the shadow Archer in Marvel

Sitting in my dimly lit apartment, I stared at the growing balance in my bank account. Thanks to my network of legitimate businesses, I had the resources to make real moves. It wasn't just about surviving anymore—it was about thriving, about shaping this world into something better... or at least making sure I was ready when the chaos came.

I needed influence, connections, and a seat at the table where the real power players gathered. The answer was obvious: investment.

Tony Stark was a genius, but he wasn't invincible. The man had a habit of attracting trouble. Investing in Stark Industries wasn't just about money—it was about gaining access to cutting-edge technology and staying close to the future of innovation.

I started small, purchasing shares quietly through various brokers to avoid drawing attention. As my stake grew, I began receiving quarterly reports and insights into Stark Industries' operations.

If I played my cards right, I might secure a way to subtly influence Stark's projects—or at least ensure I had insider knowledge of any breakthroughs.

Information was power, and no one understood that better than J. Jonah Jameson. The Bugle was one of the city's most influential media outlets, even if it was a bit... dramatic.

I approached this investment indirectly, funding a smaller company that held a stake in the Bugle. It allowed me to stay under the radar while gaining access to their archives and newsroom chatter.

 If I ever needed to push a story—or bury one—the Bugle would be my tool.

Norman Osborn was brilliant but dangerous. If there was one person who could match Tony Stark's genius while being far more reckless, it was him. Keeping an eye on Osborn Industries wasn't just strategic—it was a necessity.

Osborn's company was more volatile than Stark Industries, making it easier to buy shares at a lower price. I also began funding smaller research projects under their umbrella, ensuring I had an ear to the ground.

 If Norman ever became the Green Goblin, I wanted to know before it happened—and be ready to act.

Reed Richards was the smartest man on Earth—well, eventually. Right now, the Baxter Building housed brilliant minds on the verge of unlocking the secrets of the universe. Being part of that was an opportunity I couldn't pass up.

Unlike the other investments, this one required a more personal touch. I sponsored a few of their research grants anonymously, gaining goodwill and access to their projects.

 If I could gain the trust of Reed Richards and his team, the potential for collaboration—or protection—was limitless.

With each investment, my reach grew. Stark Industries kept me at the forefront of technology. The Daily Bugle ensured I could control the narrative. Osborn Industries gave me insight into dangerous players, and the Baxter Building connected me to the brightest minds in the world.

As I closed my laptop, a faint smile crossed my face. The money wasn't just clean—it was powerful. And in a city like this, power was everything.

After that I decided, to go for a walk but with a purpose, the streets of Hell's Kitchen stretched before me, dimly lit by flickering streetlights. My shadow-birds scouted overhead, their keen eyes searching for any sign of a shop that might sell the kind of weapons I was looking for—blades. Swords, in particular, were what I needed. My Projection Magecraft allowed me to replicate weapons, but I needed to see them first, study their craftsmanship, and understand their essence.

It didn't take long before one of my shadow-birds spotted something promising: a small, unassuming shop tucked between a barbershop and a deli. The sign above the door read "Martial Arts & Collectibles." It was a place that might cater to enthusiasts and collectors, but it was also likely to have real swords among its wares.

As I pushed the door open, a small bell chimed, announcing my presence. The interior was cramped but organized, with racks of practice weapons, training gear, and display cases filled with ornate blades. The faint scent of wood polish and leather hung in the air.

Behind the counter stood a wiry man in his 50s, his hair slicked back and his eyes sharp as he sized me up.

"Looking for something specific?" he asked, his tone polite but guarded.

I nodded, my gaze already scanning the walls. "Swords. Real ones, not display pieces."

He smirked, stepping out from behind the counter. "Not many come here looking for the real deal. Most are content with replicas. Follow me."

He led me into a secure back room, the air cooler and filled with the faint scent of polished metal. Blades of every kind hung from the walls or rested in locked display cases: katanas, longswords, rapiers, scimitars, and more.

"These aren't for show," he said, leaning casually against the doorframe. "Every piece here is forged for use, not decoration. They're not cheap."

I nodded, stepping closer to a gleaming European longsword. My hand hovered just above the hilt, and I closed my eyes briefly. My Projection Magecraft activated silently, imprinting every detail of the weapon's structure into my mind—the weight, balance, and even the minor imperfections in the blade.

"Beautiful," I murmured, moving on to the next.

A curved scimitar caught my eye next. The exotic design spoke of distant lands, and its deadly edge glinted in the light. Again, I focused briefly, copying it down to the last detail.

I repeated this process with every weapon in the room: katanas, broadswords, daggers. My movements were natural, casual, as though I was simply admiring the craftsmanship. The man watched but seemed content that I wasn't mishandling anything.

Finally, I stopped at a sleek, black katana with a simple but elegant hilt. It had an air of lethality and precision I couldn't ignore.

"I'll take this one," I said, pointing to it.

The man nodded, retrieving it from its mount. "Good choice. That's one of the best in the collection."

He named a price, and I handed over the cash without hesitation. While he wrapped the katana carefully, I stored all the copied weapons in my mindscape, the foundation for my Projection Magecraft ready to recreate them whenever I needed.

As I stepped out of the shop, katana in hand, a small smirk played on my lips. The man might think he'd sold me a single blade, but in reality, I now had access to an entire armory.

"Perfect," I muttered under my breath. With these new weapons in my arsenal, I was ready to take on whatever challenges this world threw my way.

The streets of Hell's Kitchen were as lively as ever, but I preferred to stick to the quieter paths. The weight of the katana strapped discreetly to my back was comforting, a reminder of my growing arsenal and the control I was beginning to assert over my life here.

