"Wait! No, please! I beg you—reconsider this, Red Hoo—!"
A boot slammed down hard on the man's chest, cutting off his plea.
Standing over him was a woman dressed in a black and red hoodie, her red scarf fluttering slightly in the night breeze. Her crimson hair peeked out from under the hood, and she wore black leggings tucked into combat boots
She pulled out a phone. The screen lit up with an incoming call: Unknown.
Her voice was soft, except for the fact that she had a gun pressed against the man's forehead.
"Where's the money transfer, Mr. F? Or should I say your full name in front of the person you want to kill, then let him go, and he could spill out your intentions?" Red Hood asked, already losing patience.
"You know how I operate, Miss Hood, Mr. F said, not like Red Hood's tone. "I don't pay for corpses until I've seen proof of death. Business is built on structure, on discipline. You've yet to earn my trust."
"And you've yet to earn mine," Red Hood snapped back. "This is our first dance, Mr. F. You think I'm just another street-level gun-for-hire? No. I'm a mercenary. You want results? Wire the funds. Otherwise, I'm walking and he's walking too."
Silence.
She lifted her boot off the man's chest. He scrambled up, coughing, ready to bolt.
"…Fine. You'll have your money. For now."
When she heard that sentence, her hand shot out, grabbing the man's shoulder. Without another word, she slammed him against the graffiti-covered brick wall. The man gasped, barely conscious.
Ding!
Her phone vibrated. A notification popped up:
Transfer Complete – $500,000 USD.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Wilson Fisk," Red Hood said with a smirk as she hung up.
Red Hood switched off the safety and aimed the gun at the man's forehead.
The man croaked, fear evident in his eyes as he began to cry."N-No, wait—please! I—I don't wanna—"
Bang!
The shot echoed through the alley. Blood painted the wall behind him. The body slumped to the ground.
Red Hood knelt down and snapped open the black suitcase he'd been protecting. Inside were several sleek red vials marked with an angelic emblem.
"Perfect. The real deal," she murmured, inspecting one of the vials as she shook the vial. "Not the watered-down garbage half the streets are selling."
She looked down at the corpse, voice dripping with mock sympathy.
"Shame. You just had bad luck crossing me, of all people."
She shut the case with a clean click, slung it over her shoulder, and vanished into the night, leaving only a corpse, a wall stained red as blood was pouring onto the floor.
The glow of a distant streetlamp flickered above as Red Hood stepped out of the alley, blending into the rainy midnight city of San Francisco. Sirens echoed somewhere in the distance, but not for her. Not tonight.
Not like they were going to find the body that fast until tomorrow, but knowing Wilson Fisk his cleaners would no doubt sanitize the mess before sunrise.
She walked calmly down the sidewalk, blood drying on her gloves, the black suitcase slung over her shoulder like it was just another gym bag. No one paid her any mind, just another woman in the city, hood up and making it seem like I'm nobody.
As she turned the corner, far away from the mess she left behind, she reached into her hoodie pocket and pulled out her phone. Her gloved thumb tapped through encrypted messages until she opened a private line.
Red Hood: You know where to find me, Lang. You said you'd help me find the prototype syringe. You know what location I'm staying at.
Lang: Umm… Which hotel was it again?
Red Hood stopped walking, stared at the screen. She exhaled slowly, long and tired, before letting her forehead drop briefly into her palm.
She started typing again.
Red Hood: Fairmont San Francisco. The one with real windows and working elevators.And wear something nice. I don't want hotel security thinking you're a hobo.Also, when you see me, don't call me Cassie. You call me Cassandra. Understood?
Three blinking dots pulsed on the screen.
Lang: Y-Yeah. Got it. Cassandra. Super serious. Like Bond-villain serious. No problem. On my way.
She locked the phone with a sigh, muttering to herself, "And they wonder why I work alone…"
But then she snorted softly. Lang was a pain in the ass, but he was useful a theif with morals. He'd helped her once before. He owed her twice over.
