Now that the warehouse was under his control, it would serve as a new satellite hub—interception point, monitoring station, or trap.
Michael sat at the console and began typing, fingers moving swiftly across the keys. He entered a na into the system: "Felicia Hardy."
A soft hum followed as the system began pulling files from Taskmaster's network, the screen flickering with classified docunts and images.
"Ti to ta this cat," he murmured, smirking slightly as the latest image of Felicia Hardy—Black Cat—appeared on the screen.
***
Felicia Hardy Pov
A year ago
The day was quiet—too quiet. One of those hollow afternoons where even the noise of New York felt miles away, muffled behind grief and silence.
I sat alone in my father's study, surrounded by the dust of a life that had stopped moving. The blinds filtered the sunlight into long stripes across the furniture, painting everything in fading gold and shadow. Boxes were stacked in corners—so unopened since the funeral. I hadn't had the heart.
But today... today I opened one.
It wasn't just any box. It was an old trunk, scarred and rusted, the kind that whispered secrets. I recognized it imdiately. It had always been locked. Off-limits. Untouchable.
Not anymore.
I reached into the desk drawer and pulled out a small kit of lockpicks—old friends I hadn't used in years. It was funny, really. I'd picked up lockpicking as a teenage rebellion. Now it felt like opening a door to the truth.
The lock clicked open.
Inside was a story I never saw coming.
Photographs. Newspaper clippings. A mask. A sleek black suit that shimred like it was stitched from shadows.
And then... the articles.
They called him The Cat—a world-class burglar, thief of treasures that most could only dream of. Heists in Paris, Tokyo, Dubai. I felt my heart slow as realization settled in.
My father—Walter Hardy—had been a legend.
And I never knew.
It hit like a wave crashing into stone. The late-night absences. The hushed phone calls. The way he always knew how to vanish. It all made sense now. He hadn't just been a father. He had been a phantom. A ghost who danced on rooftops and slipped through vaults.
At the bottom of the trunk was a small tal case. I opened it with trembling hands.
Inside was a vial.
A single dose.
"Super Soldier Serum Variant," the label read. There were notes beside it—his handwriting. He'd planned to sell it, of course. Another job. Another payday.
But... sothing made him stop.
I don't know what it was. Regret? Guilt? Love?
All I know is that he kept it. And never used it.
That was when I made the choice. Not to follow him. Not really. But to understand him. To find him, in a way that death had denied .
I didn't want the money. I didn't care about the thrill. I just wanted to feel like I wasn't left behind.
So I put on the suit.
And beca sothing new.
The Black Cat.
At first, it was awkward. Reckless. But I trained. I pushed my body until pain was just a suggestion. I studied every move, every trick, every flip and feint. Martial arts, gymnastics, infiltration—I mastered them all.
Not for him.
Not even for .
But because it felt right.
Because when I moved through the shadows, I didn't feel lost anymore. I felt... alive.
And then ca him—Michael White.
It was his na I first learned the day I overheard whispers about a highly classified military strike being completely wiped out. Rumors. Hushed voices. Soldiers who had seen things no one believed. They called him a ghost. A weapon. A walking extinction.
At first, I ignored it. Not my world. Not my problem.
But the na kept coming back. Michael White. Every ti sothing went wrong—cartels dismantled, corrupt politicians silenced, entire bases reduced to silence—he was there. Or had been.
And then, one day, it was my turn.
I didn't know how, or why. Just that it was the worst day of my life.
I saw death. Not just fear, not just danger—death. Real and absolute.
That was the day I t him.
Michael White.
I didn't know if he was human or so sort of super-soldier experint gone rogue. But he looked at —really looked at —and just… let go. Like I was nothing more than a stray cat. Not worth the kill. Not a threat.
"Haaah…"
I still sigh when I think about that mont.
After that day, I hung up my suit. The Black Cat costu? I couldn't even look at it. I kept it buried deep in the closet. Every ti I reached for it, fear tightened around my ribs like a vice.
I wasn't ready to put it back on.
But today... today he showed up again.
"Yo. We et again," he said, voice calm, like we were just old friends passing each other on a sidewalk.
I froze. The gun in my hand felt like paper. Useless.
He stood in my apartnt doorway, casual, relaxed—but I knew what he was. What he could do. What he had already done.
"W-Why are you here?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Why? Why him? Why now?
Was this it? Was this how I died?
He just tilted his head, calm as ever.
"Did I scare you?" he asked.
His tone wasn't mocking. It wasn't cruel. It was… neutral. But that made it worse.
I couldn't lie to myself. He was dangerous. Not in the way most people are dangerous. No. Michael White was a man you didn't fight. You didn't run from him. You didn't survive him.
And yet—he hadn't hurt .
Not that ti.
Not this ti either.
That terrified more than anything else.
Because people like him?
They don't leave loose ends.
And I had no idea why I was still alive.
Maybe this was it. Maybe it was finally my ti.
Sorry, Dad.
I couldn't carry on your legacy—not even for a full year. All those promises I made to myself, all the nights I wore your mask hoping I could beco soone you'd be proud of… they all felt distant now. Like illusions I'd told myself to believe in.
I closed my eyes, waiting.
I imagined the cold press of tal against my neck. Maybe a blade. Maybe his fingers. I braced for pain. For silence. For the end.
But all I felt… was warmth.
His fingers brushed across my forehead—gentle, almost protective. A warmth radiated from his touch, sinking into my skin like a fading ember.
My eyes flew open, confused.
"Are you sick?" he asked, quietly.
His voice wasn't mocking, or threatening. Just… calm. Grounded.
*******
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