New York, Queens.
The Stacy residence.
Second floor.
A morning breeze ruffled the curtains.
On the desk, a ballpoint pen weighted down the edge of a piece of drawing paper, where the wet watercolors looked ready to wrinkle in the wind.
Soft morning light filtered through the thin mesh, falling on a blanket-wrapped lump on the pink bed.
“Gwen, get up or you’ll be late!” came a voice from outside the room.
“I know, Mom…” a mumbled voice came from under the covers.
The girl pulled the blanket even tighter around herself, showing no intention of getting up.
Knock, knock, knock.
This time it was a firmer, calmer knocking.
“Gwen, hurry up.
Your dad has to report to the precinct, so don’t make me lose my job.” “Ughhh—” A long sigh of resignation came from beneath the blanket.
A few seconds later, the blanket was thrown back, revealing a blonde girl in cartoon pajamas sitting up.
Marks of sleep were still visible on her pale cheeks, and her blue eyes were half-open.
She turned, swung her feet down, blindly felt around the floor for her slippers, and shuffled into the bathroom.
The sound of running water filled the air.
A moment later, she walked back into the bedroom wiping her face, her eyes noticeably clearer.
She quickly dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans, gathered her messy blonde hair, and expertly tied it into a ponytail.
Out of habit, she picked up the small glass of leftover water on her desk and turned to pour it into the soil of a potted flower on the window sill.
Then, narrowing her eyes against the morning sunshine, she let out a long stretch, looking out at the sky.
“Good morning, New York.” She lowered her gaze.
Her eyes casually brushed past the street opposite.
The two-story house that had been vacant for so long was alive now.
Downstairs, a tall man was unloading cargo from a pickup truck.
A half-lit cigarette dangled from his mouth, and he effortlessly lifted an unopened piece of bulky furniture with one hand.
There was a subtle aura about him that felt distinctly at odds with the tranquil, quiet atmosphere of Queens.
Beside him was a young-looking girl carrying a smaller box, following behind him.
Gwen watched with curiosity, almost entranced.
She tilted her head, trying to see his profile more clearly through the faint wisps of smoke curling beside his face.
As if sensing the gaze from above, the man carrying the cabinet suddenly paused.
He turned his head from a distance and looked toward her window.
Across the distance, his eyes appeared deep and calm, devoid of emotion, yet they made her heart skip a beat.
“Eek!” Gwen gasped, instinctively ducking below the windowsill.
After a moment, she carefully peeked her head back out.
The man had already carried the items inside, leaving behind only an empty porch and lingering exhaust fumes.
She blinked.
Far from fading, her curiosity vibrated softly, like a string plucked by a gentle breeze.
“Gwen—!” Her father’s voice called up again.
“I’m coming!” she answered, turning around, though her eyes couldn’t help lingering on the opposite house for one more second.
Grabbing her backpack and jacket off the sofa, she hurried downstairs.
In her mind, those eyes remained frozen like a photo snapped by accident.
“Are you ever worried about being late, Captain George?” Gwen took a sip of warm milk handed to her by her mother, Helen, put down her backpack, hung her jacket over the back of the chair, and sat down.
“Your mother cooked double-yolk eggs today, which doesn’t happen often.
Eat before it gets cold.” George Stacy shifted his broad shoulders, a slight smile on his face, as he pushed the plate with the fried egg closer to Gwen.
Helen sat beside her husband with a smile.
“Then today must be my lucky day.” Gwen picked up her fork and knife, slid the fried egg onto her plate, cut off a small piece, and popped it into her mouth.
“Every day is your lucky day, sweetie,” Helen said softly.
George drank his milk and stopped hurrying her.
“By the way, Dad,” Gwen swallowed her food and asked casually, as if just remembering, “did someone move into the house across the street?
Do we have new neighbors?” “Mm-hmm.
Moved in early this morning,” George nodded.
“A brother and sister.
While you were brushing your teeth, I ran a quick check.
The older brother is Glenn Morgan, twenty years old.
He’s an exceptionally talented war correspondent who’s taken up-close photos of front-line combat and various supernatural incidents.
His latest set was released yesterday—footage of Tony Stark escaping in Afghanistan, including some rather bloody shots, crisp enough to make it seem like he went through it right alongside him.
God, I can hardly imagine how incredible—or legendary—that kid’s experiences have been.
The younger sister is Laura Morgan, thirteen.
She’s been living with her brother, attending a semi-boarding school whenever Glenn goes away for work.” George’s tone carried unmistakable admiration.
Gwen listened intently, her eyes slightly widening.
