Real World (Marvel)

[kowak]

Chapter 1
The August sun was melting the asphalt of Harlem, driving residents into the shade of sparse trees and the protection of air conditioners. In a cool shopping mall, the Parr family was waging their annual ritual war against the upcoming school year.

"Bob, are you sure he needs these?" Maria turned the sneakers over in her hands, their soles looking suspiciously thin. "They'll fall apart by October."

"Mom, they're classics," came Diego's voice from behind a rack of t-shirts. His tone was a mix of teenage weariness with parental oversight and a sincere conviction in his own correctness.

Bob Parr weighed the sneaker in his palm. "Let him have them. He'll learn to value things when he's earning his own money for them. Besides, at his age, his feet grow faster than we can update his wardrobe."

Maria sighed but put the shoes in the cart. "Fine. Diego, come here, you still need to try on..."

Her words were drowned out by a new sound. It was a structural noise—a low-frequency wave that traveled not through the air, but through the very frame of the building, making it tremble slightly. Shoppers froze, exchanging questioning glances.

And then a mechanical, emotionless voice from the ceiling speakers announced: "ATTENTION. A CLASS THREE THREAT HAS BEEN DECLARED. CIVILIANS ARE ORDERED TO PROCEED IMMEDIATELY TO THE NEAREST SHELTERS. REMAIN CALM."

"Calm." The word sounded like a mockery. For the first second, there was a ringing silence, and then panic erupted.

---

In this world, with the appearance of mutants, the government had introduced a unified danger classification system so that civilians would clearly understand when to run without looking back.

Class 1 Threat: A lone mutant or terrorist group. Impact limited to a single building or street. Danger to those in the immediate vicinity. Law enforcement response time: several minutes.

Class 2 Threat: A subject capable of resisting a trained squad. Impact limited to a block or district. Evacuation from the direct confrontation zone is recommended.

Class 3 Threat: Affects an entire city. Mass impact on people, power, infrastructure. The National Guard and specialized teams are deployed.

Class 4 Threat: Forces operating at a national level. Capable of disrupting the government, military, or economy. Requires intervention by the army or its equivalent.

Class 5 Threat: Planetary level. Abilities affect the entire world. Capable of destroying the planet or fundamentally changing civilization. Such threats, for now, existed only in theory.

---

People bolted, abandoning carts and bags. Children's crying mixed with panicked shouts. Bob gripped Maria's hand in a death grip, trying to keep her close in the churning human tide.

"Diego!" he shouted, but his voice was lost in the general din.

His son was somewhere up ahead, separated from them by a living river of people mad with fear. It was impossible to fight against this current—it would simply crush and trample them. Bob's insides clenched with fear for his son. But immediately, another thought, forged by life experience, overlaid it: he couldn't panic. He had taught Diego to be independent; the boy should know what to do.

Diego himself was already moving with the crowd. Not succumbing to the general madness, but not resisting it either. He simply let the wave carry him toward the green-lit "SHELTER" signs, scanning with his eyes for his parents.

And at that moment, the ceiling of the atrium in the center of the hall burst.

There was no explosion, just a deafening crack of tearing concrete and metal. From the height of the third floor, breaking glass panels and rebar like rotten branches, a massive carcass plummeted. It landed with such force that the tiles beneath it spiderwebbed with cracks, and the shockwave knocked people closest to the epicenter off their feet.

Dust and concrete chips obscured it for a moment. The only sound in the ensuing silence was the tinkle of falling fragments. And then, from the clouds of dust, It rose.

A clumsy, asymmetrical body of a sickly green color. Skin seemed stretched over bones protruding at random places. Lumpy, pulsating growths ran along its back and shoulders. It stood on two legs, but there was nothing human in its appearance. It was the Abomination, a living embodiment of a biological mistake.

The creature straightened, slowly turning a head that had no eyes in the conventional sense—just a few dark, moist depressions. It inhaled and made a sound.

It wasn't a roar; a roar could be endured. This was an infrasonic wave, one that couldn't be heard by the ears but could be felt by the entire body. It passed through people, vibrating in their bones, compressing their internal organs. Following it came a piercing, cutting shriek that burrowed straight into the brain.

People around Diego grabbed their heads. Thin trickles of blood flowed from many of their ears and noses. The world blurred, lost its focus. The pain was so strong it paralyzed the will. Many simply collapsed to the floor, curling into a ball.

Diego doubled over too, but even through the agony, an instinct punched through: create distance. While the others writhed on the floor, he, staggering on unbending legs, began to retreat toward a side corridor. Every step sent a new wave of nausea through him. He didn't look at the monster; he looked at the path of escape, because he knew: whoever freezes in terror to get a better look at the threat dies first.

The Abomination unhurriedly stepped toward the nearest man, who was trying to crawl away, dragging a shattered leg. It reached out a huge hand and wrapped its fingers around the wretch's head. The skull was fragile to it. A light, almost casual pressure, and...

Crunch.

The sound was wet and quiet, but it gave the creature a sharp, almost ticklish pleasure. Like popping a tight bubble on packing wrap. The sensation was so new and pleasant that it repeated it, and then again. But the monotonous task quickly bored it. The crunch of bones and the softness of flesh no longer brought that first, bright spark of satisfaction. Far more interesting were those who tried to run.

They had life in them; they had fear.

The predator's instinct, dormant in the depths of its mutated essence, flared up. The Abomination took off. Its movements lacked any grace but possessed monstrous efficiency. It didn't run, but covered distance in a series of low, heavy leaps, landing with a dull thud that cracked the floor. One of the fleeing women turned at the sound, her face freezing into a mask of pure terror. The next leap ended right on top of her.

Its hunt was interrupted by something strange. In its path, right in front of its next victim—a boy of about fourteen—the air compressed into a perfectly flat, milky-white spot about a meter in diameter. It was at this very moment, in these seconds of mortal danger and unbearable stress, that the X-Gene awakened in the boy. The spot didn't glow; it seemed to absorb everything that passed through it. The Abomination, not slowing down, struck. The arm, meant to splatter the boy, entered the white nothingness up to the shoulder and... vanished.

There was no resistance, just emptiness where its limb had been a moment ago.

A roar burst from the monster's throat—no longer triumphant, but full of furious bewilderment. It instinctively spun and struck with its intact left arm, bypassing the portal. It put all its mass into the blow. The teenager, still standing with a trembling hand outstretched, maintaining the portal, didn't have time to do anything. The blow was so powerful that the air wave preceding the fist literally vaporized the teen's body before punching a car-sized hole in the wall behind him.

The Abomination stared in bewilderment at its right stump. Right before its eyes, from the torn muscles and bone fragments, tendrils of new flesh began to squirm and weave. The regeneration process was swift and ugly, but the pain of the loss and the humiliating feeling demanded an outlet. It wasn't going to stop.

Its gaze, cloudy with rage, snatched a new target from the crowd. It was Diego. The Abomination leaped.

Diego saw the carcass flying at him only at the last moment. Not a single coherent thought passed through his brain; only the most ancient instinct reacted—he threw up his arms, trying to cover his head. As if responding to his desperate attempt to defend himself, the X-Gene awakened in him too. Suddenly, his whole body was seized by a convulsion, and his vision went dark for an instant. And in that split second, a transparent dome of deep purple flared into existence around him.

The first blow shook the barrier. The second—and a thin, glowing crack ran across the dome. The third—more cracks appeared, weaving into a spiderweb. On the fourth blow, Diego knew it was the end. His strength was gone, his vision swimming.

And then, a green boulder of muscle blurred past Diego. A second monster, built less crudely than the Abomination, but driven by no less fury: the Hulk. He slammed into his opponent with the force of a train. The two figures, tangled in a knot of crushing hatred, burst out of the mall, shattering the walls.

Diego collapsed to the floor, the purple dome flickering and vanishing. The adrenaline that had kept him on his feet retreated, leaving a nauseating weakness. He needed cover. Staggering, he got up and, seeing almost nothing, dove into the doorway of the nearest shop. He scrambled behind the counter, curled into a ball on the dusty floor, and his consciousness, unable to take the overload, mercifully abandoned him.

---

This was no longer a street fight, but a localized earthquake with two epicenters. Each of a titan's blows against the other, each throw to the ground, generated a seismic wave that spread through the block. The asphalt beneath them crumbled, and the old brick buildings of Harlem, not designed for this kind of shaking, began to give way. Cracks crawled up facades, tiles rained from roofs, and one of the buildings began to fold inward with a deafening screech.

For Pietro Maximoff, the last five minutes had stretched into half a day of tedious work. In his perception of the world, flying concrete debris turned into objects drifting slowly through the air. He weaved between them, snatching people frozen in terror. He could see the beads of sweat on a frightened woman's face freeze in mid-air, see a child's pupil slowly dilate. To be honest, he liked this atmosphere; he felt truly important and cool, but the hours-long routine was beginning to tire him. Every person saved was just another checkmark on an endless to-do list.

The Abomination was clearly flagging. The loss of its arm gave the Hulk an undeniable advantage. But the endurance of both creatures seemed endless, and the fight could have continued until nothing was left of Harlem but rubble.

Suddenly, the roar of an invisible jet's engines at an extremely low altitude cut through the noise. A heavy shadow covered the monster, and a human figure dropped from it. Logan landed precisely on the Abomination's back, sinking his claws into the mutated flesh. The monster roared, trying to throw off the annoying rider, but Wolverine was already climbing up its spine. He reached the base of the skull and plunged all six blades into the monster's head.

It wasn't a fatal blow. The ragged wounds on the Abomination's head began to pulse and knit closed, but the breach was enough. A foreign will pierced the monster's skull. Professor Charles Xavier, safe many miles away, found the right node in the creature's brain and simply "untied" it.

The Abomination went into convulsions. Its body rippled, muscles deflating, bones retracting with a crackle. The grotesque transformation reversed. A few seconds later, a naked, wounded man, Emil Blonsky, lay on the asphalt.

Logan was about to kill him when a calm but insistent voice sounded in his head. "Logan, don't you dare."

"He deserves it, Charles," Wolverine growled under his breath.

"It's not up for discussion. Leave him for the government agents; they're already on approach."

"So they can dissect him? Or, even better, try to make a dozen more like him?" Logan stepped toward Blonsky.

"They won't succeed anyway. This creature isn't a mutant, but a government experiment that can be used in negotiations... As living proof of their irresponsible games. If he dies, the leverage over the government disappears with him."

Logan felt in his gut that leaving Blonsky alive was a mistake that would come back to haunt them. But there was logic in the Professor's words. He always saw several moves ahead. Wolverine retracted his claws in disgust.

At that moment, kicking up a small vortex of dust, Pietro stopped beside them. "Well, well," he drawled, curiously examining the crumpled man. "To think that can turn into that behemoth." He glanced at the Hulk. "No offense, buddy."

But their entire discussion missed one simple detail. No one had asked the Hulk's opinion. And the Hulk wasn't finished.

The green giant didn't say a word. He wasn't looking at Wolverine or the speedster. His gaze was fixed on the helpless body on the asphalt. He took a step forward.

"Hey, easy there, big guy!" Logan put his hands up, blocking his path. "Show's over."

With a backhand, the Hulk swatted him away like an annoying toy. Logan's body smashed through the window of a nearby shop and disappeared in a cloud of glass shards.

"Pietro, get Blonsky!" Xavier's command echoed in the speedster's head.

Pietro froze. He saw every muscle on the Hulk's body tense, saw nothing but primal rage in his eyes, directed at Blonsky. The Hulk looked at Pietro, as if warning him that if he moved, he would die. He could have grabbed Blonsky and been on the other side of the city before the Hulk could even blink. But for some inexplicable reason, he was terrified to do it.

"Professor," Pietro whispered, barely audible. "I'm afraid you'll need your telekinesis for this one. I'm not getting in the middle of that."

That second of hesitation was enough.

The Hulk took a second step, his enormous foot descending on Blonsky's body.

---

Gregory Hauss, a paramedic with twenty years of experience, thought he'd seen it all. He'd worked on ruins, pulled people from rubble after earthquakes, but what was left of the Harlem block defied all logic. The streets looked as if a capricious child-god had walked through, ripping chunks of asphalt from the ground and embedding cars into the walls of buildings.

The "National Guard," who looked more like secret agents, had already cordoned off the perimeter. "Hey, I've got a live one here!" shouted the rookie, a kid named Smith.

Hauss walked over to the doorway of a small shop. Smith was pointing his flashlight behind the counter. There, curled into a ball on the dusty floor, lay a teenager. Gregory frowned, preparing for the worst, but as he got closer, he relaxed. The kid had cuts, blood from the ears, dirty clothes—just like most of them—and, thankfully, he was breathing.

"Pulse is steady, breathing stable," Smith reported, having already checked the vitals.

Hauss did his own quick assessment. Pupils were normal, no broken bones. Just someone who was dead to the world.