That's when I saw her.

She was hard to miss: a tall woman in a black leather jacket, dark jeans, and boots that seemed designed to stomp on someone's ego. Her raven hair framed a face that looked perpetually tired but fiercely determined. Jessica Jones.

She was walking with purpose, her gaze sharp as she scanned her surroundings. It wasn't a casual stroll; she was hunting for something—or someone.

"Interesting," I muttered to myself, stepping into the shadow of a nearby alley to observe.

I know about her, of course. A private investigator with a penchant for taking on cases nobody else wanted, usually involving people who didn't want to be found. Super-strength, near invulnerability, and a temper that could level a city block if provoked.

But she wasn't a hero, not in the traditional sense. She was too rough around the edges for that, and frankly, that made her more intriguing.

I watched as she stopped in front of a seedy bar, glancing at a photo in her hand before pushing the door open with enough force to rattle the frame.

Curiosity got the better of me. Keeping to the shadows, I followed, slipping into the bar moments after her. The place was dimly lit and reeked of stale beer and bad decisions. A few patrons glanced up as she entered, but most went back to nursing their drinks.

Jessica didn't waste time. She marched up to the bartender, slapping the photo down on the counter.

"Seen this guy?" she asked, her voice low but carrying an edge that made it clear she wasn't in the mood for games.

The bartender hesitated, glancing at the photo before shaking his head. "No idea who that is."

Jessica leaned in closer, her eyes narrowing. "Try again."

I stayed near the back, keeping out of sight. From the tension in the air, it was clear she wasn't going to get a straight answer, at least not without some persuasion. Part of me wanted to see how this played out—watch her handle things in her usual, no-nonsense way.

But another part of me wondered if this was an opportunity. Jessica Jones was resourceful and tough, but she wasn't invincible. Hell's Kitchen was dangerous, even for someone like her. Maybe I could help—or at least make an impression.

As Jessica confronted the bartender, I stayed in the shadows, observing. Her body language screamed frustration, but she was sharp—calculated. She didn't need my help, at least not right now.

From my vantage point near the corner of the room, I blended in with the dim lighting, watching the exchange unfold. Jessica's voice was sharp and commanding, though the bartender's hesitation suggested he was more stubborn than scared.

"Don't make me repeat myself," she said, her tone low and dangerous.

The bartender shifted uncomfortably but held his ground. "I already told you, lady. I don't know anything."

Jessica leaned closer, slamming her hand on the counter. The movement made a couple of patrons glance over before quickly turning back to their drinks. "You sure about that? Because I have all night to sit here and make your life miserable."

Despite her bravado, I could see the cracks in her patience. She wasn't getting anywhere, but she wasn't about to back down either. That stubborn determination reminded me of why she'd made a name for herself.

I debated stepping in, but something held me back. Jessica didn't seem the type to appreciate unsolicited help, and frankly, this was her fight. Besides, the bartender wasn't a real obstacle, just a pebble in her path. She'd handle him eventually.

Instead, I focused on her demeanor—how she commanded the space, the way she probed for weakness. Jessica Jones was sharp, and that sharpness could be useful. For now, though, I'd let her work.

If she managed to pull useful information out of the bartender, good. If not, I'd file this moment away for later. Either way, I wasn't here to play hero tonight.

I slipped back further into the shadows, unseen, as Jessica pressed the bartender harder. This was her battle to win—or lose. My time to step in, if ever, would come later.

The man tried to punch Jessica, but she caught it, and her grip on the man's wrist was vice-like, her knuckles whitening as she applied just enough pressure to make him buckle. His grunts turned into full-blown screams, echoing across the dimly lit bar. People around them froze, their drinks forgotten as they gawked at the scene.

"Okay, okay! I'll talk!" the man yelled, his voice cracking with desperation. "Just let go, alright? Please!"

Jessica's piercing gaze bore into him, her jaw clenched, before she finally released his hand. The man cradled it, wincing and muttering under his breath about crazy women.

"Start talking," she said, her voice low and cold. "And don't even think about lying to me."

The bartender spilled everything he knew. Name, place. His words came out in a frantic rush, as though he was afraid she might change her mind and snap his wrist like a twig. Jessica leaned in closer, her expression hard, but I could tell she was absorbing every detail.

As Jessica stepped out of the bar, her boots clicking against the cracked pavement, I kept my distance, trailing her from the shadows. Her movements were deliberate, her posture still tense from the confrontation. Before she completely disappeared from view, I reached into my arsenal of powers and summoned one of my shadow-mice.

The tiny creature materialized silently at my feet, its glowing eyes casting a faint, eerie light. Without hesitation, I commanded it to merge with her shadow.

"Follow her. Hide. Watch," I whispered.

The shadow-mouse darted forward, blending seamlessly with the dim lighting around the alley. In moments, it slipped into Jessica's shadow, becoming indistinguishable from the natural play of light and dark.

Through the mouse's senses, I could feel the rhythm of her steps, hear the faint rustle of her jacket. She was heading somewhere with purpose, though her pace was steady, not hurried. Wherever she was going, it wasn't immediate danger that drove her—it was determination.

Jessica Jones had piqued my interest. Her strength, both physical and mental, wasn't something you saw every day. She was a survivor, a fighter, and someone who wouldn't shy away from the darker corners of the world. I wasn't sure yet how she'd fit into my plans, but information was power. And having a window into her world through the shadow-mouse would give me plenty of that.

For now, I returned to my apartment. The city never slept, and neither did opportunity.