Arthur Maxwell—known to his colleagues and the public as "Art"—was a man who had built his life on a foundation of lies, manipulation, and cruelty. At 45 years old, he was the epitome of success in the eyes of the world. His career trajectory was nothing short of meteoric: starting as a beat cop, he quickly climbed the ranks to become a public attorney, and then, seemingly overnight, he was appointed District Attorney. From there, his star only rose higher. Every case he touched turned to gold, no matter how stacked the odds were against him. He was a man who thrived in the spotlight, a paragon of justice and dedication—or so the public believed.
To the outside world, Arthur Maxwell was a family man, married with one child. He lived with his family for three days a week, spending the remaining four days "at work," a testament to his unwavering commitment to public service. His dedication was so renowned that even The Daily Bugle, under J. Jonah Jameson's leadership, had painted him as a hero. But the truth about Arthur Maxwell was far darker than anyone could imagine.
In secret, Arthur Maxwell was a semi-official member of HYDRA, recruited by Dietrich Voss himself during his early days as a street cop. Maxwell was a closeted racist, but his bigotry was only the tip of the iceberg. He was cunning, corrupt, and a professional conman—qualities that made him invaluable to Voss. Under the guise of serving the public, Maxwell had spent years protecting HYDRA's interests, eliminating threats to the organization and ensuring that Voss's inner circle remained untouchable.
To Maxwell, this was more than just a job; it was a crusade. Working for HYDRA gave him a sense of purpose and protection. It allowed him to embrace his true self—a monster masquerading as a man. And thanks to HYDRA's machinations, he had become a beloved icon, a symbol of justice and integrity. It was the perfect cover for a man who reveled in his own depravity.
"No~ no~ please stop!" I watched the footage of Arthur Maxwell's life from the dimly lit confines of my warehouse, my fists clenched so tightly that my knuckles turned white.
The screens around me displayed me who he truly is at his core: his public persona as a dedicated publicly hailed DA, his private life as a predator, and the atrocities he committed under the protection of HYDRA. Each image, each video, was a punch to the gut, a reminder of the evil that festered in the shadows of this city, there existed human that really undeserved to be a human.
"This guy is an animal to the core," I muttered, my voice dripping with contempt. "No, scratch that. Animals kill for survival. He does it for pleasure. He's worse than an animal—he's a two-faced monster… Disgusting."
Magina's digital form flickered on one of the screens, her expression mirroring my revulsion. "He's a predator, Father. A sadist. And he's been getting away with it for far too long."
I nodded, my jaw tightening as I watched another clip from Maxwell's secret recordings. His routine was as predictable as it was horrifying. He spent two days a week with his mistresses, indulging in the facade of a normal life.
But the remaining two days were reserved for his true self—a sadistic predator who took pleasure in the suffering of others. Like Dietrich Voss and the White Rider MC, Maxwell kept a mutant captive, a young woman of color, whom he subjected to unspeakable horrors. He degraded her, tortured her, and reveled in his power over her life. And when she inevitably succumbed to her injuries, he simply ordered a replacement.
"Magina," I said, my voice tight with anger, "do you have all of his collections yet? Every recording, every piece of evidence?"
Her tone was grim. "I've only managed to retrieve recordings of four victims so far. All four are on the missing persons list. But there's no doubt he has more. A man like him doesn't just commit these acts—he documents them. He relishes the memories."
I leaned back in my chair, my mind racing. "He's the kind of person who gets off on power. On control. He's not just committing these crimes—he's savoring them. And he'll want to relive them, at any time he wanted. That means he's got a collection somewhere. A trophy room for his atrocities."
Magina's avatar shifted, her digital eyes narrowing. "I'll keep searching, Father. But we need to be careful. Maxwell's not just a predator—he's a cunning one. He's covered his tracks well."
I smirked, though there was no humor in it. "He's covered them well enough to fool the public. But not well enough to fool us. We'll find his collection. And when we do, we'll expose him for the monster he really is."
I leaned back in my chair, my mind racing. Arthur Maxwell was a threat, not just to his victims but to the fragile balance of power in this city. He was a symbol of everything wrong with the system—a man who had used his position to protect the worst of humanity while masquerading as its savior. But his time was running out.
"Magina," I said, my voice steady but filled with resolve, "tonight, we find his collection. Every recording, every piece of evidence, every trace of his crimes. We'll expose him to the world. And then we'll make sure he pays for what he's done."
Magina nodded, her digital form flickering as she processed the command. "Understood, Father. I'll begin the search immediately."
As the screens around me lit up with data streams and surveillance feeds, my expression hardened. Arthur Maxwell had spent years hiding in plain sight, protected by his position and his connections. But no amount of power or influence could save him now. The hunt was on, and I, Sai Morvayne, would stop at nothing to bring him down.