"Get him on a stretcher. Tag him as a John Doe, 'shock, unconscious.' They'll sort it out at the hospital."

---

In the silence of his office, Charles Xavier watched dozens of screens, all broadcasting the same image: ruins and politicians. On the main screen was Senator Stern. "...we cannot allow our cities to become testing grounds for mutant feuds. We need the immediate creation of a unified registry and a system for the early detection of the X-Gene in children, to get the situation under control before it leads to new tragedies!"

Behind Xavier, the air grew imperceptibly heavy, and the sky outside the window darkened for a moment. "A registry?" There was a hint of thunder in Ororo Munroe's voice. "They created that monster themselves, we stopped it, and despite that, it's the mutants' fault again?!"

"They are shifting the blame, Ororo," Charles answered calmly, not turning around. "Blonsky is dead; they think all the threads leading to his creators have been cut. They urgently need a scapegoat, and we fit the role perfectly. They're using their own blunder to push laws they've had sitting in their desks for a long time."

"That... that's not fair! We cleaned up their failed experiment, saved the residents, and now they want to register us like cattle! They didn't even have time to do anything to stop it!"

"Ororo, please, calm down. The pressure in the room is dropping. We don't need a localized thunderstorm over the mansion," Xavier turned his head slightly. "They aren't playing fair; they're playing politics. And in politics, the winner is the one who controls the narrative. Right now, they've painted us as the threat."

"So what do we do? Issue a denial?"

"No," Charles shifted his gaze to one of the side monitors, which displayed a complex folder structure. "We change the topic of discussion. General Thaddeus Ross oversaw the program that created the Abomination. And it's far from his only questionable project."

Ororo followed his gaze and understood. "Leak everything online?"

"Yes. Let them spend tomorrow morning explaining to their constituents not some hypothetical 'mutant threat,' but very real, multi-billion dollar embezzlement from the military budget and evidence of illegal human experimentation. If they want to play dirty, we'll show them we know how to get our hands dirty, too."

---

One week later.

The monotonous, indifferent beep of a medical monitor. I tried to open my eyes, but my eyelids felt too heavy. He tried to make a fist and met something foreign in the vein at the crook of his elbow—the plastic tube of an IV. His body felt like cotton, disobedient.

Memories crashed down in an avalanche, forcing his eyes wide open. White ceiling, white walls, and a beeping machine by the bed.

A woman in a blue uniform entered the room. Her lips were moving, but only an underwater rushing sound reached me. I couldn't hear her. I think she asked if I was awake.

The woman paused for a second, studying my face, and then her lips formed something like professional sympathy. She pointed to her own ear and shook her head 'no,' letting me know she understood. Then she turned and left, returning a minute later with a small plastic whiteboard and a marker.

I tried to take it. The hands that had held a gamepad with no problem just a week ago barely obeyed. My fingers felt alien, clumsy. The marker trembled as I formed the letters.

The questions were from some other, former life.

First Name, Last Name: Diego Parr. Date of Birth: 06/09/2002. Address: 215 W 135th St, New York, NY 10030. Parents' Names: Bob Parr, Maria Parr.

I filled out the last item with difficulty. I flipped the board over and, awkwardly, tracing the letters several times, wrote:

"WHERE ARE THEY?"

The nurse took the board. She read it, and her professional mask slipped for an instant. She thought for a moment, then took the marker and wrote just one word.

"Wait."

And I had no choice but to.

---

Nick Fury watched the screen, where a smiling Senator Stern was once again telling the nation about the "mutant threat." A week after the Harlem incident, the report was finally on his desk—a summary of facts, cleared of rumors and speculation.

"Talk to me, Phil," Fury didn't look away from the screen. "What do we have on Ross and his pet monster?"

Agent Coulson stood at attention. "General Thaddeus Ross, 'Super-Soldier' project, recreation attempt. Subject 'Hulk,' aka Bruce Banner, was the lead developer but became the result of an experimental failure. Banner is sane, capable of cooperation. Our data suggests he's currently meditating somewhere in Tibet. Ross, considering this a success, decided to repeat the trick on Emil Blonsky. The result was what the press is calling 'Abomination.' Unstable, uncontrollable. There were twenty-three other volunteers in Blonsky's group. Only he survived, but was subsequently neutralized and killed by the Hulk. As for initial containment, it was provided by a group of mutants, presumably from Xavier's school. Our analysts agree that S.H.I.E.L.D. currently lacks the resources to neutralize Hulk-level threats without colossal damage to infrastructure and the population."

Fury rubbed his single eye. "The information on Ross's illegal experiments and budget embezzlement surfaced on an amateur forum. superheros.net. We're checking the source, but the data is very precise. Due to Stern's anti-mutant rhetoric, our bill to recruit gifted individuals into service has been rejected again."

"What about Stern himself?"

"Nothing," Coulson spread his hands. "Completely clean. No drugs, no mistresses, no strange hobbies."

Fury leaned back in his chair and pulled out a cigar. "That's just it, Phil. There are no saints. Everyone has secrets. And if we can't find his secrets, it means someone is hiding them very well." He lit the cigar, the flame briefly illuminating his face. "Are we really still the most powerful organization on this planet? Or do we just think we are?"

He let out a cloud of smoke. "Alright. Since they're resisting our program, we'll launch it on a smaller scale." Fury looked directly at Coulson.

"Codename... 'Avengers.'"

Phil Coulson nodded curtly. "Understood, sir."

 

[kowak]

Chapter 2
Three days passed, and the ringing in my ears gradually faded. I watched the news on the small TV mounted near the ceiling. Subtitles crawled across the bottom of the screen, and I could finally match the images to their meaning. Reporters in hard hats broadcasted from the ruins. The shopping mall, my high school—where I was supposed to start my senior year—entire residential blocks, including our apartment building, had all been turned into rubble. The camera snatched at the faces of people who had lost most of their lives. The government promised everyone social, medical, and financial aid. The door to the ward opened. A woman in a prim business suit, slightly overweight, walked in. She had a tired but professionally kind face.

"Hello, Diego. I'm from child services."

I nodded, not taking my eyes off the screen. "Hello."

She came closer and sat on the chair by the bed. Her face wore the same expression I had seen on the nurse's—rehearsed sympathy.

"Diego, I'm very sorry to have to tell you this. Your parents... they've been identified among the deceased."

She paused, giving me time to react, but I remained silent. I had been waiting for those words all these days. I had run them through my head hundreds of times. Who was to blame? The monster? The government? The mutants? Or all of them? There were no tears left inside, only a confusing mix of grief and aimless anger.

The woman, apparently deciding the silence had dragged on, continued, her tone shifting to be more businesslike. "We need to figure out what to do next. Do you have any relatives? Grandparents, aunts, uncles?"

The woman, not getting an answer, reached out to touch my hand. The movement was slow, calming, but I flinched away. In that same instant, the air between her palm and my hand shimmered almost imperceptibly, as if a faint purple glint had appeared for a fraction of a second and then vanished.

She didn't seem to notice. She just pulled her hand back, assuming I was startled by her touch. "It's alright, Diego. I didn't mean to scare you. Can you answer the question?"

I slowly turned my gaze to her. "None here. On my mom's side... there was some grandfather. We never visited him. They had some falling out a long time ago. The last name was Martinez. I think he lives in Brooklyn."

She quickly jotted it down in her notepad. "Good. That's something. We'll find him," she promised, getting up. Before leaving, she placed a stack of paperbacks on the nightstand. "This is so you won't be bored."

I looked at the books, then at her, but said nothing. I just took them after she left.

Three days before the start of school, I was discharged. At the hospital exit, the same woman from child services was waiting for me in her government-issued car. She silently handed me a thick cardboard folder.

"Here's everything that proves your identity from now on," she said as I got into the passenger seat. "A new birth certificate, social security card, and this."

She pressed a plastic card into my hand. "A bank account. In your name. The state will deposit a stipend into it every month until you're twenty-one. For housing, food, clothes. And... thanks to a victim relief fund organized by Wilson Fisk, there's already an initial sum in the account. Five thousand dollars."

I'd heard Fisk's name. A major businessman, a philanthropist, who was on every channel right now. "So where to now?" I asked, twirling the card in my fingers. "A foster family? An orphanage?"

She started the car. "No. Your uncle, Mateo Martinez, has agreed to take custody of you."

I gave a skeptical snort. "Agreed? He's never seen me before. Mom hadn't spoken to him in twenty years. I somehow doubt he was suddenly overcome with family feeling."

The woman's grip on the steering wheel tightened for a moment; she was clearly uncomfortable. "Let's just say the state encourages citizens who take responsibility for minors affected by the tragedy. He'll receive certain tax benefits."

"I see," I drew out the word. "So he just decided to make some money off me."

She didn't argue, because she remembered how the old man had initially told her to get lost, then abruptly changed his mind when he heard about the money. "Perhaps," she answered evasively. "But you don't need to worry about anything. Social services have already checked the living conditions. You'll have your own room, with everything you need for school and a comfortable life."

The car pulled away. "What about school?" I asked, watching the streets slide by. My old school was in ruins. "That's been handled too. Due to your relocation and, um, special circumstances, you're being transferred to Midtown High School of Science and Technology under the support program."

Midtown High School of Science and Technology. An elite school, where rich kids and natural-born geniuses got in after a brutal selection process. You couldn't just walk in off the street. "Wow," was all I could say.

The social worker's car stopped in front of a nondescript brick building, one of dozens just like it in Brooklyn. We walked up to the third floor, and the woman from child services pressed the doorbell. Shuffling footsteps approached, and a lock clicked. A man in his sixties appeared on the threshold. Short, with graying stubble on hollow cheeks and tired eyes. He wore a faded t-shirt with an illegible logo and sweatpants. He gave me a quick, appraising glance.

"So, you've arrived," he stated, not asked. "You must be Diego. I'm Mateo."

He held out a dry, calloused hand. His handshake was surprisingly firm. The woman from child services cleared her throat, breaking the awkward silence. "Well, Mateo, you have all the documents, and my contact information. If you have any questions..." "I won't," he cut her off. "Alright. Then I'll be going. Good luck, Diego."

The apartment was just like its owner. An old sofa, a TV on a stand, a kitchen table with two chairs. No photos, no plants—nothing that spoke of a life, merely an existence. Mateo went to the kitchen and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. "Alright, kid. Let's get clear on how we're going to live. I have three rules."

He paused, making sure I was listening. "Rule one, and it's the main one: your life is your life. Problems, fights, whatever—you solve them yourself. Don't drag me into it. Got it?" "Got it," I nodded. "Second, school. I don't care what grades you get, but if they call and ask me to come in... I'm not coming. Handle your business so it doesn't get to that point." "Understood." "And third. Clean up after yourself."

He finished and stared at me, waiting for a reaction. To my surprise, I felt something like relief. This cold directness was better than the rehearsed sympathy I'd been fed for the last week. This was an honest transaction. He got his tax breaks, I got a roof over my head. No fake smiles, no pretend caring.

"I'm fine with all of that," I said.

He seemed satisfied with my answer. "Good. Come on, I'll show you your room."

The room was small, with a single window that faced the blank brick wall of the next building. A simple bed, a desk, a chair, and a rickety-looking wardrobe. Nothing extra. "Get settled," Mateo tossed over his shoulder and left me alone. I dropped my single bag on the floor and sat on the bed. I needed to check.

I sat up straight and held out my right hand. I focused on the desire to protect myself. Something in the air before my palm shimmered. Space distorted, and then an almost invisible sphere wove itself into existence. It flickered faintly, and if you looked closely, you could catch faint purple veins in its transparent structure. It was completely tangible. I cautiously touched it with the fingers of my left hand and felt a smooth, hard surface.

The barrier lasted a few seconds and silently melted away. I fell back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. "What is this?" I whispered into the emptiness of my new room.

---

The day had been long and hard. The hot water from the shower was the only thing that felt truly real. Steam filled the small cubicle, and, more out of boredom than any real purpose, I held out my hand again. The purple glint appeared in the air, forming a hemisphere, and then a full sphere. Water droplets didn't shatter against it but flowed down the invisible surface as if it were glass. I trapped the steam; it swirled inside, caught, unable to escape. I clenched and unclenched my fist, the barrier vanished, and the steam hit my face. Controlling it was surprisingly easy, almost instinctive. But a nagging question circled in my head: is this it? Just a shield?

As if in answer to that thought, a strange sensation passed through my body. When I looked down at my hands, I saw the white tiles of the shower stall right through them. I stepped out of the stall, leaving wet footprints on the mat. I looked in the fogged-up mirror over the sink and wiped it with my palm. There was no one in the reflection. Just an empty bathroom and my damp footprints on the floor. I grabbed a towel from the hook and wrapped it around my waist. The white rectangle of terry cloth seemed to just hang in the air at my waistline, held up by nothing.

