No one—absolutely no one—expected Bruce Banner to take a bullet to the head… and then get back up like nothing happened.
And certainly not like this.
Not only did the scrawny scientist snap through military-grade restraints like cheap plastic, he was now sprinting across the streets of Harlem—barefoot, half-naked, and carrying a full-grown woman in his arms—at a speed that would make an Olympic sprinter cry.
Even General Ross, the man who'd been chasing him for eight years straight, stood there frozen, mouth agape.
That physique… that raw, terrifying power…
It was everything Ross had spent his career trying to create.
And it was running away from him—hand in hand with his daughter.
If he'd known Bruce had this kind of potential, he thought bitterly, he should've skipped the whole Hulk obsession and just dissected Banner himself.
Meanwhile, the real culprit behind this supernatural resurrection—Darren—was leaning against a wall nearby, arms crossed, watching the chaos with mild amusement.
He had arrived on the scene not long ago, but the place was crawling with soldiers and choppers. A direct rescue was suicide.
So, naturally, he'd gone for the next best thing—
He lobbed a Deathburst Grenade straight at Bruce's unsuspecting back.
The grenade's effect was simple and brutal:
"The target's head ignites with blue flame. All physical abilities increase dramatically. The target will devote their entire remaining life to fulfilling the thing they regret most before dying."
And what had Bruce just said moments before the bullet hit him?
"My only regret… is not taking Betty to Iceland to see the Northern Lights."
Perfect.
The moment that fiery aura ignited on his head, the logic was sealed: Bruce Banner wouldn't stop until he and Betty had witnessed those lights—
even if it meant running there.
It was at that exact thought Darren froze.
Wait.
Running…
He blinked. "Hold on—if he's in Deathburst state… he can't buy plane tickets. Or, you know… board a flight."
There was a brief silence as that realization sank in.
Then he smiled helplessly, shaking his head.
"Well… safe travels, Bruce. Hope you two enjoy Iceland. Don't forget to send a postcard."
Somewhere in the distance, the green glow of Bruce's flaming head grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the night.
...
General Ross finally snapped back to his senses.
His veins bulged as he grabbed the radio on his vest.
"ALL UNITS—TARGET IS ESCAPING! APPREHEND HIM IMMEDIATELY! ALIVE, YOU HEAR ME!? I WANT HIM ALIVE!!"
Soldiers scrambled into motion.
But as Ross scanned the area, his frown deepened. Something was off.
"Where's Blonsky?" he barked.
Emil Blonsky—Royal Marines elite, war hero, and Ross's pet experiment.
The only man crazy enough to volunteer for the reconstructed Super Soldier serum Oscorp had brewed up.
It hadn't made him the next Captain America, but it had made him… stronger. Faster. Meaner.
Still not Hulk-level—but close.
One soldier pointed toward the half-ruined apartment Bruce had been hiding in.
"Sir, Blonsky's squad went in first! They… haven't come out."
Ross's expression hardened. "What—"
He didn't finish.
BOOM!
A surgical table—solid steel, hundreds of pounds—came hurtling out of the top floor like a thrown toy, smashing into the street below with a deafening crash.
Seconds later, a scream tore through the smoke.
Bodies—soldiers—flew out of the same hole in the wall, thrown like ragdolls. They hit the opposite building with a sickening crunch and slid down lifeless.
Then, with another thunderous explosion, half the wall came apart.
Through the dust and debris, something massive emerged.
Its silhouette was enormous—easily three meters tall.
Gray-green skin stretched over grotesque muscles, ridged and plated like living armor.
Every joint sprouted jagged bone spikes that glistened in the floodlights.
And when it landed, the pavement buckled, leaving twin craters beneath its feet.
Its voice was a guttural roar that shook the air.
"HULK! COME OUT AND FIGHT ME! ONE. MORE. TIME!!"
The soldiers froze.
Even Ross, battle-hardened as he was, felt his stomach twist.
Then his earpiece buzzed.
[Boss Event Activated!]
[Objective: Defeat "Abomination" – Emil Blonsky]
[Rewards scale based on damage dealt. The higher the damage, the greater the reward!]
...
"OPEN FIRE!" Ross roared.
Gunfire erupted in unison, lighting up the night.
Tracer rounds tore through the air, striking the gray-green monster's chest and shoulders—
but the bullets may as well have been snowflakes.
The creature—Abomination—grinned, revealing rows of sharp, uneven teeth.
And then he laughed.
"Ha… ha… HAHAHAHA!!"
In a blur, he lunged forward—grabbing the nearest soldier like a doll and slamming him into the asphalt so hard the body burst.
Then he swung his arm sideways, sending two more soldiers crashing into a wall with bone-cracking force.
Blood sprayed.
Screams cut short.
"God help us!" someone cried.
Ross's voice came over the comms again, sharp and desperate.
"All units—fall back! Focus fire! Redirect heavy ordnance! NOW!"
But it was chaos.
The more they fired, the more unstoppable the monster seemed.
Even a direct hit from an anti-tank missile only blackened his chest—didn't even break the skin.
Within seconds, another squad was crushed beneath his rampage.
Abomination tilted his head back and roared, drunk on his own power.
"This… THIS is what strength feels like! GIVE ME MORE!"
In the command truck, Ross's jaw tightened as he watched through the monitors.
He knew now, with bitter clarity—there was only one thing that could stop this monster.
Another monster.
But his monster—Bruce Banner—was somewhere out there, running toward the Arctic Circle with his daughter in his arms.
Ross clenched his fists. "Forget Banner! All units converge! We're putting that thing down tonight!"
The order went out. Armored convoys turned. Choppers pivoted in formation.
But Abomination barely seemed to notice.
He picked up a nearby car, spun once, and hurled it like a discus—
straight into an incoming infantry vehicle.
CRASH!
The explosion lit up the block like a second sun.
When the smoke cleared, the gray-green giant stood alone amid the flames, laughing maniacally.
"More! Give me more! Where's my REAL fight?!"
Then—
A cold, metallic voice cut through the chaos:
"Protocol One — Linking with BT."
The soldiers froze. Ross's eyes widened.
And high above the burning street, a sharp mechanical roar began to echo—something fast, heavy, and very, very angry was coming their way.