I stood in the middle of my room in a perfectly ironed school uniform. The silence pressed against my ears. The anger that had exploded inside me in the bathroom had subsided, leaving behind a cold, ringing emptiness and a throbbing pain in my bruised knuckles. I looked at my hand. A thin trickle of blood had already dried.
The door opened quietly. Albert entered with a small first aid kit in his hands. He didn't say a word; his gaze only lingered on my hand for a moment. He approached, placed the kit on the table, took my hand in his dry, warm palm, and began carefully treating the wound.
"Anger is a good servant but a bad master, young master," he said quietly, not lifting his head. "Don't let it burn you to the ground."
"I'll try, Albert," I replied, looking at his gray head. Old people love such wise quotes, and they also love it when you agree with them.
But to myself, I thought about my father. He also had a quick temper—today I saw it in his eyes. But he never loses control, never lets emotions affect his work. Even when Zik's mother died in a car accident, according to his memories, he didn't shed a single tear in public. He organized the funeral, and the next day he was already at the board meeting. That's what the Hammers are like.
"I understand your desire to respond," Albert said, finishing the bandaging. "But now you need to be safe. Your father is downstairs. He has arranged an escort."
"An escort?"
"You weren't planning to go to school without protection, were you, Master Ezekiel?" the butler replied impassively. "Courage won't save you from bullets... Unfortunately."
I went downstairs and froze. The mansion's hall was full of people. A dozen fighters in full tactical gear, with hammer emblems on their shoulders, stood like silent statues. Through the open doors, I saw something that made me whistle. At the front entrance, there weren't one but five identical black armored sedans. Around them, at least two dozen more guards were positioned. This wasn't a convoy. It was a small private army. A demonstration. My father wasn't just sending me to school; he was throwing down a challenge: "Attack if you want. This time, I'm ready."
I was seated in the central car. The door slammed shut, and the convoy smoothly moved off. I watched the streets passing by, but my thoughts were elsewhere. I needed power, but how could I get it, and what was I willing to give in return?
My analytical mind began to sort through the options I knew from my past life, from those very comics.
A radioactive spider? Probability—zero point zero. A random event that couldn't be replicated. Even if such a spider existed in this world, finding it seemed impossible. The "one and only spider" could be anywhere—at Oscorp or who knows where—and the body's reaction would be extremely unpredictable. Turning into a giant spider... Not exactly appealing. To put it mildly.
The super-soldier serum? Better. Proven effect—peak human abilities. But Dr. Erskine's formula was lost. All subsequent attempts to recreate it led to physical or mental instability. To get it, I'd either have to find a miraculously preserved sample (which sounded unrealistic) or reinvent it from scratch. Both tasks would take decades. Too long, and there was no guarantee of success.
Gamma radiation? A direct path to the afterlife. One accidental success (was it even a success?) in the form of the Hulk against millions of deaths from radiation sickness. Playing Russian roulette with all six chambers loaded. No, thanks.
A symbiote? Intriguing. A living suit granting incredible abilities. But it was a symbiote—a creature with its own will that could subjugate and consume its host. Plus, access to it was again unavailable. In this damn multiverse, it could be anything from a distant cosmic guest to a simple scientific creation. So, only if the opportunity arose, and even then, I'd need to understand its structure first.
The "OZ" serum? Now that was interesting. This stuff gave the same abilities as the super-soldier serum, while also healing the body of various ailments because it was created for healing... Or was it? We were in the Marvel multiverse, so nothing was certain! Nevertheless, it was an Oscorp development, right here in New York. The main downside was extreme instability, leading to insanity and aggression. Take the Green Goblin, for example, if the comics were to be believed. But... it was real, existing technology. It could be studied, analyzed, and improved. And it could be stolen.
I leaned back on the leather seat. I was only more confused. All these options were extremely dangerous. But I had something that could reduce the risk—the brain of a genius biologist and the mindset of a pragmatic programmer from another world. What if I didn't seek someone else's power but created my own?
I'd take these developments as a basis—the "OZ" serum, fragments of data on Captain America's serum, Connors' regeneration research—and create my own formula. Stable, controlled, enhancing the body to its limits but keeping the mind clear.
The convoy stopped at the gates of Midtown School. Dozens of students froze, staring open-mouthed at our armored convoy and army of guards. A bodyguard opened the door.
I stepped out of the car. Today was the last bell; I needed to say goodbye to middle school. And then... We'll see. I smiled and walked toward my class.
POV Justin Hammer
War. So, it was war after all.
I stood by the panoramic window of my office, looking at the nighttime city sprawled below. A heavy crystal glass of whiskey was clenched in my hand, but I hadn't taken a sip. The amber liquid swayed slightly in time with the imperceptible tremor in my fingers. The anger I had suppressed all day raged inside me like a caged beast. It demanded release, demanded destruction, breaking, annihilation. But I couldn't allow myself that. Emotions were a luxury the Hammers couldn't afford.
I replayed that moment again. Zik. His frightened face in the opening of the garbage bin, smeared with dirt. The relief that flooded me for a split second was intoxicating, like the first breath after a long time underwater. And then—cold, all-consuming rage that hadn't subsided yet.