So that's it. To be completely invisible, I have to be naked? A great ability for a nudist spy. I concentrated, willing myself to become visible again. It took an effort, like tensing a muscle after a long period of disuse. My body reappeared instantly, starting with a light tingle all over my skin. I was standing in the bathroom again, visible and quite material, with the towel wrapped around my hips. The mirror showed me my reflection: a tan guy with wet, dark hair. Nothing remarkable—not repulsive, not model-material. Just another face that would easily get lost in a Brooklyn crowd.

After getting dressed in my room, I went out to the kitchen. Mateo was sitting on the sofa, watching some evening news broadcast on the old TV. "So... what's for dinner?" I asked, trying not to sound too demanding.

Mateo reluctantly tore his gaze from the screen and looked at me. "Rule four," he said without preamble. "Everyone cooks for themselves. You can take anything from the fridge, as long as it's not beer. And don't forget rule number three. I had cockroaches in here once, I'm not making that mistake again." He stared back at the TV, making it clear the conversation was over.

The refrigerator was almost empty: a dozen eggs, a package of bacon, an open pack of cheese, and a lone jar of mustard. Well, the options were limited. A few minutes later, the smell of fried bacon filled the kitchen. I ate my scrambled eggs straight from the pan, standing by the stove and listening to the mumble of the news from the living room. I was in a stranger's house, with a stranger, and now I had one more secret. A secret I couldn't tell anyone.

I spent the last three days before school like a hermit, methodically exploring what I had become. I learned to create the barrier not just at a distance, but also skin-tight. It enveloped me like a second skin, completely invisible and intangible. But if I poured a little more concentration into it, a purple ripple would run over the surface, and it would become visible, turning into a kind of spectral armor. I mentally divided this into two modes: "hidden" and "combat."

Today's experiment ended unexpectedly. I activated the hidden mode and, just to test the feeling, leaned against the wall in the hallway. I expected to feel resistance, but instead, my finger pushed into the wall by a couple of millimeters, and I quickly stopped. The strength didn't come from my muscles, but from the invisible shell around them. It acted like a battering ram.

It was time to make a full list of what I could do now. First, ranged barriers: shields, spheres. Second, invisibility, which was extremely impractical for now because of the clothes. Third, a protective shell. Fourth, a force shell, as a consequence of the third. I wasn't stronger, but I could hit and push using the field.

It was a serious toolkit. In a world where some mutants' abilities were limited to changing their nail color, my case looked like winning the genetic lottery. In the evening, with nothing better to do, I went to the forum, superheros.net. A pinned topic, which had already gathered thousands of comments, was on the main page. User: MozgoTraher Topic: Hulk and Abomination - NOT MUTANTS. General Ross Exposed.

Inside was a detailed article with links to leaked documents, reports, and even short video files. On one of them, a man in a military uniform—Emil Blonsky—was receiving some kind of injection. And then his body began to deform monstrously, turning into the very Abomination that had destroyed my life. The monster that killed my parents was the result of a failed military experiment, not the product of a random mutation.

A cold fury rose in me. The government creates a monster with its own hands, it destroys half a district, kills hundreds of people, and then a senator steps up to a podium and declares that the main threat is kids with the X-Gene. They started the fire themselves, and now they're screaming that everyone else's matches should be taken away. What is the government thinking? Their actions are breeding even more hatred between mutants and humans; a rebellion could start soon. Maybe that's what they're aiming for? I fell asleep with these thoughts, a new school waiting for me tomorrow.

---

The morning bus was buzzing with chatter about future plans, girls, games. I took a free seat by the window. A few pairs of eyes darted my way, a hushed "who's that?" was heard, but no one sat next to me. An invisible buffer zone formed around me.

Midtown High School of Science and Technology was strikingly different from my old school. No scuffed walls. Bright corridors, glass doors, a manicured lawn outside—everything here spoke of status and funding. I felt like I had wandered into an expensive hotel in street clothes by mistake.

The principal's office was easy to find. I knocked. "Come in," a calm male voice called out. The principal turned out to be a fit man in his fifties, wearing a perfectly tailored suit. He gave me a quick glance and pointed to a chair. "Diego Parr, I presume. I'm Principal Davis." He opened a folder with my documents. "Senior year, grades are above average. Normally, I'd ask new students a series of standard questions, but given your circumstances, that would be... inappropriate."

He paused, choosing his words. "Nevertheless, our school is focused on preparing students for top universities. Have you thought about what you'd like to do next?" The question was polite, with no hidden meaning, or so it seemed to me. "No," I answered. "And as for a major? A college?" "No to that, either." Principal Davis put on an understanding smile. "No problem. There's still plenty of time. Here's your preliminary schedule; you have one week to choose your electives. And this is the key to your locker." The number 69 was stamped on the metal.

The hallways were already full of students. I found my locker, tossed my bag inside, keeping only a notebook and a textbook, and headed to my first class: Math. In the classroom, I instinctively chose the last desk by the window. It was a good spot for observing. The scene was painfully familiar, just in more expensive scenery: a few jocks, a group of girls whose voices were a little louder than everyone else's, a few kids huddled over textbooks, and a few like me—loners, dissolved into the background.

The teacher entered, a middle-aged woman with a stern bun. "Good morning, please be seated. Let's start with roll call." She picked up the register. The names flowed one after another. "Eugene Thompson?" "Here," a broad-shouldered guy from the jock group answered in a low voice. "Mary Jane Watson?" "Here!" a girl with a mane of bright red hair chirped. "Elizabeth Allan?" "Here." "Peter Parker?" "Huh? Oh, I'm here," a guy in the second row, kinda buff and a little flustered, looked up from his notebook. "Diego Parr?" "Here." Several heads turned in my direction. "Excellent," the teacher, Mrs. Warren, snapped the register shut. "Let's warm up a bit. We'll review previous material." She turned to the board and quickly wrote in chalk: y = 2x² - 4x + 1 "We have a parabola," she said. "Mr. Thompson, how do we find the coordinates of its vertex?" Eugene sat up straight. "Well... there's a formula... something..." he dragged out, clearly trying to buy time. Mrs. Warren sighed. "A 'something' formula won't help us. Thank you, sit down. Mr. Parr, you're new here. Show us what you've got." All eyes turned back to me. "The x-coordinate is calculated with the formula x = -b / 2a," I answered calmly. "In this case, 'a' is two, and 'b' is negative four." "Continue," the teacher nodded. I did the math in my head. "X equals one. Plug that into the equation, y = 2(1)² − 4(1) + 1 = 2 – 4 + 1 = −1. So y equals negative one. The vertex is at (1, -1)."

Mrs. Warren gave a barely perceptible smile. "Absolutely correct. Mr. Thompson, I hope you wrote that down." I caught his heavy stare. He probably thought I was trying to humiliate him. Strange, I was just answering the question. Biology and Physics passed in a haze. I mechanically wrote things in my notebook, but my thoughts were far away. The last class was English.

Most of the students were still chatting about their own things. A shadow fell over me. Eugene "Flash" Thompson, flanked by two of his buddies, crossed his arms over his chest. From the conversations, I'd gathered he was the star of the school football team, and it showed. Tall, broad-shouldered, with muscles that looked adult on his seventeen-year-old body. His light hair was styled in a deliberately messy way, and a self-satisfied smirk played on his handsome features. He was the living embodiment of school popularity and clearly reveled in his status.

"This seat's taken," he snapped. There were plenty of empty desks around. This was a pure provocation. But I wasn't looking for trouble. I silently stood up and moved to the next desk. Flash followed me. "This one's taken too." The class grew quieter. Now they were watching us. "Then that's a problem for whoever sits here," I replied evenly, without looking up.

A murmur went through the class. Flash smirked, clearly pleased with the effect. "Then I guess it's my problem," he stepped closer and poked me in the shoulder with his index finger. The push wasn't hard, just humiliating. "What, did your mommy not teach you not to take other people's seats?"

All sound in the classroom vanished. There was only this finger, poking me, and the word "mommy," spoken with a sneer. In that moment, I realized one thing with absolute clarity: I was a victim, a charity case, an orphan from Harlem. They wouldn't expel me. My hand shot out faster than he could react. I grabbed the finger he was still poking me with and snapped it sideways. There was a sickening crunch.

Flash's scream was filled less with rage than with agony. He staggered back, staring at his finger, bent at an unnatural angle. Then his face contorted, and he swung at me with his healthy left hand. It was a wide, amateurish punch—a desperate attempt to inflict pain in return. I dodged it easily, just leaning my torso back.

"WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?!" The English teacher, Mr. Harrington, was standing in the doorway. The whole class started talking at once, but Elizabeth Allan, sitting nearby, quickly and clearly laid out the entire sequence of events. "Thompson—to the nurse's office!" the teacher ordered. "Parr—to the principal's office, immediately!"

And so I was sitting in Principal Davis's office again. This time he wasn't smiling. He just looked at me in silence, a deep weariness in his eyes. "Explain," he finally said. I recounted everything that had happened, without emotion. How I had moved, how he had followed me. How he started poking me and what, exactly, he had said. Davis pinched the bridge of his nose. "He shouldn't have said that," he said quietly, more to himself. "No, he shouldn't have," I confirmed. "Diego," the principal sighed, "violence is not permitted within this school. Under any circumstances. But the provocation was obvious, and its cause... was exceptionally low. What am I supposed to do with you?"

He leaned back in his chair. "Officially, I am suspending you from classes for two weeks. Unofficially, I want you to use this time to get your head straight. So that this doesn't happen again. And so you don't fall behind, I'm going to hire you a tutor. And I insist you start seeing a psychologist."

He spoke calmly and deliberately. "Why are you doing this?" I asked directly. "A tutor and a psychologist, on your dime? Now that you're spending your personal money on me, I'll feel too awkward not to go." Davis looked at me, unsurprised. "Diego, why do you think people become teachers?" I shrugged. "Couldn't make it in the real world, so they came back to the place they spent most of their lives. They want to raise students properly. They want power over those younger than them. They like feeling like the smartest person in the room. I don't know, lots of reasons."

"You might be right in some cases," Davis didn't argue. "But my job is to give students a chance to find their path, to give you a chance to realize your potential. And besides, Thompson has had this coming for a long time. His football victories don't give him the right to bully others. You just happened to be the one to do it." He took a notepad and wrote down two addresses and phone numbers. "Here. A tutor for the sciences and a psychotherapist. Call them today." I took the paper. "I understand." "Good," Davis nodded. "Now, go. I'll deal with Thompson's parents myself." And so ended my first day at my new school. With a suspension and two new contacts in my pocket.

Principal Davis's office. Mrs. Thompson sat on the very edge of her chair. Her perfectly styled blonde hair and expensive business suit clashed with the red blotches appearing on her neck. "I demand his immediate expulsion," her voice, accustomed to giving orders, was shrill with poorly restrained fury. "Do you understand what he did to my son? The doctor is talking about possible tendon damage! This could mean the end of Eugene's entire sports career!"

Her husband, a large man with a tired face, sat silently beside her, his hands resting on his knees. He was looking not at the principal, but at a corner of the room. "Mrs. Thompson," Principal Davis spoke evenly, his tone perfectly measured. "Believe me, I am treating this situation with the utmost seriousness. Violence is unacceptable in our school. Which is precisely why Diego Parr has already been disciplined. He is suspended from classes for two weeks."

"Two weeks?" She laughed nervously. "That's ridiculous. That's not discipline, it's a vacation! He should be expelled, and his case referred to the police!" Davis let her vent, calmly steepling his fingers. "You certainly have the right to file a formal complaint with the school board and contact law enforcement. I won't stop you. But as principal, I must warn you what an official investigation will look like." He paused just slightly. "Any investigation will consider not just the injury itself, but the context of the incident. And that context, I assure you, will not paint Eugene in the best light. Witnesses, and there was a full classroom of them, confirm that Diego tried to avoid conflict twice by moving to a different desk. Eugene pursued him and was the one who initiated physical contact."

Mrs. Thompson started to object, but Davis continued, lowering his voice. "And then there is the matter of Diego Parr himself. You watch the news, I'm sure. Harlem... Diego lost both of his parents in that catastrophe. He lost his home. He was transferred to us under a special program for victims. Now, imagine how this story will look to a review board. On one side, a jock from the football team, from a wealthy family, who provoked a conflict. On the other, an orphan who survived a national tragedy, who was pushed to his breaking point."

He leaned forward, his gaze hardening. "And he was pushed by a very specific phrase. I have the exact quote from several students: 'What, did your mommy not teach you not to take other people's seats?'"

Silence hung in the office. For the first time, Mr. Thompson looked up and met his wife's eyes. His gaze was more eloquent than any words. "That's enough, Helen," he said hoarsely. "We're going home." She spun to face him, her face twisting with incomprehension and anger. "But, Robert..." "I said, that's enough," he cut her off, standing up. "We're leaving." She stood, straightened her blazer, and shot Davis a look full of venom. She hissed, so quietly it was scarier than a shout: "This isn't over."