In the heart of Manhattan, Arthur Maxwell returned to his private sanctuary—a secret house known only to him. Not even his wife or mistresses were aware of its existence. It was here, in this secluded haven, that he indulged in his darkest desires, far from prying eyes. Tonight, however, he wasn't alone. Two individuals he trusted—or at least tolerated—were waiting for him: Detective Miles Corbin and Agent Isabella Diaz.
The atmosphere in the room was tense, the air thick with unease. Mike Corbin, a seasoned detective with a reputation for being unflappable, was visibly shaken.
His hands trembled as he paced the room, his voice rising with every word. "You don't see it, Art! The entire place was like a butcher shop! Every single one of those gang members was slaughtered—cut and gutted like animals! And Matthew? His head was turned into *meat paste*! Whoever did this… they're not playing around!"
Arthur Maxwell, ever the picture of calm composure, sighed in frustration. "Miles, I get it. It's bad. But what do you want me to do? I'm a DA, not a vigilante, or anything! We'll handle this through the proper channels. Now, calm down before you give yourself a heart attack."
Miles glared at him, his frustration boiling over. "Proper channels? Art, this isn't some petty crime! This is a massacre! And if someone's targeting HYDRA—or even just people connected to it—we could be next!"
Arthur turned to Isabella Diaz, a sharp and calculating federal agent who had been quietly observing the exchange. "Izzy, what's your take on this? Do you think someone's hunting us down?"
Isabella leaned back in her chair; her expression thoughtful. She slid a photograph across the table—a close-up of the symbol carved into Matthew White's chest. "Honestly, I don't know. Whoever did this clearly have a personal vendetta against the gang. But hunting us down? That feels like a stretch. Sure, this symbol kinda looks like the HYDRA emblem, but it's not a perfect match. What do you think, Art? Does this scream HYDRA to you?"
Arthur studied the photo, his brow furrowing. "It's… similar, but not exact. Could be a copycat. Or someone trying to send a message. Either way, we need to tread carefully."
Isabella nodded. "For now, we should act normal. Stay vigilant, keep our heads down, and work together to solve this case. The faster we figure out who's behind this, the faster we can breathe easy."
Mile grumbled under his breath but didn't argue. The three of them exchanged tense nods before Miles and Isabella left, leaving Arthur alone in his secret house. As the door closed behind them, Arthur let out a long breath, his mask of calm slipping for just a moment. He glanced at the clock. It was Tuesday—his "purification day."
Arthur's ritual began as it always did. He showered, scrubbing himself clean as if to wash away the filth of the world. Then, he downed two pills of Viagra, the chemical promise of power coursing through his veins. Finally, he donned his white garb and pointed hat, the symbols of his twisted righteousness. Tonight, he would "purify" another soul, another victim waiting in the basement.
"Oh, what a holy and beautiful day this is~" Arthur sang to himself, his voice dripping with mock reverence. "The day I purify you, you dirty, wretched thing~"
He descended the stairs to the basement, his footsteps echoing in the darkness. The sound of chains rattling and muffled cries greeted him, a symphony of fear that never failed to excite him. But as he reached the bottom step, something went wrong. The light switch didn't work. He flicked it repeatedly, but the basement remained shrouded in darkness. Even the lights upstairs had gone out.
"Tik! Tik! Oh, you've got to be kidding me!" Arthur snapped, his annoyance flaring. He turned to climb back up the stairs, grumbling under his breath. But as he reached the top, he froze.
"Stupid blackout! Huh? What?" Just a he was about to turned, annoyed that he had to do so, something blocking his path. Standing in the doorway was a figure—a man clads in full armor, his presence radiating menace.
"BBAAMM!!"
Before Arthur could react, the armored man delivered a swift, brutal stomp to his face. The impact sent Arthur tumbling down the stairs, his body crashing onto the cold basement floor. Pain exploded through Arthur's face as he clutched his broken nose, blood pouring from his mouth. A few teeth lay scattered on the floor beside him.
"Ahh! Who—who are you?!" he stammered, his voice trembling with fear.
The armored man didn't respond. Instead, he began to descend the stairs, each step deliberates and menacing. The sound of his boots—"tap, tap, tap"—echoed through the basement, growing louder with every second. Arthur scrambled backward, his mind racing.
Just then, the emergency generator kicked in, flooding the basement with light. Arthur's eyes widened in horror as the full extent of his situation became clear. In the corner of the room, two cages held his latest victims—naked, malnourished, and covered in bruises. Their terrified eyes locked onto his, pleading for mercy.
"Th-this… this isn't what it looks like!" Arthur stammered, his voice desperate and pathetic. But his excuses fell on deaf ears.
The armored man stepped into the light, his cold, unyielding gaze fixed on Arthur.
"Arthur Maxwell," he said, his voice low and filled with venom. "You. Are. Dead."
The basement, once a place of Arthur's twisted pleasure, had become his prison. The hunter had become the hunted, and there was no escape. The man in armor advanced, his every step a death knell for the monster who had hidden behind a mask of respectability. Justice, long delayed, had finally arrived.