The encounter with Anton Vasiliev left Alexander Reid restless. Sleep became an afterthought, replaced by the hum of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He had seen his enemy, and now the reality of what lay ahead gripped him tighter than ever. This was not like the others. Vasiliev was methodical. Patient. He wouldn't strike without ensuring his victory. Alexander knew the Butcher was circling him, waiting for the perfect moment to sink his teeth into his prey.
But Alexander was no ordinary prey.
The morning light crept over the horizon, casting long shadows across the city. Alexander stood on his balcony, the cool air biting at his skin. His eyes scanned the streets below, searching for anything out of place. He had spent years mastering the art of observing without being seen, but now he knew he was under the gaze of a killer who operated by those same rules—perhaps even better. Every passerby looked like a potential spotter. Every parked car could hide a pair of eyes. Paranoia was not a weakness; it was survival.
He needed to flip the script. He needed to stalk the predator.
By midday, Alexander was moving. His disguise was subtle—a hooded jacket, loose jeans, and nondescript shoes. He blended into the flow of civilians, becoming another face in the crowd. He navigated the alleys of Hell's Kitchen with the precision of a man who knew every brick and shadow. He moved with purpose, but not haste. Rushing would betray him. His ears tuned into every conversation, his eyes catching every subtle gesture around him. He scanned for signs—the flicker of recognition in a thug's eyes, a hurried glance from a lookout—anything that could expose Vasiliev's network.
He checked known informant hubs, watched over the dive bars where enforcers whispered about their latest orders. He even visited the Rusted Nail, sitting quietly in a corner booth, sipping water while listening to the murmurs around him. He needed a trail—any clue to Vasiliev's movements. Each second that passed without information tightened the coil of tension in his chest.
By dusk, his patience bore fruit. A low-level thug—shaking from fear more than the cold—let slip that Vasiliev had been seen near a construction site on the Lower East Side. Alexander pressed him gently, but firmly, ensuring he got every detail without drawing attention. The site was a place Fisk often used to exchange money and weapons. More importantly, it was secluded. The perfect hunting ground.
Alexander scouted the site from a distance. The skeletal structure of an unfinished building loomed under the moonlight. Steel beams jutted into the sky like ribs of a dead beast. The concrete floor was cracked, puddles of water reflecting the faint glow of streetlights. The place was mostly deserted, but Alexander knew better. He could feel it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Vasiliev was there. Watching. Waiting.
He remained hidden for over an hour, observing every angle. There was no sign of movement, but the absence of noise was its own warning. No workers. No homeless seeking shelter. Just silence. A deliberate silence. Vasiliev had turned the site into his web, and Alexander was standing at its edge.
Alexander withdrew for the night. He would not rush into the jaws of a trap. He had learned from Bullseye, from every close call before this—patience was a weapon. Tomorrow, he would return—prepared.
The hunt was far from over. It had only just begun.
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