Chapter 1: Redcap

Outside the window, the world was shrouded in darkness.
Even the moonlight was swallowed by clouds—an ominous night in the city.

This was New York, the borough of Manhattan.
Commonly known as Hell’s Kitchen.

At the edge of its main street stood a run-down building.
The exterior was aged and weathered, yet the interior was garishly decorated—an oddly mismatched contrast.

The carpet and wallpaper were from high-end brands, but the overall feel was disjointed.
It was the kind of room that screamed, “I don’t know what this is worth, but I spent a fortune on it anyway.”

Inside this building, a group of rough-looking men were counting wads of cash,
laughing and exchanging vulgar banter.

“Today’s deal was the best yet.”
“Should’ve sampled the goods before we sold ‘em.”

They were the kind of gang all too common in Hell’s Kitchen—
trafficking drugs and abducting young women to sell off.

As one of the men grinned with a sleazy laugh, he pulled out a lighter.
Just as he was about to light a cigarette—
every light in the building suddenly went out.

“Huh...?”

Still holding the lighter, the man stood up and looked around.
Had the breaker tripped? Maybe a rat chewed through the wiring?

Another man, cursing under his breath, pulled out his phone and tried to turn on the flashlight—

A gunshot rang out.

All he saw was a burst of flame—a muzzle flash.
The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air, followed by the thud of a body hitting the floor and the clatter of a falling phone.

The light from the phone cast a beam across the wall.
There, in that light, was a splash of blood—deep red, vivid.

“W-We’re under attack!”

Panicked, the man drew the handgun from his waist.
Being in a gang meant having plenty of enemies—cops, victims’ families, even rival syndicates.

This was likely the latter—a hit by a competing organization.

The blackout? Probably engineered.
And whoever was behind it could shoot with precision in pitch black—this wasn’t an amateur.

“Wh-Where—?”

A scream tore through the silence.

“Gyaaah!”

A short cry—and the sound of flesh being torn.
Something hit the ground with a dull thud.

That "something" rolled to the man’s feet.

A head.

It was his comrade’s severed head.
Lifeless, cloudy eyes stared up at him.

“Uwahh!”

One of the others, gripped by panic, raised his gun.

“Don’t!”

Firing blindly in the dark could easily hit an ally.
But that thought never registered—his mind too far gone with fear, he pulled the trigger.

A sharp metallic ping echoed—the bullet had struck metal—and sparks flew.

For an instant, those sparks revealed the assailant.

A blood-red mask.
A black suit armored with dull-glinting protectors.
The suit was slick with blood—not from being shot, but likely the splatter from killing his comrades.

It was unnatural.
A horror beyond reason stood before them.

“Wh-What the hell is that!?”

Another voice cried out in terror.

More gunfire followed—but not from one of the gang’s weapons.

The man turned toward the comrade beside him—only to see a face with a clean hole through the forehead.

“Hiik—”

Overwhelmed by fear, the man dropped to the ground.
He clutched his ears, but the shouts, gunshots, and the sounds of bodies collapsing still reached him.

He was terrified.

The man shut his eyes.

He held his breath.

Around him, everything went quiet—save for his own fear.

...Eventually, he dared to open his eyes.

And there it was.

Right in front of him, seated as if peering down at him, was the figure in the red mask.

“Ugh—!”

Before he could even scream, the red mask grabbed him by the back and lifted him up.
In the same motion, his legs were swept out from under him, and he collapsed pitifully to the floor.

His eyes met those of a fallen comrade’s corpse.

The phone that had dropped earlier still lit the room faintly, casting its beam on the attacker.
The red mask—featureless like a mannequin with no eyes, no nose—stared down at him with eerie stillness.

“D-Don’t come any closer!”

He raised his handgun toward the red mask.
But the attacker showed no fear—just calmly started walking toward him.

With a deliberate rhythm, the attacker tapped their own red mask with a fingertip.

“Take your shot.”

