured by the shadows of the high-resolution feed, raised his crystal red wine glass in a silent, mocking toast.
Hammer, however, was in no mood for celebration. His stomach churned with a mixture of predatory greed and a businessman's anxiety. Now that the decision had been made to use unconventional—and strictly illegal—force to eliminate Celestial Industries, there was no turning back. In Hammer's mind, the outcome was binary: either Celestial surrendered its blueprints and became a subsidiary "dog" for Hammer Industries and Roxxon Oil, or it would be ground into the dirt.
If they chose to resist, their industrial park would be leveled, its technology plundered, and its leadership erased. They would be relegated to the history books as a "one-hit wonder" in the drone market, never to breathe the air of the military-industrial sector again.
But a nagging doubt remained. Hammer looked at the dark screen, his eyes flickering with uncertainty. "Minotaur... are your 'friends' truly capable of this? We saw what those robots and that silver mech did in Harlem. That industrial park isn't just a factory; it's a fortress. It's a tough nut to crack."
Minotaur Noss let out a low, vibrating chuckle. "Don't fret, Justin. My associates are... specialists. You already know the reach of the Kingpin. As for Deacon Frost, the Thin-Blood Clan he commands is a rising power, a new breed of predator that rivals the ancient Thirteen Clans. Between the steel of the Hand and the hunger of the vampires, Celestial has no chance."
Hammer relaxed slightly. While he didn't know much about the occult, he understood the concept of ancient power. If Frost's clan was comparable to families that had ruled the night for a millennium, they were more than enough to handle a few security guards and robots.
"And the price?" Hammer asked, getting to the heart of the matter.
"Money and ordinance," Noss replied. "300 million U.S. dollars as a retainer, and you will provide the Nitrate ammunition necessary for a small-scale war."
Hammer's inner merchant instantly took over. "You're greedy, Noss. I'll provide the specialized ammunition, but the cash is capped at 200 million. Take it or leave it."
Noss paused, then tilted his glass. "A deal, then. 200 million and the lead. A pleasure doing business, Justin."
The Monster in the Penthouse
The video link severed, plunging the medieval-style room into total darkness. Minotaur Noss sat in silence, the only sound the faint ticking of a clock and his own heavy, rhythmic breathing.
Suddenly, a jagged bolt of lightning tore across the sky outside, momentarily illuminating the room's interior. The flash revealed Noss's true form. He was a behemoth, standing a full two meters tall, his custom suit straining against massive, corded muscles. But it was his head that was truly terrifying: two jagged, black bull horns grew from his forehead, and his ears were thick and bovine.
He was a minotaur in a tailored suit—a literal monster of the corporate world.
"Howard Stark," Noss growled, his voice a hoarse, subterranean rumble. "I didn't just kill you and your wife. I am going to dismantle the legacy you left behind. With Celestial's tech, Tony's advantage will be nothing but a memory. I will reunite you both in hell!"
The Hand and the Kingpin
Across the city, Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin of Crime, stood like a mountain of flesh in his private observation deck. He hung up the satellite phone—which looked like a child's toy in his massive grip—and turned to the three figures behind him.
Unlike the standard red-clad ninjas of the Hand, these three wore charcoal-black attire. Their eyes flickered with a dark, oily light, signaling that they were possessed by a higher concentration of the "Beast" demon. These were the Elite Jonin.
"Masters," Fisk rumbled. "Your mission is total annihilation. Turn that industrial park into a hell where no one survives. And when Batman appears... bring him to me. I want to feel his bones turn to powder under my hands."
Fisk tightened his grip on two polished steel spheres he had been idling with. Black, runic symbols flared briefly on his skin as he squeezed. With a sickening screech of metal, the steel spheres were crushed into fine dust. He had been training, preparing for the day he would face the mech again.
The Hunger of the Thin-Bloods
In a neon-drenched underground bar, the music was loud enough to vibrate the floor. Hundreds of young people danced, unaware that many among them had skin that was unnaturally pale and eyes that caught the light with a predatory, blood-red glint.
This was the stronghold of Deacon Frost. In the basement, Frost stood before his kin. "My brothers! The time of the old, decaying clans is over! Tonight, we ride the war chariot of Roxxon and Hammer! Tonight, the world remembers why they feared the dark!"
The vampires cheered, their fangs baring in anticipation of the hunt.
The Siege Begins
The night was deathly quiet, the moon obscured by a thick shroud of clouds. It was a perfect night for murder.
The Celestial Industrial Park sat in the suburbs, its high concrete walls illuminated by flickering security lights. To the outside observer, it was just a factory running 24/7. But tonight, two separate armies converged on its gates.
From the north, three hundred Hand ninjas moved like ink spilling across a page. They surged over the walls with silent, lethal grace. The three Elite Jonin stood atop the ramparts, their black eyes scanning the facility for signs of life.
From the south, the Thin-Blood Clan arrived. They lacked the discipline of the ninjas, driven by a frenzied hunger. Deacon Frost watched as a hundred of his vampires swarmed toward the gatehouse, looking for a "snack" before the main event.
But the gatehouse was empty. No guards. No drones.
Inside Base One, Peter and Gwen stood before the shimmering blue orb of Deep Blue. The high-definition feeds showed the red tide of ninjas and the pale frenzy of the vampires.
"They're impatient," Peter said, his voice devoid of panic. "They really think they can just walk in."
Gwen pointed to the vampires. "The ninjas I expected, but who are those pale freaks? They're moving too fast for humans."
"Vampires," Peter replied. "Probably Deacon Frost's crew. Don't let them bite you—they carry a viral mutagen. Otherwise, treat them like any other target. A shot to the head or a heart-strike will do the job."
Peter turned to the AI. "Deep Blue. They're all inside the perimeter. Close the trap. Unleash the T-600s."
At the entrances, massive steel plates hissed upward from the ground, sealing the park. Simultaneously, hundreds of square hatches opened across the pavement. Hydraulic platforms rose, and the night air was filled with the metallic clatter of heavy machinery.
The T-600 Terminators had arrived. Their red optic sensors ignited in the dark, and their Vulcan cannons began to spin.
The "welcome party" had officially begun.
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