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𝗚𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗛𝗶𝘁𝘀 𖣠

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been lodged deep within his ear canal. 𖣠

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dousing patrons with boiling hot liquid. Those unlucky enough to not be in the splash zone instead got their jugular vein slashed. The ricocheting missile would eventually return to its owner, covered in blood and black sludge. He would have noticed it too— if it weren’t for the fact it had »

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from the paper, slipping it into his pocket as he began to make his way to the exit. Only to stop at the door. “𝘈𝘩. Of course. I almost forgot to give you back your pen. . .” One swift motion unleashed total pandemonium upon the hostages. Coffee mugs and pots alike were shattered, »

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that read: 𝘗𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘰𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘱𝘩 𝘣𝘺 𝘗𝘩𝘰𝘦𝘣𝘦 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘳. ”Phoebe. . . Parker,” he mused, a dark, dangerous spark lighting up his soulless eyes. “Nice angle on the police tape, Ms. Parker. Real shame you missed the actual kill shot, maybe next time we’ll make it a self-portrait.” He tore the article straight »

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is a masterclass!” Lester set his mug down with a sharp *𝙘𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠* on the laminate counter. His gaze drifting across the quiet room before returning to the ruffian beside him. “You got a pen?” Quivering hands procured his desired instrument. Without a word, Bullseye traced the line below the image »

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calloused finger and tapped the front-page story. “Yeah,” the man squeaked, not looking up. “H-Horrible stuff.” “That’s what I’m saying! I mean, mob hit gone wrong?” A *𝘀𝗰𝗼𝗳𝗳*. “Gone ‘𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨’? I practically turned the kid’s heart into a 𝗽͟𝗶͟𝗻͟-͟𝗰͟𝘂͟𝘀͟𝗵͟𝗶͟𝗼͟𝗻. 𝘗𝘧𝘧𝘵. That’s not gone ‘𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨’, that there »

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intended to look inconspicuous, he had failed. *𝙨𝙠𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙚* Suddenly, nobody in the diner dared move. Not even as the metallic frame of the seat beside the mobster screeched against the linoleum floor. “Y‘see this?” Plopping the newspaper atop the man’s unfinished meal, Bullseye took one »

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‎ @proelior.bsky.social · 26/08/2026

“𝘜𝘯𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦,” Lester muttered into his cup of coffee. “No appreciation for craft. Just straight sensationalism.” The guy sitting two stools down--a trembling mid-level enforcer for the Maggia--shifted uncomfortably, his eyes glued to his own plate of half-eaten hotcakes and bacon. If he had »

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Reposted by 𖣠

Within, ambitious Kitchen Irish scheme how they intend to carve up The Triad and what remains of the Italians for their own benefit. Then, something over a mile out: the quaking mechanics of a rifle; the sobering stench of brass and the reek of gunpowder in the cartridge load. [ cont. ]

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themselves. In one of their hands, they clutch a message scribbled in shoddy handwriting across a beer-stained napkin: ' ꔋ𝘩𝗲 𝘸𝗼𝙧𝗹𝖽 𝗇𝗲𝗲𝖽𝙨 𝗹𝗲𝙨𝙨 𝗹𝖺𝘸𝘆𝗲𝙧𝙨 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗺𝗼𝙧𝗲 𝗽𝗹𝗎𝗺𝘣𝗲𝙧𝙨. 𝝪𝝤ꓴ'𝙍𝗘 𝘞𝗘𝗟Ⲥ𝝤𝝡𝗘. — 𖣠 '

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slumps against the dilapidated plaster. Protruding from the 𝗲͟𝘅͟𝗮͟𝗰͟𝘁 center of his chest is a grotesque, tightly clumped bouquet of heavy steel throwing darts; every single feather intertwined, driven deep into the same impossibly narrow spot. Near the doorway, two lead detectives murmur amongst »

𝕽ed and blue strobes slice through the condensation on front windows, casting erratic, pulsing shadows across the bar’s fractured wooden booths. From outside, the steady *𝗵𝘂𝗺* of an idling patrol vehicle sets the eery ambiance of the crime scene. On the far wall, an unfortunate law clerk »

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shoulder, Bullseye melted into the city skyline. The game has begun.

crosswind and rasped into the dark, hoping the blast hadn’t completely deafened him: “Wouldya look at that. I 𝗺͟𝗶͟𝘀͟𝘀͟𝗲͟𝗱. Oh, don’tcha worry your pretty lil’ horns about it. Your ol’ buddy Bullseye is just getting warmed up.” Stepping back into the shadows, the heavy Barrett slung over his »

him, pulverizing it into red dust. Lester sneered from the dark, watching through the lens as the hero was engulfed in the warm, settling debris. Ejecting the massive spent brass casing with a crisp, metallic *𝗰𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗸*, Lester caught the smoking shell neatly in his palm. He leaned into the »

pneumatic *𝘁𝗵𝘂𝗺𝗽*; sending a high-velocity copper projectile slicing through the damp fog, its micro-grooves whipping the air into a razor-thin vortex. It would whistle past Daredevil’s left ear with a fraction of an inch to spare before the tungsten core detonated against the brick chimney behind »

Daredevil’s cowl, he adjusted his aim by a millimeter. A direct kill shot through the skull would be 𝑡𝑜𝑜 𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑦, too quick. He wanted the sightless hero to bleed a little panic first. His gloved finger squeezed the trigger. The integral suppressor muffled the colossal muzzle blast down to a low, »

His pulse didn’t flicker. Chambers filled with a custom, hand-balanced .𝟱𝟬 𝗕𝗠𝗚 round, were tightly packed within a massive armor-piercing tungsten cartridge. ‘𝘛𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘍𝘪𝘥𝘰,’ he thought. ‘𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝙩͟𝙝͟𝙞͟𝙨͟ 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘯’𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥.’ Calculating the crosswind, humidity, and the exact contour of »

𝕻erched in the iron shadow of a water tower, Lester rested the heavy frame of his 𝗕𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗲𝘁𝘁 𝗠𝟴𝟮𝗔𝟭 anti-material rifle against a crossbeam. The set up had been a pain in the ass but now with his oversized crimson target, @proelior.bsky.social, in plain view he knew it’d been worth the hassle. »

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