The door closed behind them. Principal Davis leaned back in his chair and wearily rubbed his temples.

 

[kowak]

Chapter 3
The psychologist's office was nothing like what you see in the movies. No couch, just two comfortable armchairs, a coffee table with a box of tissues, a bookshelf, and a large abstract painting on the wall—an tangle of blue and purple strokes. The woman across from me looked to be in her sixties. Behind her thin-framed glasses, her eyes held none of the pity I had already grown used to.

"Hello, Diego. My name is Sarah Connelly. Principal Davis asked me to work with you, to help you return to a normal life."

"Can you bring people back from the dead?" The question slipped out on its own, sharper than I'd planned.

She didn't even blink. The shadow of a sad smile touched her lips. "No, Diego. No one can do that. But I can help you learn to live with this loss."

"And what makes you think I haven't learned?"

"Because people who have learned don't usually break their classmates' fingers," she replied simply. "Let's start there. Why did you do it?"

I shrugged. "He provoked me."

"I know that. Do you regret what you did?"

"I don't know."

"How so?"

"I don't think people really regret their actions. They regret the consequences. If someone robs a bank and doesn't get caught, he's probably not going to be tormented by regret while lying on a beach with the money. But if he gets twenty years—he'll regret every second. The consequences of my decision haven't caught up to me yet, so I don't know if I should regret it."

She looked at me for a long time, her gaze was perceptive. "That is a very adult and a very cynical thought, Diego. Perhaps even correct, in a sense. But we're not talking about a hypothetical robber. We're talking about you and the anger you felt. If you don't find another outlet for that force, it will start to destroy you from the inside."

"Find an outlet for the anger." The phrasing seemed odd, but I didn't point it out.

"Alright, let's change the subject," Sarah put her notepad aside. "What do you think of your new classmates?"

"Nothing special. Same as anywhere else, just more erudite."

"The fact that you used the word 'erudite' instead of just saying 'smart' tells me that you are quite erudite yourself," she allowed herself a small smile at the wordplay. "Do you have any hobbies, Diego?"

"I used to draw sometimes."

"And? Did you like it?"

I thought for a second, trying to find the words. "Not really, it just... came easily. The lines fell where they should, the shadows found their own place. But I didn't feel... anything. No joy, no excitement. It was like I wasn't the one drawing, my hand just knew what to do. I guess that's what they call talent."

"Do you believe in the concept of talent? I wouldn't expect someone like you, who sees the world in such cynical tones, to believe in something so ephemeral."

"Hm, strange question, but yes, I do. For example, I'm pretty good at drawing, as I said. And that's despite never having studied art textbooks or taken classes. So, I guess talent is when something comes to you without much effort."

"You think you're pretty good at drawing. Art is subjective; it's impossible to judge on some universal scale. Maybe in your eyes, the drawings are quite good, but to someone else, they're just cute doodles. Have you ever considered that others might see your work completely differently?"

"You're probably right," I said slowly. "But isn't a psychologist's job to build up a patient's confidence, not to say... well, what you just said?"

She laughed. "I got the impression that words like that wouldn't get to you. You like dialogues like this, don't you? Use these two weeks to find something that truly captivates you, something that will become your hobby. And start thinking about a goal, something you'll be willing to work hard for. We're done for today."

She stood up, signaling the session was over. "Take care, Diego."

"Goodbye," I replied, and walked out.

---

The apartment smelled of beer. Mateo was lying on the sofa, watching some sports show on TV. He followed my path from the door to my room with his eyes. "So, how was your first day of school?" he asked, not looking away from the screen.

"Since when do you care?" I tossed over my shoulder, already entering my room.

He shrugged and said nothing, taking a swig from his bottle. It was clear he'd asked the question purely out of politeness, to observe some ritual known only to him.

In my room, I fell onto the bed and pulled out my phone. The superheros.net forum was alive with activity. I scrolled through the thread titles. "Stark Industries' Accounts: Where is the 'Charity' Money Really Going?" "Spider-Man Spotted in Queens Again - Eyewitness Video." "Disappearances at the Docks: Police Are Baffled. A New Wave of Kidnappings?" "Official US Senate List of Dangerous Mutants!"

I don't know what I want. I don't know who I want to be or what to do with my life. But I know one thing for sure. I have a power inside me that's begging to be let out, and it needs to be tested. Tonight, I will go out onto the streets of New York.

---

The night accepted me without any questions. A cheap black hoodie, nondescript jeans—my wardrobe was perfect for blending into the shadows of Brooklyn. I pulled a simple medical mask over my face and pulled the brim of my cap down almost to my eyes. The mirror reflected a character from a crime blotter. It was just what I needed.

I climbed out the window and onto the fire escape. So, if I'm actively looking for trouble, there's no better place than the shipping docks. That's where I headed.

Before I touched the ground, I decided to test a theory. My force fields were mobile. I could create them at a distance, give them shape. Did that mean I could fly inside them?

I stopped on the landing of the fire escape, formed the outline of a vertical capsule in front of me, and stepped inside. The first attempt to take off failed—the construct didn't move, as if it were welded to the floor. I pushed harder, pouring all my concentration into the barrier. The transparent walls around me filled with a thick purple light, and I felt the ground begin to pull away.

I was inside a cocoon that I could control. Everything broke against it, so I felt no wind. I rose above the rooftops, and the night-time panorama opened up before me. The geometry of the streets, threads of light from the lamps, firefly-cars crawling along the arteries of the roads. The thrill of this silent flight was narcotic.

When I began to slow the capsule, my body, which had retained its initial velocity, continued to fly forward, and I slammed into the front wall. My personal protective shell, which I always keep active, acted like a battering ram. There was a crack, and the purple capsule shattered into fragments of light.

In the next second, I was falling. Wind battered my face, the ground rushed to meet me. Strange, for some reason my personal shell was letting the airflow through... No time to figure it out. I threw out my hands and wove a pale-purple barrier in the air, angled towards the ground, like a ramp.

My body began to slide down the structure. The force shield enveloping me took the path of least resistance: instead of punching through the ramp like it did the first capsule, it made my body slide along it. This only worked because the ramp itself was strong enough to withstand the initial impact. The ramp acted as a springboard, launching me back into the night sky. At the peak of my trajectory, in a brief moment of weightlessness, I created a new capsule around myself. And again, I slammed into its front, but this time it held, as my speed was low enough.

"Whew," I exh. "Gotta be more careful."

I moved deeper into the port area. The skeletons of cranes were black against the dark sky. I deliberately walked with a relaxed gait, playing the part of a lost passerby looking for directions. I didn't have to wait long.

A woman's scream, short, as if cut off mid-cry. It came from a narrow passage between two warehouses. I quickened my pace and turned into the dead end without hesitation.

The scene was almost theatrical. Two men were holding a woman. She wasn't struggling, but rather just letting herself be held. My appearance didn't surprise them. One of them, stocky, with a sparse beard, lazily turned his head toward me. "Easy there, champ. Came to save the girl?" There was no threat in his voice, just boredom.

The second man, taller and thinner, was silent. He just took a step to the side, clearing my view. The situation was transparent. The woman was bait, I was the intended victim. But something was wrong. These two didn't look like street muggers. No nervousness, no hunger for profit in their eyes. It looked like they were just at work. Unmarked clothes, short haircuts, military posture.

"Show me your hands. Slow," the second one commanded.

The woman, who had been feigning fear, sighed heavily and rolled her eyes. "Let's get this over with," she muttered under her breath.

The first man smirked and pulled out a gun. "On your knees. Hands behind your head. Now."

I obediently followed the order, kneeling on the dirty asphalt. My thoughts were working quickly and clearly. Option A: Neutralize the three of them. With my powers, that's easy. But what then? Call the cops? How would I explain how I beat them? It would attract unwanted attention. And most importantly, I wouldn't learn anything. Option B: Play their game. Let them take me. If this isn't a simple mugging but a targeted capture, that means I'll be passed up the chain. And then I might be able to find out who they are, who they work for, and most importantly—if they have others. Others like me.

And at that moment, kneeling at gunpoint, I felt not fear, but a strange, almost inappropriate calm. It was growing into an explorer's excitement. Before, this situation would have paralyzed me with terror. Now, with power, I saw it as an interesting adventure, like the first level in an unfamiliar game. I was genuinely curious what would happen next.

Cold plastic of disposable zip-ties tightened around my wrists. They searched me—not roughly, but methodically, like at a checkpoint. The man doing the search frowned when he found no phone, wallet, or even keys in my pockets. He shot a brief, questioning glance at his partner, but the other man just gave a slight shrug. Apparently, their victims' oddities weren't part of their job description.

They led me silently through a dark labyrinth of containers and brought me to one that looked no different from the rest. A heavy steel door slid open with a screech, and I was unceremoniously shoved inside. The outside world ceased to exist.

There were about nineteen people inside. They had been here long enough for apathy to have erased most emotions from their faces. A girl in a once-fancy club dress sat hugging her knees, rocking back and forth. Next to her, a man in an expensive suit lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling with a vacant gaze. There were others—a student, a laborer, a couple that looked homeless. My arrival earned only a few indifferent glances. I was just one more object in this cage.

I let my eyes adjust to the dim light and broke the silence. "Can anyone explain what's going on?"

Most of them ignored me. But a dry cough came from a bunk in the shadows. An elderly man with gray stubble and deeply sunken eyes slowly turned his head toward me. He studied me for a long time, as if trying to read something on my face. "Your voice is too calm, kid. You're either a fool, or... a cop."

Several heads immediately turned to me. A faint hope flickered in a couple of pairs of eyes. "Not a cop," I replied, looking straight at the old man. "Just want to understand the layout."

The hope in their eyes died as quickly as it had lit. The girl in the club dress whimpered. The old man coughed again, this time a wracking, full-body cough. "Layout's simple," he exhaled, once the fit had passed. "We've been here ten days, maybe eleven. The days blur into one long, stinking dream. We've got no idea why we're here. Once a day, that little window opens"—he nodded at a small slot in the door—"they pass us water and some tasteless paste. That's it."

I scanned the container. It wasn't just a metal box. There were bunks along the walls, exactly twenty of them. In the corner was a chemical toilet, and next to it, a tank of drinking water with a pump. The ventilation grate near the ceiling was welded shut; air was apparently piped in through some hidden vents. This place had been prepared for long-term confinement.

And there were exactly twenty bunks. Nineteen occupied, and one empty—until I arrived. So, they weren't just grabbing random people; they were assembling a set. And I was the last piece. Whatever they had planned, it was supposed to happen very soon. I walked to the free bunk at the far end of the container and sat. The others resumed their quiet existence, sinking back into apathy. But for me, the wait was different. I wasn't a victim awaiting my fate. I was an observer who had taken a front-row seat for the show. I just had to wait for the curtain to rise.

The wait ended suddenly, around three in the morning. The heavy container door slid aside, letting in the cold dock air. "Out, one at a time. No sudden movements," the voice outside was businesslike.

The prisoners, stumbling and squinting, trickled out. They were met by three mercenaries in tactical gear, rifles at the ready, their faces indifferent. Behind them, in the half-light, stood five others, but they were different. Dressed entirely in black, but it wasn't fabric, it was some kind of matte material. They held no weapons, but their very stillness was far more unsettling than the mercenaries' guns.

The lead mercenary gestured toward the silhouette of a cargo ship at the pier. "Everyone on board. Move it."

The panic, which had been smoldering, began to ignite. One of the prisoners started to cry quietly. A ship was a point of no return. This had gone too far. I had to act here and now. I took a step forward, deliberately separating myself from the crowd. "Just out of curiosity," my voice was steady, "where are we sailing? And who are the guys in black?"

The lead mercenary slowly turned his head, irritation crossing his face. He raised his rifle, aiming at my chest. "Too many questions, kid. You don't need to know. Now walk where you were told."

Realizing I wouldn't get answers from him, I held out my right hand and focused. The air around the three mercenaries compressed and began to form a sphere. They didn't immediately understand what was happening. One of them pulled the trigger. A burst of automatic fire slammed into the barrier. The bullets, deforming, plopped uselessly onto the asphalt. The realization that they were facing a mutant came at the same time as the terror.

Not giving them time to recover, I thrust my other hand out toward the five in black, creating another barrier. And then I began to compress the first one, the one holding the mercenaries. The sphere shrank in diameter, relentlessly crushing the three men into each other and onto the ground. But with the second group, things went wrong. As soon as the barrier closed around them, they just... vanished. The shadows at their feet stretched unnaturally, blackened, and pulled them in, leaving nothing but empty asphalt. I instinctively dropped the useless barrier.