After a few minutes, she made it to her hotel where she was staying at Cassandra crossed the marble-tiled lobby of the hotel, head down, hood up, like any woman with somewhere to be and no patience for anyone in her way. Her boots thudded softly on the polished floors, the blood on her gloves were clean off due to the rain.
The desk clerk glanced up, clearly debating whether to say something. One sharp look from Cassandra, just enough to catch the glint of something cold and dangerous in her eyes, and the clerk looked away fast.
She hit the elevator button and waited as she grabbed the handrail. Her leg started to bounce. Her fingers twitched. A deep, crawling itch burrowed into her skin, slithering up her spine and behind her eyes.
Ding.
The doors slid open.
She stepped inside and pressed the button upper levels where her room was at. As the elevator ascended, smooth and silent, Cassandra's hand moved to her neck. Her gloved fingers began to scratch slowly at first, then faster, more erratically. She hissed softly under her breath, grinding her teeth as she tried to resist.
But the itch wouldn't stop. Red Angel Dust always left her raw, jittery, wired. The comedown was worse than the high. Worse than the ghosts.
She yanked the glove off with her teeth, put it roughly inside the pocket of her hoodie, and dug her nails into her skin until it turned red.
"Damn it," she whispered, voice hoarse.
Her hood fell back, revealing tangled crimson hair clinging to sweat-damp skin. Her pupils were blown wide, her breathing shallow, erratic. She grabbed the handrail more roughly as it lightly bent as she shut her eyes, trying to steady herself.
The elevator chimed softly.
Cassandra stepped out quickly, her boots clicking against the carpet of the hallway. Everything looks too expensive. It didn't suit her. Not really. But that was the point. Hide in plain sight. No one looked for a mercenary in a five-star hotel.
After all, many people expect a one-star hotel or something worse, like abandoned warehouses.
Room 1809.
She walked up to it, and—
"Cassandra! Hey!"
Scott Lang popped out from around the corner like a kid caught sneaking cookies. He wore a half-wrinkled button-up shirt that was obviously rushed, paired with jeans that didn't match, and his hair looked like he'd styled it with no time at all.
She didn't even stop walking.
"Look, I'm really sorry, I just—I forgot which hotel it was, I had two names written down, and one was from a job I did with VistaCorp—"
"Scott," she said flatly, already holding her keycard out.
"Right, right. Shut up now. Got it."
The lock beeped. Green light. She opened the door and shoved it wide with her shoulder.
"In," she ordered.
"Yup," he muttered as he quickly went inside.
She followed, slamming the door shut behind her with a hard thud. The room's light had turned on automatically, curtains had been drawn. Only the soft moonlight from the skyline outside illuminated the walls.
Without another word, she threw the suitcase onto the couch, popped the locks, and yanked it open.
The vials glinted in the living room, sleek, red, and humming with temptation. Her fingers hovered over one before snatching it up. She held it to the light and gave it a sharp shake. The liquid shimmered, moving around as it started turning dark red.
Scott lingered awkwardly near the minibar, hands shoved into his pockets, eyes flicking between her and the case.
Cassandra turned her head slowly, her sharp gaze locking onto Scott.
"Give me the syringe."
Scott blinked, startled. "Already? You just got back."
"Now, Lang." Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried the weight of a hundred unspoken threats. The kind that if you don't do it, then you're dead.
Scott sighed, muttering under his breath as he fished through the inside of his jacket. "You know, for someone who says she's not an addict, you sure make a damn convincing case."
She didn't reply. She didn't have to.
He finally pulled out a sleek, black injector, compact, high-end, with a big needle sticking out in the front, the kind only used by people who had money and something to hide. He held it up between two fingers.
"Prototype model, just like you asked. Regulates dosage. Won't fry your nerves… probably." Scott said as he held it out for her to see.
