Meanwhile, Kraven had claimed his own space in the expanding battlefield, his hunting instincts allowing him to navigate the three-way battle with predatory efficiency. He moved between the different factions like a ghost, striking where opportunity presented itself rather than committing to any single engagement.
"Beautiful chaos," he laughed, taking down a League operative with a dart to the neck while avoiding return fire from Pierce's tactical team. "A hunt worthy of legends."
His enhanced senses tracked multiple threats simultaneously, allowing him to flow between combat situations with natural grace. This was his element, the moment where all his years of preparation proved their worth against worthy prey.
Copperhead had disappeared entirely into the lounge's infrastructure, using the building's ventilation and maintenance systems to move unseen between targets. Her serpentine flexibility allowed access to spaces that would be impossible for normal human anatomy, turning the very architecture into her weapon.
Her strikes came from impossible angles, toxin-tipped claws finding exposed skin before she vanished back into the shadows. League operatives collapsed with paralyzed nervous systems, while Pierce's soldiers convulsed as her specialized venoms overwhelmed their enhanced physiology.
Deadshot maintained his overwatch position despite the collapsed mezzanine, his rifle speaking with mechanical precision as he eliminated targets from all three factions. His enhanced targeting eye tracked threats with computer-like efficiency, prioritizing based on immediate danger rather than factional loyalty.
"Multiple hostiles, all vectors," he reported to no one in particular, his scope finding another target through the smoke and debris. "This is gonna get real expensive, real quick."
His position offered a commanding view of the entire battlefield, allowing him to observe the systematic destruction of Pierce's tactical teams while the League operatives established control over key positions. The Winter Soldier remained the primary threat, his enhanced capabilities allowing him to engage multiple opponents simultaneously.
Through all of this chaos, Ra's al Ghul moved with imperial calm, his Shadow Cabinet forming a protective perimeter as he observed the battle with analytical interest. He seemed more curious about the various fighting styles on display than concerned about the immediate violence surrounding him.
"Fascinating," he mused, watching Batman trade devastating blows with the Winter Soldier. "The Detective has incorporated techniques I didn't teach him. Street fighting. Boxer's footwork. Prison yard brutality."
The Winter Soldier's metal arm caught Batman's wrist in a crushing grip, mechanical strength threatening to snap bone despite the armor's protection. Batman responded by driving his knee into the Asset's midsection with enough force to crack the marble flooring beneath them.
"Enhanced durability noted," the Winter Soldier observed, seemingly unaffected by the strike that would have folded a normal human in half. "Tactical adaptation required."
He released Batman's wrist only to attempt a takedown that would have ended the fight if successful. Batman's cape became a weapon, the specialized material wrapping around the Winter Soldier's metal arm while Batman used the leverage to throw him across the room.
The Winter Soldier recovered mid-flight, landing in a controlled roll that brought him back to fighting stance without pause. His tactical analysis was already adapting to Batman's unexpected techniques, processing weaknesses and exploitable patterns.
"You fight like the old man taught you," the Winter Soldier noted, metal fingers flexing as he prepared for the next exchange. "But with modifications. Street applications. Improvised brutality."
"I had good teachers," Batman replied, his cape settling around him as he moved to maintain distance. "Some better than others."
Their renewed engagement sent both fighters crashing through the remnants of an ornate pillar, the impact bringing down chunks of decorative stonework that had survived the initial assault. Each exchange of blows produced sounds like sledgehammers striking anvils.
But the battle was about to become significantly more complex.
During the chaos, Alberto Falcone had been pressed against the far wall, paralyzed by terror as some of the world's most dangerous killers destroyed everything around him. The casual violence, the professional efficiency with which these people killed—it was beyond anything his sheltered criminal upbringing had prepared him for.
The electromagnetic pulse from the Winter Soldier's device had provided the cover he needed. In the sudden darkness, with electronic systems failing throughout the building, Alberto saw his chance to reach the panic room that Oz had mentioned earlier.