“Alright, alright,” Helen gave her husband a fond, scolding look.
“It’s just breakfast, and you’re turning it into a census report.” “Exactly,” Gwen snapped back to reality and joined her mother in teasing him.
“And as far as I know, looking up neighbors’ personal info like that is a violation, Captain Stacy.” “They’re living right across from us.
I have to make sure you two are safe,” George said righteously, though his expression was relaxed.
“Besides, I’ve looked into them enough.
They’re outstanding people and very polite.
It wouldn’t hurt for you to get to know them.” Helen nodded in agreement beside him.
“You two…” Looking at her parents, who in less than half a day—no, less than a few hours—had completely accepted the new neighbors and were already talking them up, Gwen was stuck between laughing and sighing.
“They even brought over a welcome gift early this morning.
Very polite,” Helen smiled, pointing to a neatly wrapped cardboard box on the side of the table.
“A welcome gift?” Gwen’s curiosity instantly won out over her mild annoyance.
She took the box and opened it.
Inside lay a bronze coin.
The surface of the coin was noticeably dented, as if struck by a high-velocity object, and the edges still bore black scorch marks from gunpowder.
A coin…
hit by a bullet.
“Now *that* is real luck,” Gwen murmured softly, staring at the coin in her palm.
“Keep it safe,” her mother, Helen, said, gently patting her shoulder.
“Mm.” Gwen nodded.
Instead of putting the coin back in the box, she slipped it straight into her jeans pocket.
She quickly finished the rest of her breakfast.
Outside, George had just thrown on his jacket when he happened to run into Glenn coming out from across the street.
Glenn was holding a can of spray paint, looking as if he had just touched up the house number.
George raised the pack of cigarettes in his hand.
Glenn smiled and walked across the street.
The two men stood on the damp morning curb, surrounded by lingering mist.
For a moment, neither spoke.
George tapped two cigarettes out of the pack and offered one to Glenn.
Glenn took it and popped it between his lips.
George placed one in his own mouth, pulled out a lighter, and lit Glenn’s first before lighting his own.
Grayish-white smoke rose slowly into the damp air.
“Any plans, kid?” George blew out a cloud of smoke and asked.
“Not really.
The work never ends, just like conflicts never end.
I’m waiting for my next assignment, but until then, I’ve got plenty of free time.” “Haha,” George chuckled.
“Maybe I can introduce you to the editor-in-chief at the *New York Bulletin*.
With your background and talent, landing a position there would be a breeze.” “Hmm…
I’ll think about it.” “Your gift,” George shifted the subject, his eyes softening slightly.
“My daughter really liked it.” “My pleasure.” Just then, the phone in George’s pocket rang.
“Excuse me,” he gestured to Glenn.
Glenn waved a hand and naturally stepped back two paces, continuing to smoke his cigarette.
“Stacy here,” George answered.
As he listened, his expression gradually darkened.
“Understood,” he responded briefly, hung up, and stuffed the phone back into his pocket.
The sound of a door closing came from behind him.
He turned and saw Gwen coming out, pulling her jacket over her shoulders.
The moment Gwen saw the apologetic look in George’s eyes, she understood.
“Looks like I’m walking to school today,” she shrugged.
“Sorry, sweetie.” “It’s fine, Captain George.
I’ll just run fast.
It’s only a few blocks anyway.” “I can give her a ride,” Glenn’s voice chimed in from the side.
“Huh?” Gwen’s eyes widened in surprise.
She had noticed Glenn and only intended to walk past politely with a quick glance, not expecting things to become familiar so suddenly.
George turned around, his professional instincts causing him to scrutinize Glenn for a second.
But Glenn’s gaze didn’t waver; it was clear and direct.
George relaxed his shoulders and clapped a hand on Glenn’s shoulder.
“I’d appreciate that, son.” Glenn raised an eyebrow, glanced at the hand on his shoulder, then looked back at George with a smirk.
“‘Son’ sounds a lot warmer than ‘kid.'” “Heh, one of these days you’ll have to come over and try my grilled ribs.
They’re fantastic.” George pulled his hand back, his tone now friendly.
“If the chance comes up,” Glenn nodded in agreement.
George turned back to look at his daughter.
Gwen, who was usually outgoing and could chat up anyone, was now looking down, her fingers absently twisting her backpack straps, not even daring to look Glenn in the eye.
George’s heart skipped a beat—a sharp instinct unique to fathers sounded a quiet alarm bell.
However, work on the other end was pressing, leaving him no time to ponder it.