A garbled mechanical voice, genderless and distorted—like both a man and a woman—spoke from behind the mask.

The man couldn’t take it anymore—he fired.

...The attacker dodged the bullet.

“...Huh?”

That shouldn’t have been possible.

From the time the trigger is pulled to when the bullet hits, not even a second passes.
No ordinary human reflexes or physical ability could react to that.

It had to be a nightmare.

The man was snapped back to reality by the impact that slammed into his face.

A punch—delivered by the attacker’s armored fist—sank deep into his face.

“Guah!”

His nose broke. Blood spurted.

He fell back, landing on his rear, staring up at the attacker.

They weren’t even particularly big.

If anything, they were small.
About 170 cm—or somewhere around there.
Unbelievably, that one blow carried massive weight despite the attacker’s size.

“Y-You… wha—who the hell—!”

The attacker raised a weapon.

It looked like a handgun, but... not a model sold commercially.
A uniquely built, unfamiliar kind of weapon.

“You're the head of this organization.”

“N-No! I don’t know anything!”

He was lying. He was one of the higher-ups.
But in the face of such abnormal violence, fear had overridden any shred of pride or loyalty.

“Then there’s no helping it.”

The red mask pulled the weapon’s muzzle away from the man's head.
For a moment, he felt relief—

—and then searing pain exploded in his gut.

He looked down to see a pitch-black knife embedded in his abdomen.

“G-Gyah—!”

The attacker gripped the hilt and twisted.

It wasn’t to kill—it was to hurt.

The blade wasn’t slicing to finish him.
It was there to inflict agony.

Squelch. Squelch. The sound of tissues and muscle tearing echoed.
Foaming blood gurgled from the man’s mouth as he twisted, trying desperately to crawl away.

“Where is the ledger?”

“A-Agh—!”

“Tell me.”

The red mask whispered beside his ear.

The mask, brushing against his cheek, felt unnaturally cold.

“There… in the drawer... ugh—”

“I see.”

The red-masked assailant pulled the knife out of the man’s abdomen.

Blood poured out, and the man clutched at his gut with all his might—
desperately trying to hold in what hadn’t already spilled out.

Then, a gun barrel pressed against his temple.

“W-Wait, why—?”

“I never said I’d let you live.”

A gunshot rang out.

The man was now nothing more than a corpse—silent, still.

---

Ugh, I want a crêpe.
A banana crêpe smothered in chocolate.

Sitting in a chair, I gazed around and tried to mentally check out of the situation.

In front of me: a corpse frozen in a grimace.
Another with a broken neck.
One more whose head had been separated from its body.
And yet another with a giant hole right through the forehead.
Yeah—there were several different kinds of bodies scattered about.

There’d be even more if I went downstairs.

My name is Redcap.
...I don’t have a real one.

Whenever a name’s needed, a fake one is assigned.
So the only proper noun that refers specifically to me is Redcap.

I jammed my knife into the desk drawer’s lock and twisted until it snapped open.

Inside were several documents.

Skimming through them confirmed they matched the target of this job.

I flicked the lighter I’d taken from one of the bodies.
A sharp click sounded as a spark ignited—
catching the documents and setting them ablaze.

I tossed both the papers and the lighter into the trash can.

Then I stood up and cracked my neck.
Glancing around at the corpses, I let out a yawn.

I didn’t even need to focus anymore.
I could afford to relax.

It was late.
And I was a little sleepy.

The gangsters lying here were under Wilson Fisk—my current employer.
Technically, that made them my coworkers… though I never knew their names or faces.

They’d been sloppy. Reckless.

They probably didn’t know, but the cops had already flagged them.
It was only a matter of time before they were arrested.

Not that they ever bothered to clean up evidence.
They were idiots—devoid of even a speck of intelligence.

There would’ve been no problem if they’d just been arrested.

But there was one problem:
They had loose lips.

Fisk always says:
“Trust is everything. An untrustworthy subordinate is worse than an enemy.”

He feared these men would squeal to the police and jeopardize him.

