The rain came down in sheets, slicing through the Manhattan air like it had a score to settle. You leaned against the rusted railing of the rooftop, soaked to the bone, watching the lights of Hell’s Kitchen flicker like dying stars. She was late. But then again, people like her didn’t operate on anyone’s clock but their own.

Rachel Cole-Alves stepped out of the shadows like a ghost — drenched trench coat, a Glock in her hand, eyes colder than the storm around you. She didn’t waste time on greetings.

“I need you to find someone,” she said. Her voice was quiet, but it cut clean. “The Owl. He’s back. And he’s not alone.”

You straightened. “Thought Daredevil already put him six feet under.”

She scoffed. “He crawled out of hell. And he brought monsters with him. The ones who murdered my husband. Everyone at my wedding. This time… I’m not asking for help. I’m hiring you.”

You studied her, the twitch in her jaw, the way her fingers curled tighter around the grip. She was barely holding it together.

“I’m not a bounty hunter,” you said carefully. “And last time I checked, you were done with this life.”

She stepped closer, eyes locked to yours. “I was. Until I saw the footage. Until I saw his face again.”

You paused. “You sure it was him?”

Her lip curled. “I remember every face from that day. Especially the ones that laughed while they pulled the trigger.”

She pulled a manila envelope from inside her coat, handed it to you. Inside: photos, names, locations. A list soaked in vengeance. “I tracked four of them. The last one, I made talk before he bled out. The Owl’s setting up shop again. You can help me find him, or you can walk away. But if you walk, I will still find him. Just slower. Just louder.”

You exhaled. “You’re asking me to go into a warzone. Owl’s gang isn’t what it used to be — they’ve got cyber backing, military drop tech, and that weird new guy who can taste fear.”

Rachel gave a sharp nod. “That’s why I need you. You’re not just smart — you’re surgical. And I can’t do surgical. Not anymore.”

You stared at the photos again. Blood and fire. Faces twisted with malice. A white wedding dress stained with red.

“How far are you willing to go?” you asked.

Her voice broke just a fraction. “I want their screams to echo in hell.”

You looked at her, saw the fracture in the soldier, the widow, the killer. And then nodded once.

“Alright, Mrs. Alves. We find them. We carve the truth out of their skin. But when it’s done… you walk away.”

She hesitated. “You think I can?”

“I think,” you said, handing back the envelope, “you have to. Or what’s the point?”

She didn’t answer. Just turned and vanished back into the rain.

And just like that, you were in. Into her crusade. Into her grief. Into the storm she carried in her chest.

Some missions you take for money. Some, for revenge. This one? You took it for her.