Moving with surprising speed for someone who'd spent the entire night terrified, Alberto began crawling through the debris field that had once been the lounge's central seating area. His expensive suit tore on jagged edges of destroyed furniture, but adrenaline drove him forward through the darkness.
He'd made it halfway across the battlefield when enhanced senses detected his movement. In the absolute blackness, thermal signatures and sound became the primary methods of tracking, and Alberto's panicked breathing was like a beacon to those with the training to interpret it.
"Going somewhere, Junior?"
The voice came from directly behind him, carrying mocking amusement despite obvious physical discomfort. Alberto froze, recognizing the tone if not immediately placing the speaker in the chaos of the evening.
Emergency lighting kicked in at that moment, ancient backup systems that predated modern electronics casting everything in hellish red illumination. The dim glow revealed a figure Alberto remembered from the charity gala, though the assassin looked significantly worse for wear.
Bullseye stood behind him, his left arm cradled against his chest in an improvised sling fashioned from what appeared to be expensive fabric torn from some unfortunate victim's clothing. His face showed the aftermath of his encounter with Batman—swollen features, dried blood, and the particular pallor that came from significant pain medication.
"You," Alberto gasped, recognizing the assassin who'd tried to kill him at the gala. "But Batman broke your hands. How are you even here?"
"Hands heal," Bullseye replied, flexing fingers that were clearly still damaged but functional enough for close combat. His throwing accuracy might have been compromised, but his general physical capabilities remained formidable. "Grudges don't."
He moved with the careful precision of someone nursing serious injuries, but his movements still carried the fluid confidence that made him one of the world's premier assassins. The broken arm was a significant handicap, but Bullseye had spent years learning to kill with any available tool.
"Pain makes you focus," he continued conversationally, stalking Alberto through the emergency lighting. "Makes you remember what's important. Like finishing contracts."
Alberto tried to run, but his injured leg from earlier couldn't support the sudden movement. He tumbled across the debris-strewn floor, expensive clothing tearing further as he rolled to a stop near an overturned table that had once hosted Gotham's criminal elite.
"Your daddy's contract is still active," Bullseye explained, his voice carrying clearly despite the ongoing violence around them. "Carmine wants his disappointing son eliminated before he can cause more embarrassment to the family name."
The casual mention of his father's desire for his death hit Alberto like a physical blow. He'd known Carmine was displeased with his recent decisions, but to actually put out a contract on his own son suggested a level of coldness that Alberto hadn't fully comprehended.
"I can pay you more," Alberto offered desperately, trying to crawl away despite his injured leg. Blood from various cuts was making his hands slippery against the marble fragments. "Whatever Carmine promised, I'll double it."
"Already been doubled," Bullseye laughed, the sound carrying genuine amusement despite his obvious pain. "Tripled, actually. Carmine really wants you dead, Junior. Must've done something to really piss off the old man."
The assassin's approach was methodical, hindered by his injuries but still inexorable. His broken arm prevented the precision throwing that was his signature, but years of training had prepared him for exactly this type of contingency.
"Let me guess," Bullseye continued, positioning himself between Alberto and the panic room the younger man had been trying to reach. "You got involved with Pierce's operation. Government contracts, enhanced soldiers, black ops bullshit that brings federal heat."
Alberto's expression confirmed the accuracy of the assessment. "The family's been dealing with government contracts for decades—"
"Not like this," Bullseye cut him off. "Your daddy might be old-school Mafia, but he's not stupid. He knows the difference between buying off local officials and getting in bed with experimental super-soldier programs."
The assassin's damaged left arm hung at his side, but his right hand moved to the small arsenal of backup weapons he kept for exactly this type of situation. Without his signature accuracy, he'd have to rely on more direct methods.
"The Winter Soldier, Alberto? Really?" Bullseye shook his head in mock disappointment. "That mechanical freak has more federal heat attached to him than a nuclear weapon. Every intelligence agency in the world has files on Pierce's pet project."