Cassandra strode over, snatched it from his hand, and popped the vial into place with practiced ease. The soft click echoed in the silence.
"Cass—uh, Cassandra…" Scott rubbed the back of his neck, his voice hesitant. "You sure you wanna do this now? You're already twitching like crazy. You just got out of your job. Maybe give your system a minute before you shoot literal weaponized adrenaline into your system?"
Her thumb hovered over the trigger.
Then she looked up at him, her amber eyes sharp and shining like she had found her missing piece.
"I need this."
Scott opened his mouth to argue, but stopped. Because in that moment, he saw something behind her eyes, something cracked and hollow, like a dam holding back rage, grief, and exhaustion, guilt, all at once.
He turned away. "Yeah… okay."
Cassandra didn't wait for permission.
She jabbed the syringe into the side of her neck. A soft hiss. A blink of red light.
Her body tensed.
A moment later, the pressure inside her exploded like a firestorm. Her blood roared. Her vision sharpened. The dull, crawling itch vanished, replaced by blinding clarity.
She gasped and gritted her teeth as the surge hit her full force.
Scott looked back just in time to see her drop to one knee, fingers splayed against the carpet as if bracing herself from falling through it.
"Jesus, Cassi—"
"I said don't call me that!" she barked, voice distorted, vibrating with the drug still rushing through her system as a bit of red lighting came out and a creepy smile was about to come out.
Scott flinched.
Cassandra slowly stood up again. Her breath had evened out. Her posture was stronger now, controlled, almost like she had returned to normal. The comedown could wait. For now, Red Angel Dust had her high as a god, sharp as a blade.
She removed her hoodie, revealing a red shirt underneath. She flexed her prosthetic arm and cracked her neck. The buzz of power in her veins was almost intoxicating.
"Thanks for the delivery," she said, calmer now, voice almost smooth.
Cassandra then moved to the minibar, her steps now smooth and assured with the drug coursing through her veins. She ducked behind the bar, fingers brushing aside the bottles and miniature snacks. She knelt, lifting the false bottom panel that looked like part of the cabinetry. Her fingers found a small, flush red button beneath it.
Click.
A mechanical hum started. The panel to her left shifted, and a small hidden safe slid out from the wall. Sleek, matte black. Biometric and voice-locked.
Cassandra pressed her prosthetic palm flat against the scanner.
"Lisa," she said softly.
She made this her password. When she figured out how her niece, nephew, and Sister-in-Law had died and wanted to take revenge on those responsible. However, Frankie got to them first. Even when she offered to help, he wouldn't let her. Once she discovered that William Rawlins and Ray Schoonover were involved, especially since she had done business with them before, it drove her a little mad.
After all, she was connected to the people who had murdered her niece, nephew, and sister-in-law. How could she have been so blind, but after all that, her addiction to Red Angel Dust had turned up to the limit.
The safe beeped, green light flashing once, and the door slid open.
Inside, stacked neatly, were bundles of cash, clean, untraceable, and accounted for. Cassandra then grabbed a thick envelope, its weight satisfying in her palm.
She stood and stepped back out into the room, tossing the envelope onto the table near Scott. It landed with a solid thump.
Scott stared at it, then at her. "Is that... what I think it is?"
"Two hundred and fifty grand," she confirmed, tightening the lid on a whiskey bottle and sliding it back into its place behind the bar. "It's yours."
Scott raised his eyebrows. "That's—Cass—I mean—Cassandra—that's too much. I didn't do that much."
She cut him off with a sharp look. "Don't worry. It's not illegal. No blood money. No drug deal payout. Not even from my associates. This came from an arms cache I raided two months ago—property of Hydra, if you can believe it. I sold the blueprints, not the weapons. Legal enough. Earned it."
He opened the envelope carefully, as if it might explode. Inside, crisp hundreds. The real deal.
Cassandra looked at him harder now, her expression changed as it was unreadable. "It's for your daughter, too. Put it away. College fund, legal backup, off-the-grid escape whatever you need."