My own shadow stirred. It arched, taking on volume, and from it, as if from black water, one of the figures emerged. A short blade glinted in its hand, aimed at my throat. Reaction outpaced thought. I didn't have time to dodge or raise a new barrier. The only thing I could do was densify my personal force field to its limit. There was a quiet screech as the blade stopped a millimeter from my skin. I backhanded my free arm, aiming for the opponent's head. But he moved with inhuman speed. He dodged the blow, stepped back, and his body began to sink into the shadow of a nearby container.

At that moment, the rising wail of police sirens carried from the distance. The ninjas froze mid-attack. They said something quickly to each other in... Chinese? And without hesitation, one by one, they dove into the darkness, disappearing completely. That was dangerous. I had severely underestimated the risks.

Silence fell, broken only by the groans of the three mercenaries pinned to the ground by my sphere and the frightened whispers of the other prisoners. They were looking at me like a savior. "What am I supposed to do with you?" I asked the helpless bodies in the barrier.

In that same second, two patrol cars flew around the corner, bathing everything in blue and red flashing lights. Two cops jumped out of each car. Four guns were immediately aimed in our direction. "POLICE! DON'T MOVE, HANDS UP!" came the standard order.

A few of the prisoners gave joyful shouts. The woman in the club dress even sobbed in relief and quickly raised her hands. But I didn't share their joy. The entire fight, from my first step to the ninjas' disappearance, had taken a minute at most. How did they arrive so fast? One car, randomly patrolling the docks and hearing shots—maybe. But two? Two cars, arriving simultaneously, as if summoned by a call no one had made. This was more like a second wave.

I did the same thing I had done to the mercenaries, who were already unconscious, pinned to the ground. The space around the cops compressed, pressing them to the asphalt. "What are you doing?!" the woman in the dress screamed. "They're here to help us!"

"Really? Think about it. How could they get here so fast? And by the way,"—I nodded at the immobilized mercenaries—"while I'm busy, take the guns from those guys. It'll be bad if they have rifles in their hands when they wake up."

I walked over to the nearest cop, who was lying face down, trying to lift his head. "Damn mutant!" he rasped, spitting dust. "We'll start with you," I replied.

I didn't remove the barrier completely, just freed this cop enough to search him, while giving him no chance to get up. My own protective shell was still active, so I wasn't worried about a surprise attack. The search yielded interesting results. A pack of cigarettes, a standard smartphone, and... another phone, an old, button-operated one. "Why does one guy need two different phones?" I asked aloud, mostly to myself. "Okay, what's the PIN?"

"Go to hell," he hissed. I just grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face into the asphalt. Once. "I'll ask again." He was silent, breathing heavily. Strange, is he more afraid of his boss than of me? Or is this loyalty?

I turned the phone over in my hands. I decided to try the most standard combination imaginable. 0-0-0-0. The screen unlocked. I barely managed to hold back a chuckle. "You really are an idiot, aren't you?" I opened the call log. The last call was about an hour ago, an unsaved number. Without thinking, I hit redial.

After a few rings, someone answered. The voice was male, calm. "Was there a problem?" I tried to imitate the cop's rough tone. "Yeah, some mutant messed up the shipment. What's the plan, boss?"

There was a pause on the other end. Did I blow it? Finally, the voice spoke again. "Why did you call me 'boss'?" "Because I work for you," I answered, knowing the game was up. Another pause, heavier than the last. "Who is this?" "I'll answer if I hear an answer to my question first," I countered, holding the phone to my ear. "'Why did you call me boss?' Sounds like you're just a middle manager. You're a pawn too, just a higher-ranking one?"

A humorless chuckle came from the other end. "And you, I take it, are the 'mutant' who messed up the shipment. Curious. You just assaulted officers of the New York Police Department. Do you seriously think you can just walk away?"

"I'll deal with that. I'm more interested in the ones who can hide in shadows. Who are they?" Another pause. "And what did they do when you showed up?" "They ran."

"'The Hand.' A clan of assassins." "Imagine that. I didn't think you'd give up your partners so easily." "The fact that you were able to pull this off is entirely their fault. We have no intention of taking the loss alone." And he hung up.

Whoever I was talking to had, without a second thought, written off both the failed ninjas and his own men. He didn't try to save them; he was just gathering information on the new variable—me. Now I had a much more mundane problem. Four corrupt cops, three mercenaries, and nineteen terrified witnesses. I couldn't just leave them all here. What a mess.

I walked over to the cop I'd taken the phone from. "What's your captain's name?" The cop was silent, staring at the ground. "Don't make me repeat myself. I'll find his name online anyway." "Stacy. Captain George Stacy." I nodded and headed for one of the patrol cars. The radio on the dashboard was hissing, occasionally breaking through with snippets of police jargon. I'd never used one, but the principle seemed simple. Press to talk, release to listen.

I pressed the button. "I need Captain Stacy, urgently." A second's pause, and then a voice answered from the speaker. "State your call sign and badge number." I pressed the button again. "That's not important. Tell Captain Stacy I have four of his officers hostage. He has five minutes to get on this channel." The radio exploded. Overlapping voices demanded I repeat, clarify, identify myself. I ignored them, placing the radio back on the dash.

The rescued prisoners huddled together a short distance away, watching me. They had seen me dispatch the mercenaries, and now I was threatening cops. In their world, this just didn't compute. Maybe three minutes passed. "This is Captain George Stacy. What are your demands?"

I picked up the radio. "No demands. More like a situation you're going to have to clean up." "I'm all ears," his tone was flat, no hint of irony. "Nineteen kidnapped civilians were in a shipping container. A group of armed men, about to ship them into slavery, was neutralized by me. Your guys showed up suspiciously fast. So I made the decision to... calm them down, too. One of them had an interesting burner phone. I called the last number, spoke to someone who's very unhappy about the shipment being disrupted. Basically, you've got a mess here: corrupt cops, kidnapped people, and me in the middle of it."

There was silence on the other end. Stacy was obviously processing the information. "You've just talked yourself into three life sentences. Assaulting officers, kidnapping... and you expect me to take this on faith over the radio? You mentioned victims. Where are you? Give me a pier or warehouse number."

"I don't know the exact coordinates; I'm not here on a tour. But you should have two patrol cars blinking on your dispatch map. Start there." Another short pause. Stacy was making a decision. "Don't move. We're on our way."

---

Ten minutes. That's all it took for them to respond. At first, it was a scattered wail of sirens, which gradually merged into one. I used the time well. All the weapons—the mercenaries' rifles, the cops' service pistols—I put in one pile. Only one Glock, I tucked into the waistband of my jeans.

The pier was flooded with flashing lights. Men in heavy armor fanned out from the cars, taking positions and raising ballistic shields. Their movements were practiced, economical. I stood in the center of this gathering storm and activated my invisibility. I wanted them to see me, but not be able to identify me. The medical mask, cap, and clothes stayed, but my face, eyes, ears—all vanished. I'd seen some Korean show online where a detective could reconstruct a face from the smallest details. I wasn't interested in finding out if the NYPD had anyone with that talent.

A man in his fifties stepped out from behind the human shield of SWAT officers. Solidly built, with a short haircut. He scanned the scene: the civilians, the bound officers on the ground, the pile of weapons, and finally, his gaze rested on me—a figure with no head. "I'm Captain Stacy. Who was I speaking to on the radio?"

I took a step forward, into the light. Running was the easiest option, but something in me wanted to see this conversation through. "Me."

Stacy tilted his head slightly, studying the anomaly above my neck. "You're under arrest for assaulting a police officer. Drop your weapon, hands behind your back, get on the ground." Dozens of barrels, which had been pointing in different directions, were now all aimed at me. "Mm, I think I'll decline," I spread my hands. "How about this: you ask questions, I answer them. I waited for you, Captain, to pass on information, not to surrender."

"That wasn't a request, it was an order," Stacy cut in. "All information will be entered into an interrogation report, at the precinct. My men will provide you with an escort." I looked at his men. Judging by their tense stances, the "escort" promised to be rough. "Ugh," I let out a sigh. It was a sigh of genuine disappointment. "So I waited for nothing. I was hoping for a more... rational approach. Well, if not, then not."

The air around me shimmered, condensing into a capsule. The police tensed, someone shouted a command. Stacy took a step forward, holding out a hand. "DON'T MOVE!"

But it was too late. My capsule silently lifted off the ground and shot up into the night sky. Shouts came from below, but not a single shot followed. The sky in the east was beginning to lighten, turning a dirty gray. Dawn was approaching. And then a thought hit me: what if I'm being tracked? Not visually, but some other way.

I changed course and landed in an unfamiliar alley several blocks from Mateo's building. I looked around. The street was empty. I quickly stripped naked, hid my clothes and the gun, and memorized the location. Now, completely invisible, I moved toward the apartment. Walking naked through early morning New York was... a strange experience. I was a ghost, watching the city awaken. Everyone was rushing about their business, never suspecting that a completely naked guy was walking a meter away from them. I have to admit, there was definitely something to it.

Reaching the building, I easily climbed the fire escape and slipped into my room through the unlocked window. I pulled on a pair of boxers and collapsed onto the bed. The world outside was starting its day. Mine had just ended.

 

[kowak]

Chapter 4
Beneath the streets of Brooklyn lay a world that didn't exist on any map. An old, decommissioned pumping station had been converted by Wilson Fisk into a personal command center. Fisk himself, dressed in an immaculate white suit that seemed out of place in this subterranean lair, sat in a massive leather armchair. On the main monitor before him were the detailed architectural plans for a new residential complex: "Harlem Renaissance." The quiet chime of an intercom broke the silence. "Enter."

A reinforced steel door slid open soundlessly. James Wesley, his assistant, appeared in the doorway. Thin, in a severe suit, a folder in his hand. Fisk did not turn, his gaze remained fixed on the blueprints. "Report on the pier situation."

"The deal was compromised, sir. An individual with anomalous abilities intervened. Nineteen units are lost. Our assets in the police and three mercenaries have been apprehended."

"His capabilities?" Fisk slowly swiveled his chair.

"Primary ability is force-field manipulation. He creates localized barriers capable of stopping automatic fire at close range. We also recorded an ability to compress the field with crushing force." Wesley paused. "Furthermore, the surveillance team lost him when he left the docks. Drones could not acquire a thermal or visual signature. This, combined with our men's reports of the target's 'transparent face,' leads us to believe he possesses invisibility. Apparently, the effect does not extend to his clothing."

Fisk steepled his fingers. "You spoke with him. What was your impression?"

"He didn't panic. He was probing, trying to gather information, not making threats. He spoke with confidence, but his actions had an element of... improvisation. Not an experienced operative. More like a gifted novice who is far too curious."

"Many mutants appeared after Harlem," Fisk said quietly. "That incident awakened many. Set search parameters, age fifteen to twenty-five. Victims or those who lost loved ones during the Abomination's attack."

"Already done, sir," Wesley opened his folder. "The sample size is nine thousand, seven hundred and forty-two individuals."

"Too many. Find more filters."

"It will be done."

"And The Hand?" Fisk's tone grew colder. "Why did they evaporate at the first sign of complication?"

"They mistook our patrol cars for genuine officers. Their priority is stealth; they were not prepared for an open confrontation with the authorities and chose to withdraw."

Fisk made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Amateurs. The costs of this operation will be deducted from their next payment."

"Yes, sir."

"How far along is the plan to seize power?"

Wesley answered without a moment's hesitation. "It will be ready soon, sir. Public tension is at its peak. The police are demoralized. There won't be a better moment."

A shadow of a smile appeared on Fisk's lips. "Then let Shocker and Rhino begin. It is time to raise New York from its knees."

This entire conversation, every word, every pause, was overheard. Neither Fisk nor Wesley likely suspected that one of The Hand's ninjas had been hiding in their shadows the entire time.

---

Nick Fury's office had no windows. They were replaced by smart-glass walls, which displayed real-time data streams—from satellite images of disputed territories to stock market tickers. The door slid open noiselessly behind him, admitting Phil Coulson. He was holding a thin tablet. "Report on the recent mutant, sir."

"Did we find him?" Fury asked, not turning around.

"Yes. As you ordered, the search was conducted with maximum secrecy." Coulson touched the tablet's screen. The image zoomed in, showing surveillance footage from the shopping mall. "A second before the Hulk intervened, the Abomination attacked a teenager, but the blow never landed."

On the footage, the monster's blurry figure slammed into an invisible barrier, around which a purple dome flared for a split second. "An energy shield. The power output is colossal; it withstood a direct hit from a Gamma-level subject. We ran the facial data. Subject identified. Diego Parr, seventeen years old. By an interesting coincidence, he was enrolled in the same class at Midtown High as our other subject of interest, Peter Parker."

"Has Xavier gotten his hands on him yet?"

"No, sir. According to our data, he has had no contact with any known gifted group. A clean slate, so to speak. What are your orders? Capture team? Surveillance?"