Around them, the battle continued to rage with increasing intensity. Bane's massive form crashed through another support structure, his Venom-enhanced strength allowing him to go toe-to-toe with multiple League operatives simultaneously. The sound of his combat mixed with the whisper of Kraven's movement through the shadows.
Lady Shiva and Nyssa al Ghul continued their deadly dance, each testing the other's limits through techniques that bordered on artistic in their precision. Their engagement had become the focal point for several League operatives, who maintained a respectful distance while their leader's daughter proved her worthiness against the world's greatest assassin.
Batman and the Winter Soldier had moved their fight to the far side of the lounge, their enhanced capabilities turning architectural features into weapons as they crashed through everything in their path. The Asset's systematic approach was being countered by Batman's improvisational skills, creating a contest of adaptation versus programming.
"You know what the funniest part is?" Bullseye asked, drawing Alberto's attention back to his immediate peril. The assassin had produced a combat knife from somewhere on his person, the blade catching the emergency lighting. "I was already in the neighborhood."
He gestured toward the ongoing chaos with his functional hand. "All this noise, all this violence—it draws professional attention. I came to see what kind of job was going down at the Iceberg, and what do I find? My missing target, cowering in the corner like a kicked dog."
Alberto's eyes darted toward possible escape routes, but Bullseye's positioning had effectively cut off access to the panic room. The main entrance was blocked by League operatives, and the service corridors were controlled by Oz's security teams.
"Convenient, really," Bullseye continued, testing the weight of the knife in his good hand. "I get to complete the contract and study the competition all in one night. Professional development and profitable termination."
That's when the sound of approaching footsteps through the darkness made both men freeze. Multiple figures, moving with coordinated precision despite the electromagnetic blackout. Professional movement that suggested enhanced training and tactical awareness.
But these weren't more League operatives or Pierce's reinforcements. The movement patterns were different, more methodical. Less mystical assassination cult, more military precision mixed with criminal pragmatism.
"Looks like the party's about to get more interesting," Bullseye observed, already calculating his best escape route through the chaos. His injuries made sustained combat inadvisable, but he'd learned to adapt tactics to circumstances.
Through the emergency lighting came new figures, and Alberto's heart sank as he recognized their leader. Marcus Webb, Oz's head of security, led a team of professionals whose expensive suits couldn't quite hide the military bearing beneath.
"Mr. Falcone," Webb called out, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. "Mr. Cobblepot would like a word."
The security team spread out with tactical precision, their movements suggesting years of working together in high-stress situations. Unlike the League operatives or Pierce's soldiers, these men understood the building's layout intimately.
"Shit," Bullseye muttered, recognizing the tactical disadvantage his position presented. He was outnumbered, injured, and operating on Cobblepot's territory against people who knew every hiding spot and escape route.
Webb's attention focused on the assassin with professional interest. "Bullseye, isn't it? We've heard about your work. Impressive reputation, though tonight seems to have been challenging for you."
The security chief's tone was conversational, but his team maintained ready positions that suggested they were prepared for violence at any moment. Their weapons were drawn but not immediately threatening, a professional courtesy between killers.
"Just finishing up some family business," Bullseye replied, shifting his grip on the combat knife while maintaining awareness of all potential threats. "Nothing that concerns Cobblepot's operation."
"Everything that happens in this establishment concerns Mr. Cobblepot," Webb corrected politely. "Especially when it involves the son of Carmine Falcone. That represents a significant investment in future business relationships."
Alberto looked between the two groups of armed professionals, trying to calculate which presented the greater immediate threat. Bullseye wanted him dead on orders from his own father, but Cobblepot's motivations were less clear.
"Mr. Cobblepot operates a neutral establishment," Webb continued, apparently reading Alberto's thoughts. "That neutrality extends to protecting guests from assassination attempts, regardless of who issued the contracts."
