CHAPTER 26: QUALITY OVER QUANTITY
The meeting ran late.
Three hours with Ben Urich, coordinating the next phase of the investigation. He had enough now to start asking questions publicly—not accusations, not yet, but the kind of inquiries that would make Fisk's people nervous. We'd discussed timing, approach, contingencies for when things got dangerous.
By the time I left the coffee shop on Ninth Avenue, the streets were nearly empty. Past midnight, cold enough that my breath fogged in the air. I pulled my jacket tighter and started the familiar walk toward my Hell's Kitchen apartment.
The gunfire started three blocks away.
Not random shots—a pattern. Controlled bursts followed by single cracks of return fire. A professional engagement somewhere to the west, moving this direction.
I should have gone the other way. Should have ducked into an alley and waited for whatever was happening to pass. That's what the smart move would have been.
Instead, I kept walking. Listening. Trying to figure out what was happening and whether anyone needed help.
Stupid. Claire's voice in my head, disappointed but not surprised.
The running battle spilled onto my street.
Three men first—big, moving fast, military precision in how they covered each other. Russians, from the tattoos I glimpsed on their hands. Not street thugs. Soldiers.
They were fleeing something.
I knew what before I saw him. A shadow on the rooftops, moving parallel to the chase. Black mask. Red-tinted goggles that caught the streetlight for just a moment before disappearing.
The Devil of Hell's Kitchen was hunting.
I should have stayed invisible. Should have pressed against a wall and let the chase pass.
But one of the Russians spotted me.
Recognition flickered across his face. The rich man. Roy Smith. The one who'd been interfering with their business, funding the lawyers who were making their lives difficult.
He made a decision in the span of a heartbeat.
"Him," he said to the others. Two words, thick with accent. "While the Devil is busy."
They turned. Three elite Russian enforcers who'd just been running from Daredevil, now advancing on me with murder in their eyes.
My power stirred.
The sensation was different this time. Three opponents—I'd faced that number before, at Union Allied. The enhancement then had been moderate. Manageable. A boost that made the difference but didn't overwhelm.
This wasn't moderate.
The power surged through me like adrenaline mixed with lightning. My perception sharpened until I could see every detail of their approach—the way the lead man favored his left leg slightly, the knife appearing in the second one's hand, the third reaching for something at his back.
These weren't street thugs. These were trained killers. Special forces or something close to it. Men who'd survived whatever was happening in the Russian war, who'd been trusted with sensitive operations, who radiated danger like heat from a furnace.
My power responded to that danger. Scaled to it.
Three men. But enhancement like I was facing ten.
Quality matters, something in my brain noted distantly. Not just quantity.
The first one reached me.
Matt's training took over. I didn't try to match strength—I redirected. His punch came for my face and I pivoted, let it slide past, drove my elbow into his solar plexus with enhanced force. He doubled over, and I brought my knee up to meet his chin.
He went down. Not unconscious, but hurting.
The second was already there, knife leading. I caught his wrist—my grip stronger than it should have been—and twisted. The knife clattered away. He tried to headbutt me and I ducked, came up with an uppercut that lifted him off his feet.
The power made my technique sharp instead of sloppy. Matt's lessons integrated with the enhancement instead of fighting against it.
The third man was smarter. He'd drawn a gun while I handled his friends—small caliber, looked like a Makarov. The kind of weapon that wouldn't miss at this range.
I moved before he could fire.
Not consciously—my body reacted to threat with speed I didn't know I had. The gun came up and I was already inside its arc, my left hand slamming against his wrist while my right drove into his throat. He choked, the gun discharging into the ground, and I finished him with an elbow to the temple.
Six seconds. Three elite combatants. All down.
The power began to fade almost immediately. No more threats, no more enhancement.
The crash hit lighter than expected. My legs felt weak, my hands were shaking, but it wasn't the crushing exhaustion I'd experienced before. Twelve, maybe sixteen hours of recovery instead of days.
I sat down against the wall of the nearest building. Breathed. Tried to process what had just happened.
Three men. Elite level. And my power had responded as if I were facing something far larger.
Quality scaling. The thought crystallized in my mind. The power didn't just count bodies—it assessed threat level. A room full of civilians would provide minimal enhancement. But three trained killers? That was worth something.
My right hand throbbed.
I looked down. The knuckles were swelling already, two of them at odd angles. Something wrong with the bones beneath.
Matt's voice in my memory: Proper fist formation. Turn your wrist. Align the knuckles.
I'd punched wrong. The power had made me strong enough to break the Russian's jaw, but my technique had been sloppy. And bone didn't care about supernatural enhancement when it was used incorrectly.
I flexed the hand experimentally and nearly screamed.
Broken. Definitely broken.
The victory suddenly felt a lot less triumphant.
I pulled out my phone with my good hand and called Claire.
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