That’s why I was sent in—for a preemptive cleanup.

The documents used in their deals with Fisk had all been thoroughly burned.
Their corpses would be incinerated too.

No one’s going to miss trash like them—not in this business.

Well...
If I had to name someone, maybe the cops who’d been tailing them.
They might be pissed.

I flicked my knife through the air.
Fssht—a wet sound as the blood flew off and splattered against the wall.

Then I slid the blade back into its sheath, hidden inside the thigh protector.

Blood clung to more than just the knife.
My chest armor was soaked too... I’d have to wash that before heading home.

Glancing over at the wrecked desk, I noticed a newspaper.

Its centerfold featured a familiar face—
a man wearing a red mask, just like me.

My eyes drifted to the headline:

“SPIDER-MAN SAVES THE DAY!! BOMBER APPREHENDED!”

“Spider-Man, huh...”

I picked up the paper and flipped it open.

There he was—wearing green body armor.
Norman Osborn.
Captured as the mad bomber known as Green Goblin.

“So, in this world, they actually managed to catch him.”

I tossed the newspaper into the burning trash can.
The added fuel made the flames flare even stronger.

The building was made of wood and brick.
The fire would spread fast.

Before long, the flames would consume everything—
and the corpses in the room would be reduced to charred remains.

I opened the window and jumped out.

This was the fifth floor—about fifteen meters up.
I kicked off the wall, grabbed a duct mid-fall to slow my momentum, then leapt to the neighboring building.

When I looked back, I could already see the flickering fire through the window.

Satisfied, I gave a small nod and left the scene behind.

---

This is New York.
Hell’s Kitchen.
A small apartment in the middle of it.

I sat at a table, scooping up the pale white dessert in front of me—bavarois—with a spoon and bringing it to my mouth.
Bavarois is a jelly-like, mousse-like sweet made from eggs, milk, and sugar... and it's one of my favorites.

Berry sauce dripped lazily down from the top.

Sugar is a blessing.

It helps me forget the stench of blood, the grating sound of screams, the feeling of tearing flesh—
just for a little while.

“…Haaah.”

A breath slipped from my lips, and with it came a voice as clear and delicate as a bell.

Looking into the full-length mirror leaning against the wall, I saw a cute girl sitting in a chair.

Her hair was what you’d call platinum blonde—
a shade between gold and silver, with gentle waves flowing just below her neck.

Her eyes were a clear, gemlike blue—
sparkling like cut sapphire.

She looked to be in her mid-teens—about fifteen years old.
Still youthful, but with features that hinted at the beauty she’d grow into.

And yet, her face bore no expression.
The cold, sharp gaze staring back at me from the mirror was mechanical, like that of a lifeless mannequin.

This was the real me inside the Redcap suit.
The true form of who I am in this life.

That’s right.

I have what you’d call memories of a past life.

In my previous life, I was just a normal office worker.
That’s right—a man.

I loved superhero movies—especially Spider-Man.
I owned all the DVDs and Blu-rays.
Had a decent collection of comics, too.
Posters covered my walls.
Figures lined my shelves.

I was obsessed, honestly.

I was on my way to see the latest Spider-Man movie on opening day when…
I got flattened—turned into hamburger meat—by a massive truck.

And then, when I woke up…
I was an unbelievably beautiful girl.

…Not being vain here. That’s just a plain, objective fact.
I really had turned into a beautiful girl.

...At the very least, I wish I could’ve seen the movie first.
I was hyped out of my mind from the trailers, counting the days for months!

I wasn’t mad at anyone in particular, just… incredibly pissed off.

In this world, I’m apparently a war orphan.
Taken in by a shadowy organization operating behind society’s curtain.

I say “apparently” because I have no memories of anything before my past life’s memories came back.
That entire period is a blank.

The name of the organization that took me in is Unseelie Court.

Unseelie Court.
An assassination group that operated in the shadows during World War II.
They were originally a British black ops unit…
until their commander—an evil bastard—betrayed his country and went rogue for his own twisted ambitions.