Scott tried to speak, but she stepped closer, her tone growing colder, more serious. "Don't argue."
He closed his mouth.
"And one more thing," she added, leaning on the counter with one elbow, swirling a glass of whiskey lazily in her other hand. "You need to stop working at VistaCorp; the things you're doing are going to get you possibly killed."
Scott blinked. "I—how did you—?"
"I know everything. You're skimming numbers to expose their overcharging protocols. People getting billed more than usual, that kind of thing." Her voice was calm, but her eyes burned like fire beneath the ice. "You're going to get caught. They'll bury you, Lang. And not with a shovel. With litigation, blackmail, prison, or maybe a bullet if you're unlucky."
Scott looked down at the envelope. "I'm just trying to help."
Cassandra's voice softened, but only a little. "I know."
She took a long sip from her glass, the whiskey burning down her throat. Her gaze drifted to the whiskey in her glass as it showed her reflection, and she saw herself when she was innocent.
"But don't be a hero," she said, not looking at him this time. "It gets you nowhere. Even when it does, it's a slow road. A hard road. One that chews you up and spits you out, and maybe—maybe—you save someone along the way."
Her prosthetic fingers tightened around the glass.
"I've been hit. Shot. Burned. Beaten. Got my arm cut off. Left for dead more times than I can count. And nothing came of it. No medal. No miracle. Just scars and silence." Cassandra said blankly.
A pause.
"I don't want that for you."
Scott looked at her, speechless for a moment.
"You know," he finally said, voice gentle, "you talk like someone who doesn't believe in heroes anymore."
Cassandra downed the last of her drink. The glass hit the marble counter with a faint clink.
"I don't, Scott," she said quietly. "'Cause no hero has ever saved my life when I needed it the most."
Cassandra looked at her prosthetic arm for a long moment, her fingertips brushing along the cold metal plating.
The silence stretched.
Scott stayed still, uncertain, his eyes flicking from the empty whiskey glass to her face. There was something haunted in her expression. Not sadness exactly, but the heavy, exhausted numbness of someone who's seen the world and its true nature.
She exhaled sharply through her nose, breaking the silence.
"You can go now, Lang," she said, voice tired but steady. "Before I get drunk and start flirting with you."
Scott blinked, thrown. "Wait, what?"
She smirked faintly without turning to face him. "You heard me. I've got another two shots in me before the buzz hits too hard and I start saying things I'll regret."
"Like… what kind of things?"
Cassandra finally looked at him, her amber eyes sharp but glinting with a strange, teasing edge.
"Like telling you that if you didn't dress like a Target mannequin, you might actually be kind of cute."
Scott blinked again, his ears turning pink. "Wow. That is both flattering and insulting. Impressive."
Cassandra chuckled low under her breath. "I'm serious, Lang. This is the part where you walk out of the hotel room with your dignity intact. Because five minutes from now, I'm going to pour another drink, and then I'm going to forget why I'm trying to stay angry."
Scott scratched the back of his neck, clearly unsure. "You sure you'll be okay?"
She shot him a look.
"Right, right. Dumb question." He turned, heading for the door. "But, uh… if you ever want to talk. Or vent. Or yell at someone. I'm around. Preferably sober, though."
She nodded, her face unreadable now. "Thanks. And Lang?"
He paused in the doorway. "Yeah?"
Cassandra held up the injector, her voice low but firm. "Next time, bring me something that doesn't feel like I'm injecting lightning into my spinal cord."
Scott raised a hand in mock salute. "Noted."
He slipped out of the room and shut the door gently behind him.
Cassandra stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door. Then she sighed, walked back to the couch, sat down heavily, and stared at the open case of vials. Her reflection shimmered faintly in the polished red glass.
A crusader in her own war.
She reached for the whiskey again. The night was still long.
"Cheers, Frankie....Wherever you are."