The city breathed around you—a living, snarling beast of concrete and neon. You moved through its veins like a shadow, boots whispering over rain-slick pavement. The air hung heavy with the metallic tang of distant storms and the greasy perfume of fast-food wrappers fermenting in alleyways. Somewhere above, a flickering streetlight buzzed like an angry hornet, casting jagged shadows that danced with every cautious step.

Your breath fogged in the cool night, each exhale a fleeting ghost. The distant hum of traffic was a bassline to the sharper notes—a bottle shattering two blocks east, the wet cough of a homeless man curled in a doorway, the rhythmic click-clack of heels fleeing some unseen danger. Then—crack.

Gunfire.

It wasn't the flat pop of movies. This was a raw, splintering sound that tore through the night, leaving your eardrums ringing. Adrenaline spiked your blood as your muscles coiled, instincts overriding thought. The shift came like a shudder—bones melting, sinew snapping into new configurations. Your human skin dissolved into scales and sinew, your spine elongating into a lethal arc. The world sharpened: smells became colors, sounds became textures. Rotting dumpsters bloomed like toxic flowers. Blood—fresh and coppery—tinged the air.

You flowed forward, raptor limbs silent despite their power. Around the corner, the scene unfolded like a staged play. A thug in a shredded leather jacket slumped against a brick wall, one eye swollen shut, lip split into a crimson grin. Above him loomed the man in the black suit.

Feline was the only word for him. He moved like liquid shadow, every strike precise, controlled. His polished Oxfords cracked against the thug's ribs—thud—a sound like a butcher's mallet tenderizing meat. The thug's breath gurgled, a wet plea trapped in his throat.

No time to think.

You launched yourself, talons screeching against asphalt as you landed between them. The impact reverberated up your forelimbs, claws carving grooves into the pavement. The thug's sweat-drenched collar crumpled in your jaws as you wrenched him backward, his weight dangling like a ragdoll.

"Take it easy," you growled—or tried to. To human ears, it was a guttural snarl, all teeth and primal warning.

The suited man froze, his head tilting slowly. Moonlight glossed his slicked-back hair, caught the edge of a silver tie pin shaped like a coiled serpent. His eyes—narrow, amber, pupils slit like a cat's—locked onto yours. For a heartbeat, the alley hummed with tension thicker than the city smog.

"Interesting," he purred, voice velvet over steel. He flexed his knuckles, bloodied and pristine all at once. "You're not in the files."

The thug whimpered, a broken marionette in your grip. You could feel his racing pulse through your teeth, smell the sour fear oozing from his pores. The suited man took a step forward, and you answered with a low, vibrating growl that rattled dumpsters.

He paused, smile knife-sharp. "You'll regret this," he said lightly, as if discussing the weather. Then he melted backward, swallowed by the alley's darkness as seamlessly as smoke.

The thug sagged, unconscious or smart enough to play dead. You released him, his body slumping to the ground with a meaty thump. For a moment, you lingered, tasting the air—gunpowder, blood, and the lingering trace of the man's cologne.

Sandalwood and something darker.

The city sighed around you, indifferent. Somewhere, a siren wailed. You slipped back into the shadows, scales rippling back into skin, the night clinging to you like a second coat.

The game had just gotten more complicated.

SCENEBREAK

The fluorescent lights of the lab buzzed overhead as Tony tossed you a damp cloth for the blood on your knuckles. Steve leaned against a workstation, arms crossed, his gaze tracking your every move like a soldier assessing a battlefield.

"So, let me get this straight," Tony said, tapping a holographic screen floating beside him. "Mysterious Catman beats a guy half to death, smells like a high-end candle store, and accessorizes with snake jewelry. Classy. Any chance he's just a disgruntled Zoolander fan?"

You snorted, wiping grime from your jaw. "He moved like he'd been trained to kill. Not a model. Not a hero, either."

Steve's brow furrowed. "The serpent pin—it could be a symbol. Hydra's used similar motifs, but they've been quiet since we dismantled their last base."

"Too quiet," Tony muttered, flicking through security feeds of the alley. The footage was grainy, but the man's fluid, predatory stance stood out even in pixels. "FRIDAY, cross-reference facial recognition with known mercs, assassins, and... uh, cat enthusiasts."

"Already done, boss," the AI replied. "No matches. But the tie pin resembles an artifact flagged by SHIELD last year—a relic tied to the Naga Consortium. Underground weapons dealers. Mythical theme. Real Indiana Jones rejects."

You stiffened. The name Naga prickled something in your memory—a briefing, a raid gone sideways, whispers of a shadow empire dealing in enhanced tech. "They're supposed to be a myth."

"Myths love New York," Tony said dryly. "Like cockroaches and overpriced coffee."

Steve stepped closer, studying the hologram. "If they're here, this wasn't random. That thug you saved—he might know something."

You grimaced. The man had vanished from the hospital before dawn, leaving only a shredded IV and a note scrawled in Russian: Спасибо. Но вы не можете спасти меня.

"Thank you. But you can't save me."

"He's spooked," you said. "And Catman didn't just want him dead. He wanted him terrified."

Tony's smirk faded. "Alright, Jurassic Park. Time to put those sniffer skills to work. You got a whiff of this guy's cologne—sandalwood and doom. Let's see if you can track him."

SCENEBREAK

The scent led you to a dockside warehouse, its walls crusted with salt and rot. Moonlight sliced through broken windows as you shifted, scales rippling over your skin, claws etching the concrete. The sandalwood hung thick here, tangled with the metallic bite of blood.

Inside, crates stamped with the Naga emblem—a coiled serpent—lined the walls. And there, in the center, stood him, silhouetted against a cracked skylight.

"Persistent," he drawled, turning. The serpent pin glinted as he unbuttoned his suit jacket, revealing a harness of blades. "I'd applaud your tenacity... if it weren't so suicidal."

You lunged, talons slashing, but he melted aside like smoke, a knife grazing your flank.

"Who are you?" you snarled.

He laughed—a cold, hollow sound. "A necessary evil. The Naga's fang. And you?" His eyes flickered, amber to gold. "You're the anomaly. The thing they didn't account for."

A flash of movement. A blade aimed for your throat. You caught his wrist, bones grinding, his breath hot against your muzzle.

"Tell me," he hissed, "do your Avengers know what you really are?"

Your blood went cold. What?

He smirked, kneeing you back, and vanished into the shadows, his parting words lingering like poison.

"Ask Stark about Project Raptor."

SCENEBREAK

Back at the Tower, you didn't knock. Tony looked up from his bourbon, guilt flashing in his eyes before he buried it behind a smirk.

"Okay, spill," you growled.

He sighed, swiping open a classified file.

"You weren't born with those scales, kid. You were built."