He gave Glenn one last pat on the shoulder and instructed his daughter, “Text me when you get to school.” “Got it, Dad,” Gwen replied in a low voice, her eyes still cast down.
Without further delay, George strode over to his police cruiser parked at the curb, yanked the door open, and sped off with the roar of the engine.
Silence settled over the scene.
Glenn looked down at the silent girl.
“Let me know if you’d rather run, but if not, let me get the truck.” He unclasped his fingers, letting his cigarette drop to the ground, crushing it under his boot heel with a tiny shower of sparks.
Then he turned and walked toward the pickup truck.
“Okay,” Gwen replied softly, only raising her eyes to look at him once he turned around.
Almost simultaneously, Laura stepped out of the house.
Wearing a new backpack and holding the potted cactus in her arms as usual, she opened the passenger door on her own, climbed in, and settled the cactus onto the dashboard.
*Inhale—* Gwen took a deep breath to steady herself.
Out of habit, she glanced back at her house; her mother, Helen, was leaning out the second-floor window, winking and pulling funny faces at her.
“Mom!” Gwen felt a mix of annoyance and amusement.
The pickup engine rumbled to life softly, so she quickly hooked her fingers around her backpack straps, hurried over to the truck, opened the rear door, and slid inside.
The interior of the truck didn’t feel stuffy, nor was it particularly scented, yet it conveyed an indescribable, almost tangible sense of security, like a warm blanket.
Gwen didn’t feel cold at all, even though the windows were cracked open and the morning air was quite chilly.
In the front seat, Glenn reached over to pull the seatbelt across Laura and buckle her in, casually taking a chocolate bar—its plastic wrapper already chewed through—out of her mouth.
“I told you no candy.” “Oh,” Laura complied obediently, letting go.
“Where to?” “The middle school on 4th Avenue.” Glenn didn’t say another word and stepped on the accelerator.
A gentle push against her back signaled the start of their ride.
Laura leaned over her seat, tilting her head to observe Gwen in the back.
“Uh, hi,” Gwen said, feeling a little self-conscious under her stare, and gave a small wave.
Laura tilted her head further.
“She doesn’t talk much with kids her age, so her behavior is a bit unusual.
Don’t mind her,” Glenn interjected smoothly.
“It’s fine,” Gwen said softly.
Laura seemed to receive the friendly signal, reaching into her pocket to pull out another chocolate bar and holding it out toward Gwen.
“Thank you,” Gwen took it.
Only then did Laura turn back around, resting her feet on the dashboard and slumping into her seat, looking out the window at the passing streetscape in total relaxation.
Glenn reached over and switched on the car radio.
A woman’s voice came through the speakers: “…Recently, Seven member A-Train was involved in an incident where he was allegedly unable to stop in time due to excessive speed, resulting in the tragic death of a twenty-three-year-old female.
A-Train stated that the victim was standing in the middle of the street at the time, making it impossible for him to avoid her.
Currently, he has reached a settlement agreement with the victim’s family.
To express his condolences, A-Train announced he will participate in an upcoming charity marathon, donating all proceeds to the Red River Home…” “Turning to financial news next: Yesterday, the recently returned Tony Stark held an emergency press conference just two hours after returning to Stark Industries, announcing the permanent closure of the company’s entire weapons manufacturing division.
As of early trading today, Stark Industries stock has plummeted by twenty-one percent.
At present, Tony Stark himself has not offered further explanation regarding this major decision.
Obadiah Stane, Vice President of Stark Industries, subsequently issued a statement claiming Tony may be suffering from severe psychological trauma due to his kidnapping, but confirmed that the decision to shut down the weapons division has officially taken legal effect…” “Mr…
Glenn,” Gwen listened to the news report and hesitated before trying to start a conversation.
“Hmm?” “Do you know Tony Stark well?” She recalled her father mentioning that Glenn seemed to have had an encounter with that famous figure.
“You could say that.
We’re life-and-death friends,” he said, which wasn’t wrong.
After all, he had let the man die for a few seconds before bringing him back to life.
Logically, it checked out.
“You’re that close?” Gwen was somewhat surprised.
“Though he might not particularly want to see me right now,” Glenn chuckled.
“Why—” Before Gwen could finish her question, the phone in his pocket vibrated, and she smartly went quiet.
Glenn pulled out his phone.
The screen showed an unfamiliar number.
He slid to answer and spoke directly into the speaker: “Speak.” “Hey, ‘Van Helsing,’ miss me?” A playful, almost flashy voice came through the receiver, speaking rapidly with an unmistakable air of nonchalance.
It was Tony Stark.