Wilson Fisk. That bastard, that upstart, dared to attack my son! Three years ago, he was nobody, an empty space, another ambitious gorilla trying to bite off a piece of the Big Apple. Now he was undermining the foundations on which this city had stood for decades.
I had never interfered in the affairs of the mafia. My business—weapons, technology, government contracts—required operating in the light, but no major business in this city could exist in a vacuum. The difference was only in the form of interaction. I never paid the mafia a cent. My agreement with the Manfredi family was of a different nature. Silvio, "Silvermane," the old fox who had ruled this city even before I was born, understood the value of alliances. Discounts on "Hammer Industries" products for his people, mutual respect, and tacit support. A few years ago, when Stark almost pushed me out of the military contracts market, it was the "lost" cargo of her components and the "accidental" sabotage at one of her plants, organized by Silvio's people, that gave me a breather. I hadn't forgotten that.
And then he came. The Bruiser. That's what they called him at first. He acted crudely, straightforwardly. Want territory? Attack. Don't like someone? Kill them. An idiot who should have been taken out in the first alley. But Fisk bet on what even Silvermane hadn't dared—on meta-humans. He gathered mutants, superhumans, outcasts whom the old mafia despised for their arrogance and, therefore, stupidity. Fisk gave them money, power, and a personal example. And it worked.
But all of this was just their squabbling, which personally didn't concern me. Until today. Today, Fisk crossed the line. He dared to attack my son.
The office door opened quietly. Hank, the head of my security service, entered. A former Delta Force colonel, confident in himself and his abilities. Loyal and honest, and not a fool. A rarity in these times, especially among the military.
"Sir."
"Speak," I said without turning around.
"The attack was demonstrative. The sniper worked from the roof opposite. Judging by the style and position, it was someone from the top ten global mercenaries. The bullet—a custom tungsten core, .338 caliber, made to order, often in Latveria. It penetrated our triple-armored plating on the first shot. The rest of the attackers were street thugs given automatic weapons. Their task was to create chaos with suppressing fire."
"What about my men?" I asked, finally turning to him.
"The driver, Frank Miller, died on the spot. He leaves behind a wife and two children. The second guard, Tom Clark, took three bullets to the stomach, but the bulletproof vest held. He's in our medical unit now; his condition is serious but stable. The third, Mark Reynolds, the one who lured the attackers away..." Hank paused for a moment. "He was found two blocks away. Five gunshot wounds. He managed to take two attackers with him."
I nodded, feeling my jaw clench.
"Give Miller's family maximum compensation and lifelong support. Provide Clark with the best treatment. Give Reynolds' family the same as Miller's, plus a bravery bonus. Make sure they want for nothing."
"Already done, sir."
"Fisk didn't want to kill Zik," I said, more to myself. "He made it look like he was trying to kidnap him. A professional sniper to disable the car and a bunch of amateurs for the capture."
"It looks that way, sir. He's testing you."
"He's not testing me. He's declaring war, using my son. Fine." I put down the untouched glass. "Connect me with Silvio Manfredi. It's time to remind the old lion how to tear the throats out of overconfident pups."
POV Wilson Fisk
Silence reigned in the office at the top of Fisk Tower. Beyond the enormous panoramic window stretched the tapestry of nighttime New York—a myriad of lights weaving into a single pattern. I looked at it not as an ordinary city but as my property, which didn't yet fully belong to me. The key word here was "yet."
On the wall hung an original Rothko—an abstract canvas of dark red and black fields, worth more than the annual budget of the city's police department.
"They failed the capture," Taskmaster's emotionless voice sounded behind me. He stood by the door in his ridiculous skull-costumed outfit, but no one who had heard of him would dare laugh. Taskmaster was a professional, and even now, he moved with the grace of a predator. "The idiots you hired got scared by a patrol car's siren and ran away," he continued with a touch of cynical contempt. "The kid was hidden in a garbage bin. They didn't even check it properly. Amateurs. I wouldn't trust them to steal a newspaper from a kiosk."
"Sometimes, for a message, you need exactly those—loud, stupid, and... disposable," I replied, slowly turning around. My figure in a snow-white suit from the city's best tailor cast a shadow on the polished table. "Their failure is also part of the plan. It tells Hammer that I can reach his most precious treasure, but it also gives him the false hope that I'm incompetent. He'll get angry... And strike back."
"He already is," Taskmaster said. "According to my data, he just spoke with Silvermane. They're preparing a response."
"Excellent." A smile appeared on my lips. "That's exactly what I wanted."
I didn't just dream of power over the criminal underworld. That was petty. I dreamed of real, legitimate power. I wanted this city to belong to me openly. I wanted "Fisk Industries" to stand alongside "Hammer Industries" and "Stark Industries." But right now, I had too few legal assets. To step into the light, I needed chaos. Great chaos that would sweep away the old order, make the city tremble, and beg for a strong hand to restore order. And I would be that hand.
For that, I needed to pit the old titans against each other. The self-assured technocrat Hammer and the outdated mafioso Manfredi were perfect figures for sacrifice. A war with them would create a power vacuum that I would happily fill.
"Get rid of the trash," I ordered. "And prepare. The real fun is about to begin. And there will be plenty of work for you."
Taskmaster silently nodded and dissolved into the shadows of the corridor. I turned back to the window. Let them fight. Let them tear their enemies apart. I would wait. And then I would take everything.