Fury was silent for several seconds, staring at the image. Then he said something Coulson had not expected. "Good work, Phil. Now delete it. Every byte. Perform a full scrub of the servers. Make it so we never found him."

Coulson froze. This went against everything S.H.I.E.L.D. stood for. "Sir? This is a potential high-level asset who manifested in the epicenter of a crisis. Protocol dictates we take him into custody..."

"Protocols are written for an organization that can be trusted," Fury interrupted, his voice devoid of humor. "I don't have that confidence anymore, Phil. There are too many ears in these walls, and not all of them are listening in the interests of humanity. This kid isn't a S.H.I.E.L.D. asset. He will be my personal, off-the-books resource. An ace in the hole that no one will know about."

He walked to his desk, leaning on it with his knuckles. "But we won't sit idly by. Activate our media assets. Let the story be about a hero who saved people from slavery. Not a mutant, but a mutant hero. We need to change the narrative. Let Senator Stern and his lapdogs choke on their speeches."

"You want to use him as a propaganda tool?" Coulson clarified, already grasping the plan.

"I want to give people hope, so they don't choose pitchforks and torches," Fury corrected. "Anti-mutant hysteria benefits those who want chaos. If we don't bleed off this pressure, it's going to blow up for real. And it won't be a fight between two monsters; it'll be a civil war."

Fury fell silent for a moment, looking at a hologram of the globe. His single eye shifted focus from North America to a small point in Eastern Europe. "What do we have on Latveria?"

"Due to Victor von Doom's genius, we still have very few ears there, sir," Coulson replied. "But what's happening there now, they aren't even trying to hide. Victor publicly called US representatives 'pathetic trash' and introduced several bills you yourself would like to see here. Any Latverian mutant can receive state benefits, especially if their abilities have drastically changed their way of life. If an ability is deemed useful, they are immediately placed in a suitable government service position. There's active recruitment for the army and scientific departments. In Latveria, 'mutant' isn't a brand; it's a title."

Fury sighed heavily. "A dictatorship is an extremely effective form of government, as long as the ruler isn't an idiot. And he, unfortunately for us, is a genius. What's the probability Victor will want to take over the world?"

"Extremely unlikely, according to the analysis division. He's a very responsible ruler and a perfectionist. He's already brought Latveria to first place in the world in technology, medicine, and standard of living. If he took over the world, his pride wouldn't allow his new subjects to live any worse. That would require colossal resources and time. But, according to their projections, if he does decide to... no country in the world could stop him. His intellect is rivaled only by Tony Stark's, but their resources are incomparable."

Fury sighed again, deeper this time. "Then it's best we don't provoke him." Coulson looked at his boss. He could see dozens of games already unfolding on the chessboard in his head, where the pieces were the fates of millions. "If it does break out, sir... this war... whose side will we be on?"

Fury looked up. "Our own."

---

A week had passed since my excursion. My head was buzzing after two hours with the physics tutor—formulas, vectors, and the laws of thermodynamics seemed simple and logical compared to what was happening outside. The city was tearing at the seams. On building walls, warring graffiti factions: "Exterminate Mutants" was crossed out with thick, dripping paint reading, "Then kill your own kid, asshole." At a bus stop, two men were screaming at each other over a newspaper headline, jabbing fingers at the blurry photo of some guy in a hoodie. The conflict only de-escalated because their bus arrived.

Sarah Connelly's office felt like a quiet harbor. The same peace, the same abstract painting on the wall, the same calm, studying gaze. "Hello, Diego. How are your two weeks going?"

I sat in the armchair. "Productively. Tutors, books, and a lot of time to think."

"Good," she made a note in her pad. "In such a short time, have you found a purpose in life? A hobby?"

"Yes. To both questions." That seemed to surprise her. "Curious. Tell me."

"The hobby was easy to find. Video games. I just finished one called 'Detroit.' About androids who gain consciousness and fight for their rights. It's very reminiscent of what's happening on the streets right now. Only instead of androids, we have people with abilities. As for a purpose... I'd like to be a journalist."

Now she was looking at me with genuine interest. "A journalist? Why?"

"Because everyone lies. Politicians, corporations, TV channels. Everyone has an agenda. They take the truth, cut it into pieces, and then only show the parts that benefit them. I want to see the whole picture. And maybe, show it to others."

"Since you brought it up," Sarah said slowly, "what do you think about what's happening? This whole schism in society."

I sighed. "I don't support those demanding controls and registries."

"Why not?" Her tone was perfectly neutral. "Their position is easy to understand. Ordinary people want to live in a world where a green giant doesn't fall on their car, and their neighbor doesn't suddenly start breathing fire. They're just afraid. Isn't their fear justified?"

"It is," I nodded, rubbing the back of my neck. "Their fear is completely rational. But the solutions they're proposing are irrational. A registry, control... it sounds safe. But it's like trying to put out a forest fire by dousing it with gasoline."

"Explain."

"You can't 'control' people who can walk through walls or read minds. You can only drive them underground, embitter them, turn them into real enemies. They'll forget they're part of society and create their own, parallel one. And that's when the real war will start. Mutants aren't an invading army you can surround and destroy. They are your neighbors, your classmates, your colleagues. They're already here. And they have real power to resist."

I paused, gathering my thoughts. "And the government is only adding fuel to the fire with its actions. It's afraid a power will emerge that it can't control. A power that doesn't depend on money, elections, or armies. And the fear of losing their monopoly on violence is making them do stupid things. They don't see a person in every mutant; they see a threat to their status. That's the core of it."

"You talk a lot about systems, about politics, about how some groups of people try to control others. Let's step away from the abstract for a minute. Imagine this concerned you, personally."

I raised an eyebrow. "What would you do, Diego, if you were a mutant?"

For a split second, my usual train of thought faltered. Showing that the question had gotten to me would be a tactical error. "I don't know. By and large, they're in a losing position."

"Why do you think so?"

"Because any open aggression on their part will only confirm the righteousness of those demanding control. It's a trap. The government and corporations control the narrative—the newspapers, the TV channels, and to a lesser extent, the internet portals. It's impossible to shout over their media machine."

"So, a dead end? Hide and wait?"

"No. That's not a solution either. The pressure will only build." I leaned forward slightly, formulating the thought. "You have to do good. Not abstract good, but targeted, visible good. So that every person screaming about the 'mutant threat' has cognitive dissonance. So they remember that last week, it was a mutant who pulled people from a fire or stopped a robbery. And, of course, find allies. There will always be an opposition, one that will gladly ride this wave to score points and seize power."

Sarah listened to me without interrupting. Then she reached for her bag, which was by the leg of her chair, and took out a folded newspaper. She didn't hand it to me, but carefully unfolded it on the coffee table between us. A large, screaming headline: "RESCUE FROM SLAVERY: MYSTERY MUTANT DESTROYS HUMAN TRAFFICKING RING AT DOCKS." Beneath it, a blurry, long-distance photo. "You mean... like this?" she asked quietly, pointing at the photo with her fingertip.

It was a strange feeling, looking at the results of my night's work, filtered through someone else's perception. I looked away from the paper and met Sarah's gaze. "Yeah. Something like that."

"That's a very measured and, perhaps, the only correct strategy," she agreed. "But it's suited for someone with abilities that are strong enough." She looked at me very intently. "But what about the rest? The teenager who suddenly has wings sprouting from his back, who now has to hunch over and wear baggy clothes so no one notices? The girl who's afraid to touch her best friend because she sees his most shameful secrets? You're talking about a public war for hearts and minds. I'm asking about the personal war that each of them is fighting, twenty-four hours a day."

She paused, letting the words sink in. "Inside them, there's resentment, a sense of superiority mixed with the need to be a nobody. A constant fear of exposure. How long can a person withstand that pressure before they break? Or decide they've had enough of pretending?"

The question hung in the air between us. "I have no idea. I can't share or understand their pain, because I'm not a mutant." Something in her gaze changed. "Perhaps that's enough for today."

I left her office, but an uneasy feeling wouldn't let me go. Her questions were too precise, and the newspaper on the table was too timely. Does she know who I am?

I ducked into an empty alley and, there in the quiet, quickly stripped. I hid my clothes and backpack, and just like that, I was an invisible ghost. She didn't know I had started following her. I waited, leaning against the wall by the exit, watching her say goodbye to the secretary and walk out onto the street. The first two days confirmed my worst fears: I was paranoid. Her routine was predictable to the point of boredom. The café on the corner, always the same cappuccino. A walk in the park, feeding the pigeons from the same bench. Home by six o'clock sharp. I was ready to chalk it all up to my own imagination, worn out by stress and secrets. But on the third evening, everything changed.

She didn't go to the park. Instead, she hailed a cab. I rose into the air in my barrier, an invisible shadow following the yellow car as it carried her away from her usual routes, into a semi-abandoned industrial zone. The taxi dropped her off by rows of identical, rusting storage garages. She walked with confidence; she knew this place. After heading deep into the labyrinth, where it would be easy to get lost, she stopped at an unremarkable garage with the number "142." She looked around. The street was empty, except for the invisible me. A lock clicked, and the heavy door groaned as it rolled upward. She went inside, and I slipped in after her, just before the door came crashing down.

The setup was simple: an old TV with a VCR on a metal cart, and a worn-out velour armchair facing it. She sat in the chair, pulled a blank videocassette from a shelf, and inserted it into the player. There was a mechanical whir, and the TV screen hissed to life with static. And then an image appeared. A therapy room. A ten-year-old boy with short-cropped hair was sitting at a table. The camera was filming from an angle, clearly hidden from the boy's view. A voice came from off-screen. It was Sarah's voice, but many years younger. "Zebediah, we agreed. You can tell me what happened." The boy on screen twitched his shoulder. "Nothing to tell. It was his own fault."

"He's in the hospital," Sarah's voice was soft, but insistent. "You were careless. What if you had been seen?" There was no remorse in his childish eyes, no fear. "That's impossible. I told him to forget about it."

"And what will you tell the cameras? Will you order them, too? They don't obey you. You forgot the first rule. Don't get caught." Cut.

The same room, but Zebediah was older. Now he was a young man of about eighteen, with an arrogant smirk. He was slouched in the chair opposite the camera, one leg thrown over the other. "I did what I wanted," his voice was full of smug satisfaction. "God, it felt so good, Sarah. To be who I really am. The ruler of these brainless little people." Sarah's voice from off-screen was warm, laced with approval, as if she were praising a student for a perfectly done assignment. "What did you do? Tell me everything."

"Oh, I committed my first murder," he said, as if talking about a trip to the movies. "Just like you taught me. So no one would even think to look my way." He smirked at the memory. "Remember Brian? That stupid asshole who broke my arm in grade school? I ran into him on the street. He didn't even recognize me, can you believe it? Smiled, asked how I was. He forgot. I didn't." Zebediah savored the moment. "I found some stinking junkie at the train station. Hungry, desperate, a perfect tool. I just told him to kill Brian and take his wallet. So the police would have a motive—a simple mugging gone wrong. No one suspected a thing. I even went to the funeral, gave his mom my condolences." Sarah's voice oozed pride. "Well done, Zebediah. You did everything right. You understand why you were given this power, don't you? You are not like them. You were given almost godlike abilities to lead, to command these stupid, short-sighted people. They are the flock, and you are the shepherd." The young man threw his head back and laughed. The image hissed with static again. Cut.

Now a different boy was on the screen. About twelve, with a faint scar crossing his right eyebrow. He was sitting curled in a ball, crying quietly, his face buried in his knees. "Benjamin, don't cry," Sarah's voice was impossibly gentle. "Look at me. You know you can tell me anything." The boy slowly raised his head. His eyes were red from crying. "I didn't mean to," he sobbed. "Honest... I don't know what came over me. It was just a puppy... so small. I just wanted to pet it, but... I accidentally strangled it." He began to cry again, his shoulders shaking. "I squeezed too hard... It just... stopped breathing."

"You mustn't blame yourself, Benjamin," her voice was full of a strange, twisted tenderness. "You mustn't hold back. What's inside you isn't evil, it's strength. It's not something to be feared. It's something to be understood and directed." She paused, choosing her words like a key for a lock. "That dog was important to you, I know. So remember this moment. Remember this pain. The puppy may not have been at fault... but the world is full of people who are. People who deserve to die." The boy looked up at her, his expression lost and tear-stained. "I don't understand... what am I supposed to do?" "Don't worry. I'll teach you."

The screen flickered, flashing with a band of static. Cut. The same room, the same chair. But now an older Benjamin sat in it. Calm, unmoving. There was no trace of the frightened boy. "How was your day?" Sarah asked casually from off-screen. "Fine," he shrugged indifferently. "Got a strike recently." "How so?" Curiosity was audible in her voice.

"Well, it's when a car is driving by, and the driver has the window open," he spoke slowly, almost lazily. "I throw a small rock at him. Calculate the trajectory so it hits him right in the temple. The person blacks out instantly, loses control of the car... and it plows into a crowd of people at a bus stop. I got ten this time."