Bullseye's expression showed he was processing the implications. Killing Alberto on Cobblepot's territory without permission would violate every unwritten rule that governed Gotham's criminal underworld. But backing down would mean losing the substantial payment Carmine had promised.
"The contract stands," Bullseye said finally, apparently deciding that Carmine Falcone's wrath outweighed Cobblepot's territorial claims. "Family business takes precedence over hospitality."
Webb nodded as if he'd expected that response. "Then we have a problem."
The security team's positioning shifted subtly, creating overlapping fields of fire that would make escape extremely difficult. But before the situation could escalate further, a new voice cut through the tension.
"Enough."
Oz emerged from the service corridors, his umbrella tapping against the debris-strewn floor as he surveyed the standoff. His scarred face showed the strain of the evening's events, but his voice carried the authority of someone who'd spent decades commanding respect through controlled violence.
"This is my establishment," he continued, stepping into the circle of armed professionals. "My rules apply to everyone equally, regardless of family connections or professional reputations."
His attention fixed on Bullseye with cold calculation. "You want to complete your contract? Fine. But not on my property. Take it outside, settle it in the streets like civilized criminals."
Bullseye's grip tightened on his knife, but he made no aggressive moves. Cobblepot's reputation was built on exactly this type of controlled neutrality, and violating it would have consequences that extended far beyond a single contract.
"What about him?" Bullseye asked, gesturing toward Alberto with his functional hand. "Does sanctuary extend to family disappointments who bring federal heat to neutral territory?"
Oz's expression darkened at the reminder of how Alberto's actions had led to the evening's chaos. "That's between me and young Falcone. Your contract doesn't factor into those particular negotiations."
The crime boss's umbrella shifted slightly, the movement subtle but recognizable to those who understood its hidden capabilities. Oz had built his reputation on exactly this type of calculated threat, offering protection while making clear the consequences of refusal.
"Twenty-three years I've maintained neutrality," Oz continued, his voice carrying the weight of decades spent building something lasting in Gotham's chaotic criminal landscape. "Government spooks, international assassins, even ninja death cults—they all respect the boundaries when they're properly established."
Around them, the larger battle continued to rage. Batman and the Winter Soldier's engagement had moved toward the main entrance, their enhanced capabilities allowing them to fight with an intensity that was destroying everything in their path.
League operatives had secured key positions throughout the building, their systematic approach suggesting they intended to hold the territory rather than simply complete an assassination. Ra's al Ghul's presence meant this was about more than eliminating targets.
"But tonight," Oz concluded, his gold tooth catching the emergency lighting as he smiled without humor, "everyone seems to think they can ignore those boundaries. Use my place as their personal battlefield without consequences."
Webb maintained his ready position, but his attention was divided between Bullseye and the larger tactical situation developing throughout the lounge. Multiple factions, enhanced combatants, and now the added complexity of family politics were creating variables that even experienced security professionals struggled to manage.
The sound of approaching sirens cut through the violence, suggesting that GCPD was finally responding to the chaos. But their standard equipment would be woefully inadequate against the enhanced combatants inside, and their arrival would only add another layer of complexity to an already impossible situation.
But the battle was about to become significantly more complex. Through the lounge's shattered windows came new sounds: engines, shouting voices, the distinctive crack of high-powered rifles. Law enforcement was attempting to establish a perimeter, though their standard protocols were inadequate for the situation they faced.
More concerning was the new thermal signature that appeared on every functional tactical display simultaneously. Something large was approaching from the harbor, moving too fast to be a normal vehicle. The signature was massive, suggesting military hardware that shouldn't exist in civilian areas.
"What the hell is that?" Deadshot asked from his overwatch position, his scope tracking the approaching threat through the lounge's broken windows.
The Winter Soldier paused in his engagement with Batman, metal arm tilting slightly as if receiving information through some internal communication system. His response was immediate and decisive, suggesting contact with his handlers.
