The wind whispered through the broken window of the mayor's office, the glass still scattered like ice across the floor. Red and blue lights flashed in the distance, casting long shadows through the ruined space. Most of the cops had cleared out for the night but just a few uniforms standing watch downstairs. They wouldn't notice him. Not him.
Bullseye moved like smoke.
He slipped through the jagged window frame, crouched low, boots silent against the marble. His mask caught the faint light of the moon, the white bullseye gleaming faintly across his forehead. His breath was steady, eyes scanning every inch of the room with surgical precision. He'd memorized the crime scene photos, the news broadcasts, the statements but those were all noise.
He wanted the truth. And the truth was always quieter than the story.
The office still stank of death, blood, sweat, and cordite. The mayor's chair had been knocked sideways, a smear of blood marking where his body had fallen. The wall behind the desk had already been scrubbed once, but the faint outline of the message still remained.
You never forget your first shot.
Eli's jaw clenched behind the mask.
He moved around the desk, crouching low, fingers brushing over every surface, searching for something anything Clint might've left behind. Clint didn't do random. He never had. Every move was deliberate. Every shot a statement.
Eli scanned the floor, paused near the chair, and then he saw it a flash of white, just barely peeking out from underneath the leg of the overturned seat.
He knelt, slowly reaching under and pulling out a small, worn playing card. Not a queen. Not a joker.
A blank card except for a single handwritten message scrawled in black ink on the back.
An address.
And below it, a line that made Eli's blood run cold.
"See you soon, kid."
He stared at the card for a long moment, his pulse thudding like war drums in his ears.
The address wasn't random.
It wasn't just any place.
It was his parents' house.
The one he hadn't stepped foot in since the night they died. Since the fire. Since the screams.
A chill ran down his spine, slow and bitter.
He slipped the card into his belt and stood, staring at the window where Clint must've entered. The same way Eli had. Same shadows. Same silence.
But this time, it wasn't a hit.
It was a message.
And the game wasn't over.
Bullseye turned and vanished into the night.
He had a place to be.
And a ghost to confront.
The front door groaned on its hinges as Bullseye stepped through the threshold.
Dust coated every surface. Wallpaper peeled like dead skin. The air was thick, still, unmoved for years. Moonlight streamed through cracked windows, casting long, skeletal shadows over the remnants of a life that had ended too soon.
Eli stood in silence.
No weapon drawn. No quip on his tongue. Just the steady hum of memory pressing in from the walls, the floor, the scent of char and smoke still buried in the wooden beams.
The house hadn't changed.
Not really.
Even with the fire damage, the skeleton of it remained. The corners where laughter used to live. The hall where his mom used to hang his school photos. The kitchen where his dad would whistle old jazz songs while stirring a pot. Ghosts of a world long gone.
And then
It hit him.
Thirteen years old. Backpack slung over his shoulder. Sneakers slapping the sidewalk.
It had been a normal day. A little rain. A quiz in history. Nothing strange until he turned the corner.
And saw him.
A man sprinting down the street, hoodie pulled low, but Eli saw the glint of something on his neck with a skull tattoo, sharp and black, like it had been carved into his skin. Their eyes met for a second. Just a second. But it was enough.
The man vanished into the alley.
Eli's stomach dropped. A cold dread curled in his gut.
He ran.
Blocks blurred past as he rushed toward his house and then he saw the smoke. Thick. Black. Rising in furious spirals above the trees. Flames licked at the sky, orange and hungry.
"No, no, no—" he had screamed, legs pumping, heart crashing.
Neighbors shouted. Sirens wailed.
The fire department tried to hold him back, but he pushed through screaming for his mom, for his dad. The heat was unbearable. The air, thick and toxic. But he didn't care. He had to get to them. He had to—
Then the roof collapsed in a burst of sparks.
And everything went quiet.
Hours later, they pulled two bodies from the wreckage. Charred. Twisted. Identified only by dental records and the melted remains of his mom's wedding ring.
That was the night Eli died.
The night Bullseye was born.
Back in the present, Eli's fingers brushed over a scorched doorframe. His gloves came away black with soot.
He stared into the hollowed remains of what was once the living room. Silence draped over him like a shroud. His breath echoed beneath the mask.