Their goal: overthrow governments. Conquer the world.

You know. Classic supervillain stuff.

But the organization was ultimately destroyed during the war, taken down by America’s hero—Captain America.

The science, resources, and manpower they once had are long gone.
Still, they continue to operate in the shadows even today, trying to rebuild their strength.

That’s the history as told by the organization’s current members.

...This world isn’t the one I used to live in.

In this one, there are evil organizations.
And there are superheroes.

This is the world of Marvel Comics—
or something deeply connected to it.

But that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s exactly the Marvel world I knew.

There’s the concept of the “parallel universe multiverse.”
Countless universes that look similar, but diverge at the smallest of details, branching infinitely into completely different realities.

In some universes, Spider-Man might be a woman.
An old man.
A zombie.
Or even a robot.

There are even worlds where Spider-Man doesn’t exist at all.

Fortunately, in this world, it seems Spider-Man does exist.
…At least based on what I saw in the newspaper, he looked exactly how I remembered him.

So, probably not a woman. Not a pig. Not a zombie.

I have what you’d call “canon knowledge”—to some extent.
But to be honest, I don’t think it’s all that useful.

This might be a world based on the movies.
Or it could follow the comics.
Maybe it’s an anime or game-based version.
Or perhaps something completely original.

What I do know—what I can say with certainty—
is that I was picked up by an evil organization in a world that’s part of Marvel.

That much, I can confirm.

When I joined the organization, the very first thing they did was install a “failsafe.”

They surgically implanted a tiny bomb inside my chest—right near the heart.

If I ever betrayed the organization, they’d detonate it and blow my heart to pieces.

That was their definition of “security.”

Along with me, a bunch of other kids were sent to a training facility.

There, we were taught how to efficiently destroy the human body.
How to move with stealth.
How to manipulate people by infiltrating their thoughts and emotions…
Everything needed to become a top-tier assassin.

And I excelled.

I scored among the highest in the entire facility.

This body was just… built different.
Overflowing with talent.

Thanks to my exceptional results, I was chosen to participate in a top-secret project.

That was the Redcap Program.

Besides me, several other elite trainees were brought in.

And in the end—

Every single one of them died.
Except me.

The cause was the Super Soldier Serum.

Yes, that serum—the one that turned Captain America into what he is.
A dream drug that enhances both body and mind.

But the one we were given… wasn’t the real thing.

It was a knockoff—provided by an underground biotech group known as the Power Broker.
They specialize in human enhancement and modification.

It was a fake serum.
A counterfeit attempt to replicate the original Super Soldier Serum.

Hence, it was called a pseudo-super soldier serum.

“Pseudo” or not, the effects were incredible.
Just like the original, it brought out superhuman physical abilities—
but it lacked the mental and moral enhancements that came with the true serum.
It was raw physical augmentation, nothing more.

But it had one fatal flaw—

Its compatibility rate was extremely low.

Those who didn’t adapt… died.

Their heart and lung functions would spike uncontrollably,
blood would surge through their veins beyond capacity,
and their entire vascular system would rupture from the pressure.

I saw one of the bodies once.

Blood leaking from the eyes, nose, ears…
The face twisted in agony.
It was… a tragic sight.

In the end, none of the other program participants survived.

Out of several dozen candidates—
I was the only one who lived.

That’s the origin of Redcap.

Thanks to the serum, I gained the grip strength to crush solid metal with my bare hands.
Enough arm strength to bend iron pipes.
Reflexes and dynamic vision sharp enough to dodge bullets.
And even a healing factor—a self-regenerative ability that could close wounds in mere hours.

A broken bone? Healed in a day.

I was no longer human.

I had become a superhuman—one who surpassed mankind.

……But in this world, my powers don’t really amount to much.

I mean, sure, I’m a superhuman—
but we’ve got green guys who can toss tanks,
hammer-wielding gods who fly through the skies,
and regenerating mutants who come back even after being blown to bits.

