I have a profound nostalgia for Marvel that dates back to my childhood.
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The order was so painfully mundane that it almost disappointed him.
"Two croissants and a coffee — extra sugar," the woman said, eyes barely meeting his. She spoke like someone used to being invisible, the kind who wanted transactions to end as quickly as they began.
Kaine smiled, the soft, perfectly rehearsed one that made people relax without realizing it. "Of course, ma'am," he said, jotting it down, though he wouldn't need to. His memory was a steel trap; this was for show — the little details that made him seem harmless.
He prepared the order with practiced efficiency. The coffee was poured, and the croissants were warmed just enough for the air to smell faintly of butter and cheap flour. Then, he turned to the corner of the prep station where the "McNagi Kids' Fun Packs" sat — bright plastic boxes stacked with garish cartoon mascots grinning wide enough to unsettle any adult. He picked one at random: a small, plastic robot toy sealed inside a blister pack.
A quick flick of his nail — a subtle flex of strength that would've snapped a bone if directed elsewhere — split the plastic open. He slipped in the tracker, no larger than a bottle cap, thin enough to hide beneath the hollow chest cavity of the toy. A twist, a click, a press of adhesive, and it was like new.
He dropped it into the paper bag beside the croissants, the bag crinkling as he folded it neatly and placed it on the counter.
"Here you go! And that comes with a complimentary McNagi Buddy — we're running a special for Value Meals this week," he said lightly.
The woman blinked at the toy, then shrugged. "Huh. My kid'll like that."
Perfect.
Kaine's grin didn't falter. "Enjoy your evening."
As she left, the door chimed. Her figure faded into the orange glow of streetlights, swallowed by the slow pulse of city traffic. Kaine watched just long enough to confirm she hadn't tossed the bag. Then, his mind drifted back into the cold rhythm of planning.
A simple tracker, really. Ingenious because it was unsuspecting. He had learned that "Find My Phone" signals weren't limited to whole devices — certain chips could register independently if configured to mimic device identifiers. His old laptop, a battered relic with one corner duct-taped, had been rewired and re-coded to receive those pings. What others called "junk tech," Kaine had turned into a surveillance array built from scraps.
Resourcefulness wasn't optional — it was inevitable.
By the time he clocked out, the night had deepened into its murky, humid quiet. The digital clock above the register read 6:24 PM in tired red digits. He had stayed past his shift again, deliberately. Working longer made him invisible — managers liked overachievers too much to question them.
He slipped through the back door, the hinges squealing faintly as it shut behind him. The alley was slick, half-lit by the neon reflections of street signs and passing cars. He adjusted the strap of his black gym bag — the one he'd taken from a low-level thug weeks ago, its original owner now decomposing somewhere under a collapsed pier.
Kaine crouched in the shadows, eyes scanning for movement. No people. No cameras. Just the quiet rattle of the city breathing.
He set the bag down, unzipped it, and pulled out his laptop. The screen came alive with a ghostly light, illuminating the hard lines of his face. He typed in a string of commands, connecting to his improvised tracking network.
A map bloomed across the display — a digital web of New York City overlaid with colour-coded sectors:
Green: Cleared, safe, unremarkable.
Orange: Unstable, minor criminal syndicates.
Red: Dangerous — the kind of danger that bleeds.
And there — at the western edge of Manhattan — a single purple zone pulsed faintly.
The tracker's signal had stopped moving. The woman was inside that boundary.
Hell's Kitchen.
Kaine leaned closer, expression flattening into something between curiosity and disdain. The area was a mystery even to him — not secret, but unpredictable. Not lawless, but governed by something the law couldn't touch.
He'd mapped everything else in the city: every smuggler route, every weapon cache, every syndicate front. But this patch remained a blank spot — purple for an unknown variable.
He'd considered marking it red long ago, but red was for threats he could quantify. This wasn't that. This was something else.
Rumours spoke of a vigilante who stalked those streets — blind, yet omniscient, the kind of myth that only exists when it terrifies criminals enough to stay away. Daredevil. Kaine didn't know if the man was real, but he respected the idea. The thought of another predator cleaning the city's disease in his own way.
Perhaps they'd meet one day.
But for now, Kaine's lips curved faintly, eyes glowing in the dark reflection of the laptop screen.
"Let's see what secrets you're hiding, purple zone."
He closed the computer, slung the bag over his shoulder, and melted into the night — moving like a shadow that didn't belong to anyone. Oh, no, it should be Spider at this point.
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[Auther: I don't upload on weekdays, because praise God, I'd hate to see how you'd do without him. But I will be uploading normally this week.]