Marvel Knight of Zodiac

As the third in command of the Russian Mafia, Sergei carried the weight of his organization on his shoulders. The factory gate loomed ahead, a dark silhouette against the midnight sky, and he stood there, his voice echoing through the night.

"Who goes there? Are you some kind of ghost? What's your game showing up here in the dead of night?"

James stood defiantly, his gaze sweeping over the gang members below. They were armed to the teeth, their faces a mask of hardened resolve. The men were thugs, killers—unwavering in their loyalty to Sergei. They would unleash a hail of bullets upon him without a second thought.

After a tense moment, James spoke, his voice distorted by the mask he wore, ensuring his identity remained a secret.

"I am Sentinel. I've come to lead sinful souls to the underworld. And you..."

His voice rose, fierce and commanding, "Are you ready to join them? Sinners!"

His words threw the crowd into chaos. Laughter, curses, and jeers erupted, mingling into a cacophony of disbelief.

One gangster stepped forward, shaking his head in mockery. "Who's this fool? Thinks he can strut around here like some kind of mystery man? This is New York, not some backwater. If you're so keen on the underworld, go there yourself!"

Sergei sneered, unsure of the armored figure's bravado but confident in the firepower at his disposal. He gestured sharply, and his men aimed their guns at James, ready to unleash hell.

"Fool! You picked the wrong place to play hero. This is New York, not some mystical realm. Prepare to meet your maker!"

In an instant, a barrage of bullets filled the air, the deafening sound drowning out all else.

From a nearby rooftop, Hawkeye watched the scene unfold with a sigh. "Justice is one thing, but charging in recklessly like that? It's a death sentence."

Jimmy's voice crackled through the earpiece. "Yeah, didn't expect the Rankhoffs to pack so much heat. Even without backup, I'm still not buying it."

Barton lowered his binoculars, disappointment etched on his face. "It's a shame. He's got a sense of justice. If only he'd played it smarter. Now he's as good as dead."

"Not necessarily," Natasha interjected, her eyes fixed on the unfolding drama. Just then, the gunfire ceased.

James, a fiery figure against the backdrop of chaos, remained unscathed, his resolve unshaken.

Sergei grimaced, his confidence wavering. He motioned for a rocket launcher, urgency etched on his features. A grenade was swiftly loaded into the chamber.

"I'll take my chances," Sergei muttered, firing the RPG at the airborne figure.

The grenade hurtled toward James, but at the last moment, he burst into flames, evading the blast and landing amid the gangsters.

They scrambled to reload, but James was relentless. Like a whirlwind, he tore through their ranks, bones shattering under his onslaught.

After rigorous training in the Zodiac Box, his strength had skyrocketed. Clad in bronze armor, his fists were capable of delivering over 500 kilograms of force.

With each blow, reinforced by the indestructible material of his gloves, he shattered concrete and bone alike.

Sergei could only watch in disbelief as his men fell, realizing no amount of firepower could stop this apparition.

James hovered outside a third-story window, bloodied but unbowed. The bronze armor provided some protection, but the relentless gunfire had taken its toll.

Inside, two men and a woman stood by the window—the Rankhoff Brothers and Natasha.

Seeing her, James's heart raced. Short red hair, striking features, captivating eyes—she was mesmerizing, even in the chaos.

Quickly averting his gaze, he couldn't afford to linger. One more look, and the blood would rush to his wounds.

He recognized her instantly—Black Widow, Natasha Romanov, a deadly spy hidden behind a beguiling facade.

Despite the danger, James felt the power radiating from her. Could his bronze armor withstand her grasp?

The men beside her were the Mafia's elite. They hadn't fled, their eyes locked on him with a mixture of defiance and fear.

James sentenced them to death the moment he laid eyes on them. Their crimes in Russia paled in comparison to the atrocities they committed in New York—murders, drug trafficking, human trafficking. They were beyond redemption.

His fist clenched, flames igniting anew, James resembled an envoy of hell risen from a pool of blood.

The Rankhoff brothers, hardened criminals, faltered. Prison had not fazed them. Gang warfare had not fazed them. But faced with James, they trembled.

With a fiery fist raised, he could end their lives in an instant.

But just as he prepared to strike, a surge of cosmic energy jolted him. He darted aside instinctively, narrowly avoiding a black arrow that streaked past.

For James, such speed posed no threat. With a mere thought, he could withstand Hawkeye's arrow barrage unscathed.

Yet, Barton, having witnessed James's massacre, would never again aim a non-lethal arrow at him—not after what he and Peter had seen.