"Good job," Sarah said, without a hint of emotion. "Very clean. And how is your brother? Is he appearing?" Benjamin's face twisted in disgust for a moment. "You already know. After I killed his dog, he was always whining, trying to get out. But then I managed to take control for good. Now he's quieter than water, lower than grass."

The video ended. Sarah Connelly pressed a button, and the cassette ejected from the player with a quiet click. She looked at the clock on the wall, as if checking a schedule, and put the cassette back in its cardboard sleeve. Then she opened the garage, and I slipped out with her, a shadow. I had watched it all, and my only thought was the desire to kill her. Right here, right now. But I held back. I needed to think this through. Thoughts raced through my head, forming a terrifying picture. The first video, with Zebediah, was a mutant who could command with his words. She played on his ego, feeding his pride, and taught him the most important thing: don't get caught. With the second, Benjamin, she played a completely different role. The role of a caring mentor. That guy... did he have multiple personalities? And this cold-blooded killer was the second personality, the one who had seized control of the body by killing the "brother" inside? Sarah Connelly wasn't a serial killer. She was much worse. She created them. She finds gifted children with psychological trauma and molds them into what she needs.

And new questions immediately arose. Is Principal Davis working with her? Did I really end up in her office by chance, out of his "good will"? And what role in her collection had she prepared for me? I was sure she knew, somehow, that I was a mutant.

---

How do you kill someone without leaving a trace? I stared at dozens of open tabs. They were articles on other people's lives and deaths: forensic forums, deconstructions of famous cases, articles on methods of concealing evidence. Everything I'd seen in TV shows seemed either theatrically complex or downright stupid. Reality was simpler.

A plan was already taking shape in my mind. Sarah Connelly is alone in that garage. The place where she keeps her "collection" will be her grave. No witnesses, no random passersby. They wouldn't look for her there, at least, not right away. I spent two days checking on Principal Davis. I looked through his bio, social media, mentions in the press. Nothing. Not a single link connecting him to Sarah, other than professional recommendations. She had started her "work" when he was still in high school. He was clean. Just a man who genuinely wanted to help a troubled teenager and, without knowing, had sent him straight into the hands of a monster.

A search for "Sarah Connelly, psychologist" brought up pages of glowing reviews. Articles in local papers about her helping children who had survived abuse. Thank-you notes from parents. She had built herself a flawless reputation, a perfect cover that delivered new test subjects right to her. This is how she finds people like me. But one question bothered me. How did she know I was a mutant? Intuition? Professional experience? What if she's one of us herself? What if she has some form of telepathy or empathy that lets her sense other gifted individuals? That turned the hunt into a game on a minefield, where she could anticipate my every move.

Coming home from my tutor, the first thing I did was turn on YouTube on my laptop. I'd find a ten-hour loop of jazz for studying or a lecture on astrophysics and turn the volume down to a minimum. I read interrogation transcripts I'd downloaded from a forum. Cops often catch suspects on the small details. They set a trap and ask, "What were you doing at 7 PM yesterday?" The suspect answers, "Sitting at home, watching a show." And that's when they ask for access to his viewing history. It might not be direct proof of guilt, but if his words can't be confirmed, it's clear he's hiding something. My viewing history would be flawless. While Diego Parr, the orphan from Harlem, diligently listens to lectures and prepares for college, someone else will be administering justice in a dusty garage on the outskirts of Brooklyn. I opened the map with the marked location. All that was left was to plan the details. Every little thing mattered. I had no room for error.

---

My suspension was up in one day. I was already sure I'd have to postpone the plan, wait for a new opportunity. But then she got in the taxi. I followed the car, moving in my barrier above the rooftops. She didn't look back. She walked confidently to her garage, and the rusty door screeched as it rolled up. Inside, she didn't bother with the cassettes. She just walked to the old armchair and sat down. She sat motionless, hands folded in her lap, and stared at the blank TV screen. I froze behind her, just a few steps away. Suddenly, her calm, even voice broke the silence. "Diego, perhaps you've hidden long enough?"

She knew? My whole body tensed instinctively, ready for action. But this could be a trick. A simple probe into the emptiness to confirm a hunch. I didn't make a sound, didn't move. The springs in the old chair creaked quietly as she tilted her head slightly. "Hmm?" The sound wasn't a question, but rather a pensive hum. It became clear: she couldn't see me clearly.

I started to act. A barrier appeared around her chair, weaving itself into a transparent sphere. She didn't even flinch. She just slowly scanned the contours of her new prison. Her calmness was getting on my nerves. "So you were here."

Without dropping my invisibility, I spoke. "You're awfully composed for this situation." She let out a quiet chuckle. "Are you nervous? Don't worry. Only I am going to die today." Goosebumps ran down my skin. Can she see the future? "What's that supposed to mean?"

She sighed, like a tired teacher. "Diego, Diego... When I spoke the first word at our first session, this situation was already preordained. As you've probably guessed, I'm a mutant. And I have a rather interesting ability. I don't move objects, and I don't read minds in the conventional sense. I just... know. I know what to say, what to do, how to look, when to pause... to make people like you do what I need."

I considered her words. If this was true, the outlook was not good. Every action I'd taken since we met had been predetermined. "That's impossible. You wanted me to kill you?" I thought for a moment. "Ah, I get it. You wanted to make me into another killer for your collection. And looking at this situation, you've done it. But since you can't see the future, you couldn't have known I would start by killing you. Or... by having this conversation, are you making me change my mind?"

A question arose: Why hadn't I killed her immediately? Why was I standing here, talking, listening? I was curious about what she would say next. Was this curiosity, this delay, her doing as well?

She smiled slightly, staring straight ahead. "As I said, my first sentence determined your fate. And mine. It's too late to change anything." She huffed quietly, a note of twisted satisfaction in her voice. "It's funny, you know. To die by your own creation. Perhaps it's a fitting end for someone like me."

Her words were directed more at herself than at me. She wasn't afraid of death, because from her perspective, she had already won. "You're pathetic. With an ability like that, you could have helped people with the most severe trauma. But you chose to worsen their conditions and turn them into monsters. And now, one of them is going to put an end to it." Afraid she could talk her way out of this, I didn't wait for a reply. I compressed the barrier.

I didn't think today's incident would end so shitty. The transparent sphere vanished, and now nothing separated me from the result of my actions. I had expected anything from her: a villainous tirade, pleading. But even after it was over, there was no relief. Sarah's words clung to my thoughts like a sticky web. "My first sentence determined your fate." What exactly did she want to make me into? Damn it, the way she described her power, it doesn't give a full understanding. This garage, her tapes, me showing up here... was this all planned from the start? Does it mean there's no choice, just a pre-written script? Wait.

Why was I taking her words as truth? She hadn't shown anything supernatural, except, perhaps, a frightening perceptiveness. All my decisions were the result of my choices. I decided to track her. I decided to enter this garage. I decided to kill her. And it doesn't matter what she said or what she wanted. It was my will. When I came to this conclusion, the tension in my shoulders eased a bit. It became easier to breathe. What now? I wasn't going to clean up what was left of her. What difference did it make if she was found? I turned to grab the tapes and leave, but at that moment, a click came from under the chair. And then the garage exploded.

The shockwave, which should have torn a normal person to pieces, slammed into the invisible barrier around my body. Flames roared, greedily consuming the old shelves and the cassettes. Superheated air beat against my protective shell, but I felt no heat. I expected to suffocate, for my lungs to be seared by the hot smoke. When I took a breath, the air was clean, but there wasn't enough of it. Because of the fire feeding on the oxygen, the amount had significantly decreased.

I finally understood, or at least, began to guess, why I felt the wind when I was falling, even though I shouldn't have. My power wasn't just a dumb shield. It worked autonomously, like an immune system, determining what was a threat. The shockwave, the shrapnel, the fire, the toxic smoke particles—all of it was blocked. But the oxygen molecules, necessary for breathing, passed through this invisible filter. Okay, no time for discoveries. I had to get out of here.

The explosion itself was a logical end to her life. It seems she had installed some kind of sensor, linked to her vital signs. When she died, the detonator triggered. All the evidence—her recordings, her "collection"—was meant to disappear in the flames. Her goal was to create monsters, and she had made sure their pasts couldn't be traced. If I had known... if I had just guessed, I would have covered the shelves with the tapes in a barrier.

I stepped through the wall of fire and slipped out onto the street, leaving behind the roaring funeral pyre that Sarah Connelly had arranged for herself.

 

[kowak]

Chapter 5
I didn't think today's incident would end so shitty.

The transparent sphere vanished, and now nothing separated me from the result of my actions. I had expected anything from her: a villainous tirade, pleading. But even after it was over, there was no relief. Sarah's words clung to my thoughts like a sticky web. "My first sentence determined your fate." What exactly did she want to make me into? Damn it, the way she described her power, it doesn't give a full understanding. This garage, her tapes, me showing up here... was this all planned from the start? Does it mean there's no choice, just a pre-written script?

Wait.

Why was I taking her words as truth? She hadn't shown anything supernatural, except, perhaps, a frightening perceptiveness. All my decisions were the result of my choices. I decided to track her. I decided to enter this garage. I decided to kill her. And it doesn't matter what she said or what she wanted. It was my will. When I came to this conclusion, the tension in my shoulders eased a bit. It became easier to breathe.

What now? I wasn't going to clean up what was left of her. What difference did it make if she was found? I turned to grab the tapes and leave, but at that moment, a click came from under the chair. And then the garage exploded.

The shockwave, which should have torn a normal person to pieces, slammed into the invisible barrier around my body. Flames roared, greedily consuming the old shelves and the cassettes. Superheated air beat against my protective shell, but I felt no heat. I expected to suffocate, for my lungs to be seared by the hot smoke. When I took a breath, the air was clean, but there wasn't enough of it. Because of the fire feeding on the oxygen, the amount had significantly decreased.

I finally understood, or at least, began to guess, why I felt the wind when I was falling, even though I shouldn't have. My power wasn't just a dumb shield. It worked autonomously, like an immune system, determining what was a threat. The shockwave, the shrapnel, the fire, the toxic smoke particles—all of it was blocked. But the oxygen molecules, necessary for breathing, passed through this invisible filter. Okay, no time for discoveries. I had to get out of here.

The explosion itself was a logical end to her life. It seems she had installed some kind of sensor, linked to her vital signs. When she died, the detonator triggered. All the evidence—her recordings, her "collection"—was meant to disappear in the flames. Her goal was to create monsters, and she had made sure their pasts couldn't be traced. If I had known... if I had just guessed, I would have covered the shelves with the tapes in a barrier.

I stepped through the wall of fire and slipped out onto the street, leaving behind the roaring funeral pyre that Sarah Connelly had arranged for herself.

---

Today was the last day of my suspension. And according to my schedule, I was supposed to have a session with Sarah Connelly today. I walked to her office through the morning-sunlit streets, feeling like an actor who had learned his role perfectly. The same secretary was at the desk. "Diego, hello. Are you here for your ten o'clock?" "Yes, that's right," I managed a slight smile. She pursed her lips and tapped on her keyboard. "Dr. Connelly hasn't arrived yet. And she's not answering her phone, which is not like her at all." "Maybe traffic?" I suggested.

"Maybe," she clearly wasn't convinced. "You can wait in the reception area. I'll let you know as soon as she gets here." "Of course, no problem."

I sat on one of the sofas and picked up a random magazine from the table. Last night's news was already plastered with headlines about an explosion in an industrial area of Brooklyn. The fire was put out, but the body, of course, was not found. To the rest of the world, the brilliant psychotherapist Sarah Connelly had simply vanished.

I sat like that for almost an hour, methodically flipping through the glossy pages. The secretary glanced at me worriedly several times, made a few calls, and spoke in a low voice. Finally, I stood up. "I should probably get going." "Yes, of course," she stood up to see me out. "I'll be sure to call you as soon as we hear from her." "Thanks."

All formalities had been observed. Perhaps this game of being the diligent patient was excessive, but I preferred to do things right.

I settled into a small cafe across the street from a bank, ordered a coffee, and just watched the bustling life of the city. I had nothing else to do. What did I need to do to become a successful journalist? With my powers, I could "interview" people that regular reporters would be afraid to even speak to. I already had one target in mind—the mysterious organization, The Hand. The way they dissolved into shadows said a lot. But the main thing was that all five of them did it. It was unlikely to be a coincidence, a group of five mutants with the same rare ability. More likely, it was a honed technique, one that could be taught. And that meant they could be mass-producing such fighters. How many of them were in the organization?

And right now, as I was thinking about it, wasn't one of them sitting in my own shadow, watching me? The thought sent a shiver down my spine. Too many questions. And the main problem: how to make them talk? I doubted that torture was an effective method for getting truthful information. Suddenly, the cafe's plate-glass window trembled. A moment later, the facade of the bank across the street exploded into pieces, throwing a cloud of dust onto the street.