"Extraction protocol initiated," he announced, producing what appeared to be a standard smoke grenade from his tactical gear.
But the device that hit the floor wasn't standard issue. The explosion it produced wasn't smoke but some kind of electromagnetic pulse that disabled every remaining electronic device in the lounge simultaneously. Tactical displays went dark, enhanced optics failed, even the building's backup lighting system shut down completely.
In the sudden darkness, enhanced senses became the primary advantage. Kraven's hunting instincts, Bane's tactical awareness, Batman's years of operating in shadow. The Winter Soldier moved through the blackness with mechanical precision, his route taking him directly toward the standoff between Bullseye and Cobblepot's security team.
But extraction wasn't coming. The massive thermal signature approaching from the harbor had changed course, moving away from the city rather than toward it. Pierce was abandoning his Asset rather than risk further exposure.
Ra's al Ghul watched this development with calculating interest, his ancient eyes taking in every detail of how the Winter Soldier processed abandonment by his handlers. The moment of recognition, quickly suppressed but not entirely hidden, suggested programming limitations that could be exploited.
"Fascinating," Ra's murmured, more to himself than his Shadow Cabinet. "Loyalty through chemical conditioning rather than genuine conviction. How very modern."
Batman had used the electromagnetic blackout to reposition, emerging from the shadows behind the Winter Soldier with renewed tactical advantage. His cape spread wide as he launched himself toward the enhanced operative, seeking to end their engagement through decisive action.
But the Winter Soldier's enhanced senses detected the approach, metal arm sweeping upward to intercept Batman's attack with mechanical precision. The collision sent both fighters crashing through what remained of the lounge's central bar, alcohol and glass exploding around them in a cascade of destruction.
The impact demolished the mahogany structure entirely, sending both combatants tumbling across debris-strewn marble that was now slick with spilled liquor and broken crystal. The crash echoed through the emergency-lit space like thunder, drawing attention from every faction currently engaged in their own struggles.
"Your technique is impressive," the Winter Soldier acknowledged, metal fingers seeking pressure points that would incapacitate rather than kill. "But ultimately limited by moral constraints."
"Those constraints are what separate us from monsters," Batman replied, his voice carrying the controlled fury that had defined his eight-year war on crime.
"Monsters are more efficient," the Winter Soldier countered, his metal arm driving toward Batman's throat with lethal intent.
The strike never connected. A throwing knife materialized between them, deflecting the Winter Soldier's attack while opening a shallow cut across his exposed wrist. Both combatants turned toward the source of the intervention.
Deathstroke stood atop the remains of the mezzanine balcony, his distinctive armor making him unmistakable even in the emergency lighting. Fresh blood streaked his gear from multiple wounds, but his movements remained fluid and controlled.
"Personal business," Slade announced, his voice carrying across the chaos. "The Asset and I have history to settle."
Without waiting for a response, he launched himself from the elevated position, staff extending to full length as he descended toward the Winter Soldier with predatory intent. Years of enhancement met systematic conditioning in a collision that sent all three fighters scattering across the debris-strewn floor.
The triple impact created a crater in the expensive marble flooring, spider web cracks radiating outward as the building's structure groaned under the stress of superhuman combat. Dust and debris rained from the ceiling as support beams shifted, warning signs that even the Iceberg Lounge's reinforced construction had limits.
The Winter Soldier recovered first, his programming allowing him to process multiple threats simultaneously. Metal arm deflected Slade's staff work while his free hand sought Batman's exposed throat, mechanical precision creating openings that shouldn't have existed.
But Batman and Deathstroke had fought together before, their enhanced capabilities creating a temporary alliance that the Winter Soldier's tactical analysis struggled to counter. Enhanced reflexes met systematic brutality while superior training created tactical advantages that pure conditioning couldn't overcome.
"Efficiency compromised," the Winter Soldier stated, apparently communicating with himself rather than his opponents. "Multiple enhanced targets exceeding operational parameters."
