Peter WHY...

Peter stood in the lair, Shadow suit on. Black armor hugged him—bulky Kevlar plates covered chest, shoulders, thighs. Steel reinforcements gleamed faint. Helmet locked tight—tinted visor, hood hung low. Looked like a dark Red Hood. Guns sat ready—Beretta on his hip, revolver strapped to his thigh. He flexed his hands. Feels solid, he thought. Stepped to his bike—matte black, stolen, engine modded quiet. Swung a leg over. 

'Let's move', he thought. Key turned. Engine purred low.

Snow whipped past as he rode out. Streets stretched dark, wet with slush. Cold stung through his armor. Fog clung thick, lights bleeding into haze. Harbor was the spot—Red Hook, down by the docks. He gunned it, tires gripping ice, mind sharp. Kingpin's filth ends tonight, he thought. Been running too long.

He hit Red Hook Harbor. Docks loomed—crates stacked jagged, ships creaked in the murk. Air smelled of salt and rust, heavy with damp. He parked behind a rusted container, cut the engine. Pulled a tarp off the flatbed—black, frayed—draped it over the bike. Kicked slush around it. Checked it—tight, hidden. No one's finding this, he thought. Stays off the grid.

His mission locked—burn Kingpin's drug lab down. The lab ran on The Black Tar, a hulking freighter docked at Pier 7. Kingpin's government ties kept it safe—cops turned blind, palms greased deep. Peter crouched low, visor cutting the fog, guns cold against him. Narcotics is a dirty business, he said to himself, voice flat through the modulator. Kingpin's untouchable—till now.

Snow fell slow, muffling sound. Fog curled thick, shadows shifting in the gloom. Anti-hero rules—no mercy for scum, he thought, jaw set. This lab's poison—time to kill it.

Peter crouched low near the docks, Shadow suit blending into the fog. Red Hook Harbor stretched dark—snow fell thick, muffling creaks from the ships. The Black Tar loomed ahead, a rusted freighter docked at Pier 7. Hull scarred, paint chipped—black tar streaks stained the sides. Deck lights flickered, cutting through the haze. Stacks of crates lined the pier—cover for his move. Kingpin's den, Peter thought. Time to slip in—quiet, clean.

He counted heads. Ten guards patrolled—six on deck, four along the pier. Rifles slung low, boots scuffing snow. Five lab guys inside—white coats, shadows moving through grimy portholes. Fifteen total—ten muscle, five brains, he thought. Security's tight, but sloppy—fog's my edge.

The lab sprawled below deck—cargo hold turned factory. Steel tables bolted down, cluttered with burners, beakers, scales. Powdery piles—coke, maybe heroin—stacked in bricks. Vats bubbled, pipes snaked along walls, venting fumes through cracked vents. Crates of chemicals—acetone, ether—jammed the corners. Dim bulbs swung overhead, casting jagged shadows. Guards paced a catwalk above, rifles ready. Dirty setup— reeks of cash and rot, Peter thought. Kingpin's little empire—gonna crumble.

He moved fast. Slipped behind a crate stack—snow muffled his steps. Fog cloaked him black. A guard shuffled close, breath fogging, rifle loose. Peter held still—heartbeat steady. Guard passed. Too easy, he thought. Spotted a rope dangling off the ship's stern—cargo line, frayed but taut. Tested it—held his weight. Back door—perfect, he thought. Climbed quick, hands gripping tight, boots silent on the hull.

Reached the deck. Dropped low, hugged the shadows. Guards paced—two near the bow, two midship, two at the stern hatch. Voices muttered—gruff, bored. Peter edged along the railing—snow crunched soft under his bulk. Lab hatch loomed—rusted steel, ajar, light spilling out. Entry point, he thought. Gotta time it—now.

One guard turned—lit a cigarette, flame flaring. Peter darted—slid through the hatch, dropped inside. Landed soft on a catwalk ledge—armor clinked faint, visor dimmed the glare. Below, lab guys worked—five heads bent over tables, cutting powder, weighing bags. Guards above—four rifles, slow steps. Fifteen on lock—didn't see me, Peter thought. Stealth's holding—time to plan the hit.

He crouched, guns cold against him—Beretta at his hip, revolver on his thigh. Lab hummed—vats hissed, fumes stung his nose through the helmet filters. Kingpin's filth—ends tonight, he thought, eyes narrowing. Burn it down—quiet, then loud.

He gripped his Beretta—finger off the trigger, ready. Time to hit, he thought. Start quiet—drop the guards, then blow it.

He shifted, poised to strike—then stopped. A phone rang—sharp, cutting the hum. Guard on the catwalk, big guy, scarred face, yanked it from his pocket. Answered fast. "Yeah," he grunted, voice rough. Peter leaned in—ears sharp, visor dimming the glare.

"Special shipment's here," a voice crackled through—low, clipped. "Pulling into the docks now—stay alert. More guys coming—ten, maybe twelve. Keep it tight."

The guard nodded, though no one saw. "Got it," he said. "We're locked—bring it in." Hung up. Turned to the others. "Heads up—shipment's docking. More crew inbound. Watch the lines."

Peter held still—breath steady, mind racing. Special shipment? he thought. Now—that's new. More men—ten, twelve? Shit, doubles the heat. His hand eased off the Beretta—plan shifted fast. Was gonna blitz 'em—guns first, then boom, he thought. Now? Wait—see what's coming. Could be bigger than this lab.

Fog pressed thick outside—snow muffled the docks. Lab churned below—powder piled, vats bubbled. Guards tensed—rifles up, eyes darting. Peter stayed low—armor hugged the shadows, visor cutting the haze. Shipment's key—Kingpin's moving something big, he thought. Hold tight—let it play. Then hit harder.