The Grand Bazaar was alive with noise. Merchants called out in Turkish, Arabic, and English, selling everything from fine silk to knockoff watches. The air was thick with the scent of saffron, roasted meats, and something acrid that clung to the back of Bruce's throat—gun oil.
He had spent weeks tracking his target.
Yusuf Haddad.
An arms dealer who supplied weapons to warlords, cartels, and terrorists worldwide. He had sold rifles to insurgents in Afghanistan, missiles to rogue nations, and even biochemical weapons to the highest bidder. He wasn't just a smuggler—he was a kingpin in the global underworld.
And Bruce was going to bring him down.
Bruce had learned that Haddad was holding a meeting tonight—a deal worth millions. He would be selling military-grade explosives to a group of European extremists in a high-security warehouse near the Bosphorus.
This was the perfect chance to strike.
Bruce wasn't ready to return home yet, but this would be his first true mission—a real-world test of everything he had learned from Markov, Kyros, and Alfred.
He had no gadgets. No backup. Just his training, his mind, and the shadows.
Dressed in dark clothes, Bruce moved across the rooftops of Istanbul. The cold night air stung his skin, but he barely felt it. Below, the streets were packed with people, but his target lay ahead—the warehouse, surrounded by armed guards.
Bruce scanned the area. Two guards at the entrance. Four more patrolling the perimeter. Sniper on the rooftop.
Sloppy.
Markov had taught him that a well-guarded place should never look well-guarded. These men were hired muscle, not professionals. They were dangerous, but predictable.
Bruce dropped into a shadowed alley and moved fast, silent.
One of the guards stepped away from his post to smoke.
Bruce struck.
A quick strike to the throat—silencing him. A second to the side of his neck, knocking him out cold. Bruce caught him before he hit the ground, dragging him into the darkness.
One down.
Bruce scaled the wall, moving like a shadow. He reached the rooftop, avoiding the sniper's gaze. As the man turned, Bruce lunged, locking an arm around his throat. The sniper struggled, but Bruce choked him out, laying him down without a sound.
Now, he had the high ground.
Bruce slipped into the warehouse. The air smelled like oil and gunpowder. Stacks of weapons crates lined the walls—machine guns, RPGs, grenades. Enough to arm an army.
Then he saw them.
Yusuf Haddad, standing in the center, flanked by six heavily armed bodyguards. Opposite him were three men in business suits—the buyers. One of them opened a case, revealing stacks of cash.
"Everything is in place," Haddad said, his voice smooth. "By tomorrow, your people will have enough firepower to burn down half of Europe."
Bruce clenched his fists.
This man was a disease.
He needed to be cut out.
Bruce struck like a phantom.
He threw a smoke bomb from his pocket—something he had made from materials bought in the Bazaar. It erupted in a thick black cloud, blinding everyone.
The first guard panicked, firing wildly. Bruce disarmed him in seconds, breaking his arm and sending him crashing into a crate.
The second one charged. Bruce grabbed a crowbar from the ground and smashed his kneecap, sending him screaming to the floor.
Gunfire erupted, but Bruce was already moving. He used the shadows, the confusion, the fear—taking them out one by one.
A guard swung at him with a knife. Bruce caught his wrist and twisted it until the bone snapped.
Another fired a shotgun. Bruce ducked, kicked him in the gut, then slammed his head into the crate, leaving a bloody stain.
The buyers ran for their lives.
Now, it was just Haddad.
Haddad stumbled back, reaching for his gun.
Bruce grabbed him first. He slammed the arms dealer against the crates, knocking the air from his lungs.
"W-Who the hell are you?" Haddad gasped, struggling against Bruce's grip.
Bruce said nothing. He reached into the crate and pulled out a grenade. He flicked the pin out and pressed the lever into Haddad's hand.
Haddad's eyes widened in terror. If he let go… he was dead.
Bruce leaned in. "This is what you've done to thousands of people. Sold death. Sold fear."
"I-I can pay you," Haddad stammered, sweat dripping down his face.
Bruce's voice was ice. "I don't want your money."
Haddad whimpered. "P-Please."
Bruce watched him for a moment. Then, without a word, he knocked Haddad unconscious.
He wasn't a killer. But he was something worse for men like Haddad.
A nightmare.
Bruce planted a timer on the explosives. The whole place would go up in five minutes. He made his way to the exit, weaving through the carnage he had left behind.
Outside laid the bodies of all of the men he beat including Haddad, he disappeared into the streets as the warehouse erupted into flames behind him.
Haddad's empire was gone.
Bruce stood on a rooftop, watching the fire burn in the distance.
He had done it.
No weapons. No allies. No powers. Just his training, his skill, and his will.
But it wasn't enough.
Tonight, he had taken down one arms dealer. But there were hundreds more. Thousands of criminals poisoning the world.
He needed to become more.
And he knew exactly where he had to go next.