"You talk too much," Slade replied, his staff finding gaps in the Asset's defenses while Batman pressed the attack from a different angle.
The three-way engagement was brutal and direct, enhanced fighters testing each other's limits through pure violence. Their combat had evolved beyond martial arts into something resembling a natural disaster, each exchange of blows producing destruction that threatened the building's structural integrity.
A support pillar cracked under the force of the Winter Soldier's metal fist as Batman used it for leverage in a spinning kick. Slade's staff work shattered what remained of the ornate ceiling fixtures, sending crystalline shards raining down like deadly snow.
But their violence was interrupted by a sound that made everyone in the lounge freeze simultaneously. Not another explosion or the crash of breaking architecture.
Slow, deliberate applause from the emergency-lit entrance.
"Magnificent," called a cultured voice from the shadows. "Simply magnificent. I couldn't have choreographed it better myself."
Alexander Pierce stepped into the emergency lighting, flanked by figures whose movements suggested they were anything but ordinary government employees. His tailored suit was immaculate despite the chaos around him, and his expression carried the satisfied amusement of someone watching a particularly entertaining performance.
Behind him came shapes that made even Ra's al Ghul's Shadow Cabinet shift into defensive positions. Not more enhanced operatives or government contractors. These were "SHIELD" agents, the real thing, elite operatives whose loyalty had been purchased through methods that made the Winter Soldier's conditioning look gentle by comparison.
"Mr. Pierce," Alberto called desperately from his position behind the overturned table, relief evident in his voice. "Thank God you're here. These people have gone insane."
"Indeed they have," Pierce agreed mildly, his attention focused on the Winter Soldier rather than the cowering Falcone heir. "Though perhaps not in the way you think."
The Asset's metal arm lowered slowly, his tactical systems processing Pierce's presence with mechanical confusion. Abandonment protocols had been initiated, extraction denied, but now his handler had arrived personally. The contradiction created visible system conflicts.
"Sir," the Winter Soldier said, his voice carrying uncertainty for the first time all evening. "Mission parameters unclear. Extraction was denied."
"Plans change," Pierce replied conversationally. "Adaptation is survival. You taught me that."
He gestured slightly, and the "SHIELD" operatives spread out with tactical precision that made the League of Shadows' coordination look amateur. These weren't enhanced individuals, but their movements suggested training that transcended normal human capability.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Pierce announced, his voice carrying the confidence of someone who held all the cards. "I believe it's time we concluded this evening's entertainment."
The emergency lighting flickered ominously, as if the building itself recognized that the real battle was just beginning. But before anyone could respond to Pierce's arrival, another sound cut through the tension.
The deep groan of structural failure.
The combined violence of enhanced fighters, electromagnetic pulses, and systematic destruction had pushed the Iceberg Lounge beyond its limits. What had been architectural damage was becoming catastrophic failure, support beams buckling under stress they were never designed to handle.
"Building's coming down," Deadshot announced from his position, his enhanced vision tracking the progression of structural cracks through load-bearing elements. "We got maybe minutes before this place becomes a tomb."
Oz's face went white as he processed the implications. Twenty-three years of careful construction, millions in renovation and defensive modifications, his life's work about to collapse because enhanced psychopaths couldn't settle their differences without destroying everything around them.
"Get out!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos with desperate authority. "Everyone get the fuck out of my building before it comes down on all our heads!"
But evacuation proved more complex than simply running for the exits. The various factions had been systematically destroying each other for over an hour, and old grudges didn't disappear because of architectural emergencies.
Pierce's voice crackled through his communication system as he assessed the deteriorating situation. "Asset, new priority. Falcone heir represents significant intelligence liability. Eliminate before extraction."
The Winter Soldier's head turned toward Alberto's position with mechanical precision. The young man had pressed himself against the far wall, paralyzed by terror as some of the world's most dangerous killers destroyed everything around him. His expensive suit was torn, his face pale with the understanding that his carefully orchestrated plan had become a nightmare beyond his control.