So, if we’re talking ranks, I’m probably below top-tier supers,
above regular humans,
somewhere in the “average superhuman” category.

If I fought Spider-Man in a straight-up brawl, I’d probably lose.

People who don’t know much about Spider-Man tend to think he’s a “techy, agile hero” with no real power,
but in reality—he’s a powerhouse.
He can stop a moving train with brute strength,
push away collapsed building debris,
and in some versions, he even goes toe-to-toe with the Hulk and wins.

Of course, I have no clue how strong this version of Spider-Man is.

But judging from appearances, there probably aren’t that many differences—

……Oops.
I got carried away talking about Spider-Man again.

It’s the curse of every fanboy-turned-girl assassin.

Anyway, back to the point.

I may have been enhanced with a super-soldier serum, but the gap between me and a top-tier superhero is like heaven and earth.

At best, I can just barely lift a small car if I really try. A train or a truck? Forget it.

Once I was completed as a finished product, the “Redcap Program” was frozen. They said it wasn’t worth the cost. Considering that creating just one superhuman like me meant the deaths of dozens of operatives, it’s no wonder.

With a superhuman body and elite assassination skills, I carried out the missions the organization gave me.

Taking down enemy armed groups, eliminating traitors—assignments like that.

Killing civilians could be handled by the organization’s regular agents. The missions passed down to me were always the ones a cut above that in difficulty.

So, I’ve had almost no experience killing ordinary people.

…Of course, that doesn’t mean I haven’t killed cops who weren’t bad people, or agents from the opposing force, S.H.I.E.L.D.

It doesn’t make me feel any better about it. I just try to convince myself it couldn’t be helped.

Otherwise, I’d break.

I may be a villain with power far beyond human, but mentally I’m no different from a normal person.

I’m not evil enough to accept it all without hesitation, nor good enough to stand up against true evil.

I’m just… stuck somewhere in between.

Whenever I go out on a mission, I wear a special costume.

A red full-face mask loaded with all sorts of functions. A pitch-black bodysuit made from a special alloy.

My head is red, and my body is black.

“Redcap.” A malevolent fairy from British folklore. A grotesque being that kills indiscriminately and dyes its cap in the blood of its victims.

As a symbol of fear, I was given that name.

From the perspective of the Unseelie Court, I suppose the costume is meant to broadcast the presence of a deadly assassin.

Whatever the reason, the name “Redcap” eventually became known even outside the organization—and feared.

Incidentally, very few people know who’s under the Redcap mask. In other words, what I actually look like.

Not even my coworkers or our clients know my identity.

The people from my training days probably have no idea I’m doing this now.

…Actually, there’s no guarantee any of them are still alive to begin with.

Considering that, I guess I’m lucky to have survived thanks to my compatibility with the serum.

Now then.

Currently, the Unseelie Court is operating with the aim of restoring itself as a covert organization—but what we’re actually doing is closer to mercenary work.

We loan out agents with special training to other organizations and receive money in return.

That money becomes our operational funds.

An assassin organization that will kill anyone for the right price—that’s the true face of the Unseelie Court now.

And for almost ten years, we’ve been in partnership with a powerful mafia boss who controls New York—Wilson Fisk.

Well, “partnership” might be too generous. The power balance isn’t equal. “Subjugation” would be more accurate.

Wilson Fisk. Also known as the Kingpin.

The supreme evil who controls Hell’s Kitchen from both the front and the shadows. A high-profile politician in public, a ruthless gangster in secret.

He’s a mafia king who possesses immense wealth, a charismatic grip over crime, and a cunning intellect—all in one package.

He’s a villain who appears in Spider-Man and other Marvel works.

A hulking man of muscle who, despite being just a regular human, can go toe-to-toe in a fistfight with actual heroes.

He commands countless gangsters, and even named villain-class baddies serve under him.

And he shows zero mercy to traitors.

Betray the organization, and you’ll face a harsh punishment—paid in full with your life.

