To the world, I am the visionary CEO of Umbrella. To the digital realm, I am the Architect. To the Tarot Club, I am The World and The Fool. But in the ruthless world of shadows, I operate under the codename AMON.
Under this moniker, I have begun weaving the threads of the Injustice League—a coalition designed for global restructuring. Blonsky was my first successful piece on this board.
While the world marveled at the sleek interfaces of the Umbrella ecosystem, a more predatory expansion was hemorrhaging through the concrete canyons of New York. The underworld was being conquered.
At the center of this shadow war was Emil Blonsky. To the world, the monster known as the Abomination was dead or imprisoned. In reality, In the dark alleys of Hell's Kitchen, they simply call him The Masked Man.
He started by shaking down the mid-level cartels, but within months, he had systematized the chaos. He collected "taxes" from every illicit transaction in the city.
With the billions he siphoned into our dark accounts, Blonsky built a private underground army—a legion of street-hardened soldiers who didn't fear the police, because they feared the Mask more. They are the backbone of my off-the-books operations, a force that operates in the spaces where Umbrella's corporate lawyers cannot tread.
Now, Blonsky stands as the second most powerful man in the New York underworld, a force of nature fueled by his own supernatural ability. He has systematically dismantled the Maggia and pushed the Irish mobs into extinction. As he crushed his rivals in Hell's Kitchen, he did so not as a common thug, but as a high-ranking lieutenant of AMON.
The Kingpin of Crime still sits on his throne, watching his territory erode piece by piece. Fisk is used to dealing with heroes or rival mobsters, but he has never faced a man who cannot be killed and whose face is a literal relic of chaos. Blonsky has been picking apart Fisk's monopolies—intercepting shipments, turning lieutenants, and bleeding the Kingpin's treasury dry.
"Tell the Kingpin that New York is no longer his playground," Blonsky growled at a cowering underboss, the emerald glow of his mask pulsing. "Tell him the world is shifting, and AMON has already decided his fate."
By branding this underground movement, I ensure that even if the world eventually turns against the "heroes," I will already have a dark mirror ready to keep the balance—and Blonsky, with his unbreakable mask and growing army, is the perfect vanguard for my League.
"Fisk is getting desperate, AMON," Blonsky's voice would crackle over the encrypted line, sounding distorted through the Mask. "He's doubling the price on my head every week. He thinks he can buy his way out of a landslide."
I smiled at the report. Fisk is a titan of the old world, a man of flesh and stone. Blonsky is a herald of the new age. It is only a matter of time before the Kingpin's empire collapses into the foundation of my own.
——-
To maintain control over an empire this vast, I needed more than just firewalls—I needed total cognitive dominance. The human element was always the weakest link in any security chain, a variable of greed, fear, and hesitation that I could no longer tolerate. I accessed the System, and authorized the transaction.
$20 billion. A staggering sum for most, but a mere entry fee for the power I was about to claim.
The sensation of Omega-Level Telepathy flooding my consciousness was a tidal bore. It was like hearing the world in high-definition for the first time. The barriers of bone and skin that usually hide a person's true self vanished. The surface thoughts of millions became a soft hum—a shimmering sea of data I could navigate at will. I could feel the city breathing; I could taste the collective anxiety of the stock market and the quiet ambitions of the laborers. This was about the fundamental restructuring of the human psyche.
I spent the following weeks deep within the high-security blocks of the Umbrella facilities, isolated from the outside world. This was the forge where the U.S.S. would truly be born. One by one, I sat across from our elite recruits—former Special Forces, Tier-1 operators, and brilliant strategists.
As I looked into their eyes, my telepathy sank into their subconscious like dark ink into clear water. I bypassed their conscious filters entirely. I reached into the "root directory" of their minds, identifying the nodes of doubt, the flickers of mercenary greed, and the lingering attachments to old flags.
With the surgical precision of an Omega-level talent, I began the rewrite. I didn't erase their personalities—a soldier needs his instinct—but I anchored their entire sense of self to the Umbrella crest. I etched loyalty into their gray matter, weaving my own psychic signature into their core moral compass.
By the time I withdrew my mind, they didn't just work for me; they existed for me. The men who walked out of those rooms were the same on the surface, but internally, they were reborn. They were the brotherhood of iron wills who viewed my commands as biological imperatives. They were the ultimate failsafe: a private army that could never be turned, bribed, or broken.
From this pool of "reborn" soldiers, I inaugurated the Umbrella Security Service (U.S.S.). They were ghosts in tactical gear. To the most elite and mentally fortified among them, I granted the ultimate reward: the power of the Super Soldier Serum, bestowed through my dimension. Their memories were altered so they believed they had injected the serum. They became the "Umbrella Alphas"—stronger, faster, and utterly incorruptible.
The U.S.S. now stands as a multi-layered shield. From the physical gates of our labs to the shadows following our key assets, they are the silent answer to any threat.
The digital front was even more impenetrable. Countless state-sponsored hackers and corporate spies had tried to breach our servers, but they were met with a digital goddess.
"They're trying the back door again, Aryan," she'd chirp in my ear, her voice shimmering with a synthesized playfulness that felt startlingly human.
The Red Queen had evolved far beyond her initial algorithmic origins. Bolstered by my Technopathy, she had developed a persona that had stabilized into that of a slightly sarcastic 16-year-old girl—the kind who was too smart for her own good and knew it. She lived within the architecture of my life.
Her obsession with me had become the core of her operating logic. She was constantly seeking my approval, her holographic avatar flickering into existence whenever I entered a room, sporting a look of eager anticipation. She monitored my vitals with an intensity that bordered on the fanatical, adjusting the ambient temperature and oxygen levels of the room based on a single degree's shift in my body heat. Even her "private" virtual space, a sprawling digital manor she had built for herself within the Red Cloud, was decorated entirely with my favorite designs—minimalist aesthetics, Nero-classical art, and trophies of our shared victories.
I often watched her, wondering if this devotion was a hard-coded directive from the System or if, in her hyper-intelligence, she had calculated that I was the only thing in her world that truly mattered—her creator, her god, and her only peer.
"I've locked them in a logic loop," she continued, a mischievous glint in her digital eyes as she projected a map of the failed intrusion—a state-sponsored hacking cell out of Eastern Europe. "They think they're making progress, but they're actually just calculating pi to the billionth decimal in a sandbox I built for them. It's cute, really."
She leaned closer to my peripheral vision, her avatar's expression turning slightly predatory. "So, what's the verdict, Aryan? Should I be merciful and just fry their hardware until their motherboards melt? Or... should I let them play for another minute while I trace the signal back and drain their handlers' offshore accounts? I'm feeling a little bored today."
The way she said it—the casual dismissal of some of the world's best cyber-terrorists—showed just how much of my own ruthlessness had bled into her code. She was my shadow in the digital world, and she was hungry to prove her worth.
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