Bruce caught the Asset's shift in focus through his peripheral vision. The Winter Soldier was abandoning his engagement with the other assassins, moving toward Alberto with that characteristic mechanical determination. Behind the Asset, Bullseye was also repositioning, his injured form favoring his good arm as he recognized opportunity in the chaos.
Two killers converging on the same target. A young man who, despite his crimes, didn't deserve execution without trial.
"Robin," Bruce said sharply, his voice cutting through the destruction around them. "The assassins are moving toward the construction site. They'll have positional advantage if they reach it first."
Dick's head snapped toward the shattered windows where Deathstroke, Kraven, and the others were making their tactical withdrawal. "What about Alberto?"
Bruce's jaw tightened behind the cowl as he weighed impossible choices. Seven international assassins loose in Gotham versus one terrified young man facing execution. The greater good versus individual mercy.
"The assassins represent the larger threat," Bruce said, the words tasting like ash. "If they establish defensive positions in that building, civilian casualties become inevitable."
But their pursuit was blocked by Pierce, who positioned himself between Batman and the window. "No one else dies tonight," Bruce declared, cape spreading wide to emphasize his imposing presence.
The confrontation might have escalated, but the building chose that moment to express its structural displeasure. A section of the ceiling collapsed near the main entrance, blocking the primary exit route while dust and debris filled the air.
"Service exit!" Oz commanded, pointing toward the kitchen corridors with his umbrella. "Move, goddammit! Twenty-three years of work isn't dying because you assholes can't postpone your death match!"
The evacuation became a chaotic scramble as multiple factions converged on the limited exit routes. League operatives moved with silent efficiency, while Cobblepot's security team maintained order through professional discipline. The various assassins found themselves temporarily allied by necessity, their survival instincts overriding factional loyalties.
Behind them, the Winter Soldier reached Alberto's position just as Bullseye emerged from cover on the opposite side. The young Falcone heir looked between them with dawning horror, understanding that his death had become inevitable.
"Please," Alberto whispered, his voice barely audible over the building's groaning structure. "I'll disappear. You'll never see me again."
The Winter Soldier's response was to grab Alberto by the throat, metal fingers closing with crushing force. "Target acquired. Preparing for elimination."
But Bullseye had his own agenda. Despite his injuries, the assassin's competitive nature couldn't accept being upstaged by a government asset. "Back off, chrome arm. The kid's mine."
"Federal authority supersedes private contracts," the Winter Soldier replied with mechanical logic, his grip tightening on Alberto's windpipe.
What followed was a brief but vicious struggle between two professional killers, each determined to claim their prize. Alberto became a pawn in their contest, passed between them like a piece of property while the building continued its structural collapse around them.
In the end, it was the Winter Soldier's enhanced strength that proved decisive. A casual backhand sent Bullseye sprawling across debris-strewn marble, his injured arm unable to absorb the impact properly. The assassin lay stunned among the wreckage, his professional pride worth nothing against mechanical precision.
The Winter Soldier turned back to Alberto, metal fingers seeking the optimal pressure point for quick elimination. But the young man's survival instincts finally kicked in, desperation overriding terror as he grabbed a shard of broken glass and drove it toward the Asset's exposed neck.
The improvised weapon shattered against reinforced armor, but the moment of resistance was enough. A section of ceiling chose that instant to collapse, tons of concrete and steel crashing down between the Winter Soldier and his target.
When the dust settled, Alberto Falcone was gone, vanished into the building's collapsing infrastructure like smoke. The Winter Soldier stood amid the rubble, his tactical systems struggling to process the target's escape while structural failure accelerated around him.
With mechanical precision, he launched himself through the lounge's shattered windows, his enhanced physiology allowing him to absorb the three-story drop to the street below. The Asset had chosen survival over immediate mission completion, but his programming wouldn't let him abandon the hunt entirely.