…Well, it’s not like I had any choice in the matter.

If I tried to refuse or run, the bomb inside me would go boom! and I’d be dead in an instant.

So, begrudgingly, I pledge loyalty to the organization and keep doing my part day in and day out.

sigh

Letting out a sigh, I scooped another spoonful of bavarois into my mouth.

Redcap, huh.

I mean, seriously. Redcap?

“No matter how you spin it, that’s totally a villain name.”

I’m probably going to get beaten to a pulp by a superhero someday and thrown into prison.

Actually, I’d be lucky if I only got thrown in prison.

If I ever cross paths with one of the more extreme heroes, I’ll probably end up dead.

Evil is defeated, and justice prevails. That’s how hero stories go.

“…All I really wanted was to be a superhero fangirl.”

Especially of Spider-Man.

I subscribe to multiple newspapers just so I don’t miss any Spider-Man articles.

I’m the type of fan who carefully reads and saves every article, cutting them out and pasting them into a handmade scrapbook.

To think a hero I admired from the comics, movies, and anime of my past life actually exists in the real world—of course I’m thrilled.

I want to meet him, just once!

If I’m lucky, maybe even get his autograph!

But...

“…If we ever meet, I’m pretty sure I’ll get wrecked.”

I am a villain, after all.

And the kind of villain Spider-Man hates most—the kind that kills people.

“This sucks.”

I’m sixteen years old right now.

Ordinarily, I’d be in high school.

But instead of a sparkling school life, I’ve got one full of blood-soaked shootings, stabbings, and beatings.

Finishing the bavarois, I placed the empty dish in the sink.

The moment I reached to turn on the faucet, my phone rang loudly.

I picked it up and pressed the call button.

“… …”

The line went dead in silence.

Without a word, I left my room and walked down the stairs.

Opening the mailbox on the first floor, I found nothing inside.

Instead, I reached up to the ceiling above the mailbox and grabbed an envelope taped there. Then I returned to my room.

Using a letter opener, I sliced the envelope open to reveal a string of incomprehensible characters.

It was a coded message.

I’d seen this kind of encryption countless times, so I quickly deciphered it and committed the request to memory.

Then, I held the envelope over the stove flame in the kitchen and incinerated it.

The mission was simple: eliminate the target.

The target was a low-ranking drug dealer—a grunt working under Fisk’s network.

He had committed a murder unrelated to the drug trade and was now under police investigation.

If he got arrested for murder, there was a high chance the police would uncover the drug ring through the connection.

So, the order is to kill him and shut him up.

Same as always.

I stripped off the clothes I was wearing and opened the closet.

My pale, smooth skin reflected in the mirror.

I pulled on a black suit resistant to bullets and blades, layering protective gear over it.

A high-tech handgun crafted by a gunsmith famous in the underworld went on my hip, and I strapped a thick combat knife to my thigh.

I laced up my boots, reinforced with alloy in the toes and heels, and lastly, donned the red mask.

From the outside, this mask looks like a featureless, bright red face—but from the inside, it’s made of a one-way transparent material, like a magic mirror.

"Ah… ah—"

I checked the voice changer’s settings one last time and closed the closet.

I closed my eyes and shifted my consciousness.

Right now, I am an assassin of the Unseelie Court—the wicked fairy known as Redcap.

…In my daily life, I separate the ‘me’ from ‘Redcap.’

Originally, I lived as an ordinary person.

Even after the organization twisted my thoughts, my small-town citizen heart didn’t disappear.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to kill.

But if I don’t kill, I will die.

As a result, my mind was split clean in two.

The ordinary citizen ‘me,’ and the ruthless enemy-killer ‘Redcap.’

Well, it’s like switching to ‘work mode,’ the way a salaryman changes mindset.

It’s a common story.

Like how putting on a suit makes your voice a bit sharper, your speech clearer, and your posture straighter.

“Alright, let’s go.”

I opened the window and leapt out into the pitch-black Hell’s Kitchen.