Saturday morning didn't just arrive; it exploded into my consciousness. When I opened my eyes, the air in my "coffin" room felt different—heavier, yet I felt lighter. I stood up and nearly hit my head on the low ceiling. I had undergone a massive growth spurt overnight. My reflection in the cracked mirror was unrecognizable. My hair had grown out, shaggier and darker, and my physique had shifted from "gym-goer" to a condensed powerhouse. Every muscle was packed in the right place, looking less like a bodybuilder and more like a biological weapon.
Doomsday is a cheat, I thought, clenching a fist. The air hissed as my fingers closed. I felt the power of ten enhanced peak humans thrumming under my skin.
The news was already buzzing: Tony Stark was missing. The desert had swallowed the Invincible Iron Man, and the clock for the Marvel Cinematic Universe had officially started ticking.
I headed to the gym for a final "warm-up," but it was useless. I was outgrowing the machines. I carried my bag out and began the grim task of info-gathering. I spent the day drifting through the seedy underbelly of Queens and Hell's Kitchen, using small tricks and "stipend" bribes to probe low-level dealers. Most of it was noise—child abductions, protection rackets—the usual Kingpin filth.
But then, I hit pay dirt. A truckload of high-grade narcotics was being delivered tonight to a high-profile client.
The psychological burden of killing is heavy, I realized as I sat in a park, staring at my trembling hands. Am I ready? I knew that to survive this world, I couldn't be a saint. I had to take a life.
To bridge the gap, I went back to the black market. I didn't want my first kill to be a mistake in the field. I paid a dealer to give me access to a "disposable" criminal—someone already marked for death by the syndicates. The dealer watched me with a bored expression as I positioned my pistol against the man's neck.
My hands were shaking. My breath was a jagged mess. The man's eyes were screaming, a silent, desperate plea for a mercy I couldn't afford to give.
BANG.
He lay lifeless. The silence that followed was louder than the gunshot. As the dealer moved forward to bag the body, I didn't think. I couldn't let witnesses see the "newbie" grow. I raised the gun and put a hole through the dealer's head too.
I'm scum, I thought, staring at the red pooling on the concrete. I'm worse than them. I spent the evening in an alleyway, throwing up until my stomach was empty. I couldn't eat. The trauma was a physical weight on my chest. But as night approached, the Doomsday cells began to suppress the guilt, replacing it with a cold, predatory focus. I needed energy. I forced myself to eat, then suited up.
I pulled on the tactical suit, strapped the katanas to my back, and holstered the pistols. With the mask hiding my face, I headed to the drop point.
I waited in the shadows until the headlights cut through the dark. The truck was moving fast. I stepped out, my heart cold as ice.
BANG. BANG.
One shot shredded the front tire. The second went through the windshield, hitting the driver square in the forehead. The truck swerved, screeching to a halt as the back doors flew open.
"Oops," I whispered.
The goons rushed out, guns blazing. I didn't hide. I started to "dance." I wasn't a god of combat yet, but with my enhanced speed and strength, I was a killing machine. I felt the sting of a bullet grazing my shoulder and another hitting my thigh, but the pain only fueled the furnace in my gut. I drew my katanas, the steel whistling through the air as I waded into the fray.
The night air was filled with the scent of gunpowder and blood. I wasn't just investigating anymore. I was at war.
The initial silence after the truck swerved was a lie. I thought I had the upper hand, but the world of organized crime doesn't play fair.
As I stepped toward the wreckage, the back doors of the truck didn't just open—they were kicked off their hinges. Four more men, better armed and wearing tactical vests I hadn't accounted for, spilled out like hornets from a disturbed nest.
"Kill the freak!" one of them roared, leveling a submachine gun.
The world slowed down. My heart hammered against my ribs, each thud feeling like a physical punch. I moved, but I wasn't fast enough to dodge everything. The air was filled with the metallic scent of lead and the stinging smell of burnt powder.
I felt the first bullet tear through the meat of my shoulder—a hot, white-searing line of agony. The second caught me in the side, spinning me around. I snarled, a primal, animalistic sound tearing from my throat as I lunged forward with my katanas. I was a whirlwind of steel, but they were desperate. A blade caught me across the chest, and a heavy boot connected with my jaw, the impact shattering a tooth and filling my mouth with the salty taste of copper.
I didn't stop. I couldn't. The Doomsday cells were screaming, feeding off the damage. I carved through them, my blades moving with a jagged, frantic energy until the last man lay silent on the asphalt.
I stood there, swaying, my breath coming in ragged, bloody gasps. My tactical suit was shredded. I had three bullet wounds leaking onto the pavement, several deep slashes, and a mouth full of blood.
I'm alive, I thought, the realization hitting me harder than the punches. I'm actually alive.
I moved with the mechanical focus of a man on the edge. I couldn't leave the drugs for Fisk, and I couldn't let the client know the deal had gone south. I worked quickly, my hands slick with blood. I dragged the heavy crates out. I took ten of them—the "tribute"—and for the rest? I emptied the bags, replaced the narcotics with common sand from a nearby construction pile, and doused the real product in gasoline.
The fire was beautiful. It licked at the night sky, turning the "merchandise" into a pillar of black smoke.
I bandaged myself as best I could, pulling the fabric tight enough to make me wince, and drove the truck to the meeting point. My face was hidden behind the mask, my eyes shadowed and cold. The client was a rich, arrogant man who barely looked at me. He was too busy salivating over the ten "sample" boxes I'd left at the front.
He checked the quality, nodded, and signaled his men. They handed over a heavy briefcase.
"The rest is in the accounts we discussed," he muttered, dismissing me like a common courier.
I walked away, the weight of the briefcase in my hand feeling heavier than my katanas. Back in the safety of the shadows, I opened it. Millions. Cold, hard cash.
I just got rich, I thought, a manic, tired laugh escaping my bloodied lips. Like the wise man once said: steal from the rich to help the poor. And in this case? I'm definitely the poor guy.
I looked at my reflection in a dark window. I was a mess of bandages and dried blood, but beneath the pain, I felt it—the evolution. My wounds were already beginning to itch as the cells knitted back together, denser and stronger than before.
I had the money for the stocks. I had the gear. And most importantly, I had the taste of blood in my mouth.