At the same time, a mechanical, emotionless voice came from the cafe's ceiling speakers: "ATTENTION. A CLASS ONE THREAT HAS BEEN DECLARED. CIVILIANS ARE ORDERED TO PROCEED IMMEDIATELY TO THE NEAREST SHELTERS. REMAIN CALM." From the breach in the bank's wall, a man in a massive, gray, rhinoceros-styled armor suit emerged, his steps heavy.

I watched him from a safe distance, feeling not fear, but interest. Almost immediately, several armored vans screeched to a halt at the scene. Soldiers in black tactical gear with "SOB" on their chests poured out—the Special Operations Bureau, created for exactly these situations. Stark Industries used to be their main weapons supplier, but after Tony Stark publicly renounced weapons manufacturing, the shipments stopped. In exchange, he gave the squad access to his non-lethal developments, so now their arsenal consisted mainly of containment and immobilization technologies.

The soldiers acted in concert. They scattered dozens of small discs around Rhino. The discs stuck to the asphalt and began to emit low-frequency vibrations. Rhino's suit sparked; the hydraulics in its joints froze. He tried to take a step, but the armor no longer obeyed him.

It would have ended there, but in the next second, the trap-discs began to flash and shut down, one by one. A second man in a yellow-and-brown quilted suit with metal gauntlets on his arms, Shocker, emerged from around the corner. He aimed one of the gauntlets at the nearest SOB van, and an invisible shockwave crumpled the armored door inward. The threat had just escalated from Class One to Class Two.

---

Wilson Fisk watched the events unfold on the screens in his underground command center. Each monitor showed the same scene of chaos from different angles: traffic cameras, surveillance drones, even hacked news feeds. He knew the SOB's protocols and armaments by heart. Every sonic emitter, every vibration trap—it had all been accounted for. He didn't need the bank; he wasn't interested in the money in the vault. This event was a carefully orchestrated performance, a prelude to his speech tomorrow, where he would announce his intention to run for Mayor of New York. It was a challenge, thrown not just at the city administration, but at the entire rotten system of the United States. One of the conditions of his contract with The Hand was the transfer of compromising material on key political figures in the country. Fisk, however, did not know that his new partners in The Hand were working closely with HYDRA. Therefore, the kompromat he received was carefully filtered: he was only given information on HYDRA's enemies, not on its numerous agents embedded within the government.

Fisk suspected that something wasn't right. Too much frankly useless information, minor sins that wouldn't sink a career, too many hits on figures with no real weight. He felt he was only being fed what was convenient for his mysterious partners, but he couldn't point it out. In any case, he had no intention of using this data for an attack. The kompromat was his insurance, his final argument in a dialogue where all other words had run out. It was needed only to keep him alive. If the day came when he was forced to lay those cards on the table, it would mean only one thing: he had already lost.

On the screens, Shocker and Rhino had already neutralized the first squad. Their synergy was flawless. Shocker, whose suit generated localized electromagnetic pulses, disabled the SOB's high-tech traps with his mere presence. And Rhino, invulnerable to their non-lethal weapons, simply plowed forward, protecting his more vulnerable partner. They complemented each other perfectly.

Ten minutes passed. The performance was dragging on. The usual sequence of events had been disrupted, and Fisk felt a chill of irritation run down his spine. "Wesley. It's been ten minutes. Where is he?" James Wesley replied without a moment's hesitation: "All calculations are correct, sir. He should appear any minute."

Calculating Spider-Man's identity had been a complex, multi-stage task. They had staged dozens of minor incidents at various points in the city, analyzing the time and place of his appearance. The data relentlessly pointed to the fact that there was an eighty percent probability he was a high school or college student whose route passed through the city center. This narrowed the search to a few educational institutions, among which Midtown High School of Science and Technology was the primary candidate.

Then came the personal surveillance. Fisk's agents tailed every student in the high-risk group. And only one of them, Peter Parker, repeatedly and inexplicably shook his tail. There was no direct, irrefutable evidence. But, as was often the case in Fisk's world, the very absence of evidence was the main proof.

Spider-Man was strong, incredibly strong. Fisk could have destroyed the boy's life with a snap of his fingers, but why destroy such a valuable asset when it could be controlled? And then, finally, a familiar figure in red and blue appeared on the screens.

He swung into frame on a web, landing on a lamppost with acrobatic precision. Wasting no time, he fired several sticky projectiles from different angles, creating a thick cocoon around Shocker that instantly immobilized him and, more importantly, blocked his combat gauntlets. Rhino roared and charged him, but Spider-Man leaped to the ground directly in front of him. The armored giant swung an arm capable of punching through a bank vault wall. Spider-Man met the blow with his own fist.

On Fisk's monitors, the collision looked surreal. A massive armored arm against a normal one, covered in fabric. There was a dull sound of cracking composite, and Rhino's huge suit staggered. A second punch, fast and precise, landed on the helmet's joint, and the giant collapsed to the asphalt. A few quick movements, and he was hopelessly stuck to the ground.

The entire fight took less than a minute. Spider-Man dusted off his hands and addressed his defeated opponents. "Alright, guys, practice up. Hope I don't see you again." He shot a web at the cornice of the nearest building and disappeared into the labyrinth of skyscrapers as quickly as he had appeared.

A smile spread across Fisk's face. Everything had gone perfectly. The SOB had demonstrated their complete helplessness. And then a hero appeared who playfully stopped a Class Two threat, showing the city that the official structures couldn't cope. Fisk rose slowly from his chair, squaring his shoulders. "It's time to proceed to phase nine."

---

The bright glare of spotlights hit his eyes. Dozens of cameras from major news channels were aimed at the stage where the final mayoral debate was taking place. Two other candidates had already spoken before Wilson Fisk. Their rhetoric was predictable and, in Fisk's opinion, extremely amateurish. They tried to ride the wave of fear being fanned by the government, calling for registries, total control, and the isolation of mutants. They said what they thought the frightened public wanted to hear. It was Fisk's turn.

He walked onto the stage—enormous, clad in an impeccably tailored suit. His movements were slow and confident. A step behind him followed his personal bodyguard. If Diego had been in the hall, he would have recognized this man as Benjamin, the young man with the scar on his eyebrow from Sarah Connelly's second videotape. Fisk approached the podium and stared silently at the audience for several seconds, letting the noise die down.

"My opponents offer you simple solutions. They tell you what you want to hear: 'Be afraid,' 'Control,' 'Eradicate.' I will tell you the truth: their solutions are a path to catastrophe." A surprised murmur went through the hall. Until this moment, no public figure had dared to so openly condemn the government's official position.

"They urge you to hate. But answer me,"—he scanned the front rows—"are you prepared to kill your own son if he manifests an X-gene tomorrow? Are you ready to turn in your best friend, whom you've known your whole life? I think not. Your hatred is built on fear for your lives. But I ask you: who creates this fear? Who creates these evil mutants?"

He paused, letting the question hang in the air. "The answer is simple: we do. A teenager who is bullied for years at school finally snaps, and the stress awakens an ability in him. He strikes back. Who is to blame? Is it him alone? Words and actions have consequences. Hatred begets hatred. And those who shout the loudest about the threat are the ones contributing the most to its creation."

"Sooner or later, a Class Five mutant will appear. And what do you intend to do then? Kill him? Control him? Wake up. We are weak! Just yesterday, the elite SOB squad couldn't handle a Class Two threat. Class Two! And then Spider-Man flew in and solved the problem in a minute."

"The authorities are afraid of losing control. I, however, offer a solution. As part of my platform, the 'Guardians of New York' initiative will be created. These will be mutants who will protect this city from other mutants. Anonymously, without total control. Any gifted individual whose ability can be useful to society can come to my foundation and receive a decent job with a five-figure salary. We will turn a threat into an asset! We will give them a purpose!"

At that moment, a bullet cut through the air. Benjamin, standing behind Fisk, flicked his wrist almost imperceptibly, and the small stone he had been holding between his fingers vanished. The bullet, fired by a sniper from the roof of an adjacent building, was aimed directly at Fisk's head. But a split second before impact, it was met by that small stone. The bullet's trajectory shifted by several critical centimeters. Instead of his head, it entered his shoulder.

Only then did the sound of the shot reach the auditorium. People screamed. Panic began. Fisk staggered from the impact, his massive body swaying. He grabbed the podium with his good hand to stay on his feet. Blood quickly soaked the fabric of his expensive jacket. Everything was going according to plan. This was one of the riskiest, but also one of the most effective, scenarios they had worked through: in the event of an assassination attempt, Bullseye was supposed to not eliminate the threat, but merely redirect the bullet to a non-lethal zone—the shoulder or arm, for maximum drama. Benjamin had executed the order perfectly.

"BE CALM!" Fisk roared into the microphone, his voice drowning out all other sounds. The panic froze for a moment. All eyes were riveted on him. "THOSE BEHIND THIS WANT TO PLUNGE OUR CITY INTO CHAOS!" he shouted, looking directly into the cameras. "THEY FEAR THE TRUTH! THEY FEAR CHANGE! WE WILL NOT ALLOW IT!"

With those words, his security team surrounded him in a tight circle and began to lead him off the stage. Fisk walked on his own, unbowed, and this image of a leader, wounded but not broken, who had taken a bullet for his beliefs, was seared into the consciousness of everyone who saw it. With his speech, Fisk had forced the world to move at a frantic pace.

---

In his office, Alexander Pierce watched the recording in silence. The assassination attempt had not just failed; it had become the best part of Fisk's election campaign. "We underestimated him," Pierce said to himself, slowly swirling the whiskey in his glass. He focused on the screen, where a slow-motion replay showed the bodyguard making an imperceptible movement with his hand. Who was this man? The Hand had provided no data on him. Had they deliberately withheld the fact that the target had his own mutant? But, even worse, people were actually starting to support him. Fisk's ideas were infectious. There was no guarantee now that even if they killed him, the movement would die with him.

And Fury... he had been too quiet lately. Could he suspect something? Pierce dismissed the thought. No, impossible. Their digital footprint was non-existent. Arnim Zola's artificial intelligence gave them an absolute advantage in the information space; not even Tony Stark could breach it. Besides, every member of HYDRA had mental blocks, borrowed from The Hand, installed in their consciousness. Even under torture or telepathic assault, they could not give up their secrets. Pierce set the glass on his desk and walked to his terminal. Enough analysis. Time to act. "Time to unfreeze the 'Winter Soldiers,'" he decided.

A list of eight codenames appeared on the screen. They hadn't been given Erskine's original serum, but a crude copy. The soldiers were incredibly strong, but far from Captain America's level. They could withstand a direct hit from a tank shell, but that was about it. Eight trained killing machines would be sent after Fisk. From the very beginning of the mutant emergence, Pierce understood they were the future. But every gifted individual HYDRA had tried to get to had mysteriously slipped through their fingers. And now Fisk, a simple crime boss, was parading around with a specimen capable of deflecting bullets.

He looked out at the lights of Washington, and for the first time in many years, a crack appeared in his confidence. Was HYDRA truly still the strongest organization in this world?

---

Charles Xavier did not like to invade the minds of others. To him, it was a gross, intimate violation he only permitted himself in the most extreme cases. And Wilson Fisk, the man who had overturned the political landscape of New York in a single night, was without a doubt such a case.

Sitting in the silence of his study, Xavier focused. He did not probe deeply, did not dig into childhood memories or hidden desires. He only needed the surface, the structure of thoughts, the plans for the immediate future. But even what he saw was enough. The picture that opened up to him was ugly and complex. Wilson Fisk was not just a businessman with a dubious reputation. He was the shadow king of New York, the spider in the center of a vast criminal web. Trafficking of hard drugs, weapons, and people.

But what struck Xavier the most was not the scale of the crimes, but Fisk's intellect. He had known all this time that a ninja from The Hand was hiding in his shadow. Xavier hadn't even suspected the existence of this organization, but Fisk not only knew of them, he was calculating their moves. He deliberately conducted all important negotiations with his key assets, like Bullseye, through encrypted correspondence and dead drops, never giving his mysterious "allies" the full picture. While all the other players on the board were waiting for each other's moves, Fisk was already playing his own, separate game.

He had little information on the truly major powers, like S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Hellfire Club, but with his speech, he had seized the initiative from all of them. The realization made him sick. Despite the fact that Fisk was a monster, at this very moment, he was doing exactly what was vital for the survival of mutants. To expose him now would be to destroy this fragile hope. To plunge society back into the abyss of hatred and, perhaps, provoke an open war. Charles Xavier, the man who had dedicated his life to protecting peace and harmony, found himself in a monstrous position. He was forced to protect the very man he wished with all his being to stop. To protect a monster in order to save the innocent.