"Why here, Clint…" he murmured.
He knew the answer. This wasn't just a message.
This was a reminder.
Of who he was. Of who he used to be. Of the night that broke him.
But Clint was wrong if he thought Eli was still that scared kid choking on smoke and loss.
He stood straighter. Stronger. His eyes burned with purpose.
"I'm not running from this anymore," he said.
Then, from deeper inside the house a sound.
Floorboards creaked.
Not memory.
Movement.
Eli's head snapped toward the noise, and his hand reached for the blade sheathed at his back. He stepped forward, silent as shadow.
The living room opened up into what was once the dining area. And there, standing in the glow of a shattered window, was Killshot.
Clint Barton.
Older now. His blond hair streaked with gray, stubble across his jaw, but the eyes were still the same. Cold. Calculating. Focused like a drawn bowstring.
He wore a tactical coat over a black suit laced with armor plating. A sleek compound bow rested on his back, but his hands were empty, relaxed at his sides.
"I was wondering how long it'd take you to follow the trail," Clint said, his voice low, calm. "Guess you haven't lost your edge."
Eli didn't lower his blade. "You didn't exactly hide it. Leaving a card like that?" He took a step closer. "You wanted me to find you."
"I wanted you to remember," Clint said. "Where it all began."
Eli scoffed. "I never forgot. I live with it every day."
Clint's jaw tensed. "Then you know why I do what I do. Why I have to do it."
"You didn't have to kill the mayor."
"He was selling children, Eli," Clint snapped, his voice sharp now, slicing through the silence like an arrow. "To people in suits. People who smile in front of cameras. You know what the law gave him? Bail. An apology."
"I know he was filth," Eli said. "But you don't get to decide who lives or dies."
"I'm not deciding," Clint said, stepping forward. "I'm finishing. You still think justice is something clean, something you can hold in your hand without it burning you."
Eli's grip tightened. "It's not about clean. It's about choice. We stop them we don't become them."
Clint laughed, bitter and tired. "You think putting a guy in cuffs changes the system? You think your knifes and acrobatics scare men who own the law? The only language monsters understand is fear and fear is spelled in blood."
Eli shook his head. "That's not what you taught me."
Clint's eyes narrowed. "It's exactly what I taught you. You just didn't want to hear it. I dragged you out of hell, Eli. I trained you to survive it. To control the killshot instead of being caught in the crossfire."
"You trained me to be better than you," Eli said, voice low but resolute. "But I'm not your weapon anymore. I'm not the angry kid you shaped into a blade."
A tense silence passed between them.
"You really think you can stop me?" Clint asked.
Eli stepped into the light now, face unreadable behind the mask. "No."
Then he raised the blade.
"I know I can."
Clint's lips pressed into a grim smile.
"Well," he muttered, cracking his neck. "Let's see if the student's ready to put down the teacher."
The tension snapped taut.
Bullseye's blade gleamed in the pale light, poised like a question waiting for blood as an answer. Across the room, Killshot stood perfectly still, his eyes locked on Eli's. No fear. No hesitation. Just that maddening, quiet certainty Clint Barton always carried like he knew how every game ended before the first move was played.
Eli shifted his weight, ready to strike. Muscles tense. Breath steady.
Clint smiled.
A slow, smug smirk curling at the corner of his lips.
"Just not yet," he said.
Eli blinked.
"What?"
Clint reached into his coat in a blur.
Click.
A small metallic sphere hit the floor between them with a soft clink.
Eli recognized it a second too late.
"Damn it—"
FWOOSH.
The smoke bomb erupted in a thundercloud of gray. Thick, choking vapor swallowed the room in an instant. Vision gone. Breathing ragged. Eli dropped into a crouch, scanning, listening.
Footsteps there was none.
A rush of air through the broken roof.
He launched forward, slicing through the fog, blade out.
But when the smoke cleared…
Clint was gone.
The broken window swayed slightly on its hinges. A single arrow was embedded in the floor where Clint had stood, with a note tied to the shaft.
Eli ripped it free, his chest burning.
"Next time, don't hesitate."
His grip tightened around the arrow, jaw clenching beneath the mask.
"Coward," he muttered, but there was no weight behind it only the sting of being outplayed.
Again.