West Side, Manhattan, New York City.
A pickup truck with a dented front bumper drove into Hell’s Kitchen.
The air here was foul year-round.
Drug deals and violent crime hung like an eternal smog from a chemical plant, seeping into every inch of space and staining both sky and soul a suffocating lead-grey.
Yet this pickup rolled down the street in broad daylight, driving past the watchful eyes of gang members lining both sides of the road.
No one stepped up to block it.
No one even dared to blow a provocative whistle.
“…Fuck, the ‘Owl’ is back,” someone muttered under his breath, spitting on the ground.
“Dammit, I need to pack up my grill,” another voice complained, full of anguish.
“That bastard swipes half a rack of ribs every time he passes by.
He’s driving me broke!” “Look at the front of his truck.
He just finished a ‘job’, didn’t he?” A third man squinted, trying to make out the bloodstains on the tailgate.
“I bet he’s got at least three or four ‘materials’ stuffed in the back.” “Keep your fucking heads down, all of you,” a burly man who seemed to be the gang leader growled, his eyes fixed on the slowly passing pickup.
“Tell the boys to lay low for the next few days.
If any blind idiot crosses his path, I’ll skin ’em myself and serve ’em to the Owl as a late-night snack.” The eyes staring at the truck—once fierce, guarded, or numb—all shifted away, dropped, or averted the moment they caught sight of the cold, hard profile in the driver’s seat.
All aggression dissolved, replaced by a complex brew of fear, disgust, and the begrudging acknowledgment of raw power.
It wasn’t just caution.
It was a twisted kind of “awe,” forged out of endless bloody victories in this dog-eat-dog jungle.
Meanwhile, beside an intersection the pickup passed, a tiny figure with a mop of messy, dark-green curly hair peeked out quietly from behind a rusty railing atop a high-rise rooftop.
Her eyes stayed glued to the pickup, watching it head straight into the territory of the area’s most infamous boss.
The truck drove toward a factory complex.
Seeing the vehicle, the armed guards at the gate immediately hit a switch.
The motorized iron gate slowly rose with a harsh screech.
The truck rolled inside the cavernous warehouse and came to a stop.
The interior was dim, saved only by a few shafts of morning sunlight streaming down from high windows.
The truck’s active headlights threw two murky beams into the gloom, where countless dust motes floated silently in the light.
“I activated the location beacon.
Come over now,” Green said inside the cab, holding a communicator to his ear.
“Copy that.
Arriving in five minutes,” a crisp female voice replied over the comms.
“And get ready to explain why your private comm channel ended up in the hands of that damn black guy, Nick Fury.” “…OK,” the woman’s voice paused for a second, tinged with helpless resignation.
“Hey!
I’m sitting right here listening, you son of a bitch!
We’re on a shared channel!” Nick Fury’s angry voice boomed through the communicator.
“Tch.” Green scoffed with disdain.
Completely ignoring the static-muffled cursing that followed, he cut the connection and shoved the communicator back into his pocket.
He pushed the car door open.
*Bzzzt—* High-powered spotlights around the perimeter suddenly flared to life, blinding brightness sweeping away the darkness inside the warehouse.
The sudden shift in light made Green reflexively narrow his eyes.
Not far ahead, the rear door of a stretch Lincoln sedan parked horizontally in the center of the warehouse slid open.
A figure surged out.
“Walking out” was hardly the word for it—it was more like a mountain of flesh set in motion.
The moment that crushing weight left the car, the heavily compressed rear tires bounced back with a soft thump.
He wore an insanely expensive bespoke suit, yet it could barely contain the wall-like contours of his massive, imposing muscle.
Above a neck nearly as wide as his shoulders, his features were rough and heavy-set, his lips pressed into a hard, cold line.
Deep-set under heavy lids, his small eyes glinted with ruthless cunning as he stared at Green, whose expression remained flat beneath the bright lights.
Kingpin—the undisputed underworld emperor of Hell’s Kitchen.
“Where’s the cargo?” Green didn’t answer.
He simply raised a hand, snapped his fingers a few times, then held out an open palm toward the mountain of flesh and curled his fingers back in a ‘hand it over’ gesture.
“Hmph.” Kingpin let out a low grumble from his nose and waved a hand.
Beside him, Bullseye, who had been standing still as a shadow, moved.
The tall, gangly man stepped forward with a brazen sneer, carrying a black duffel bag of money with an arrogant strut.
He tossed the bag at Green’s feet, kicking up a small puff of dust.
“Greetings, little bird.” Bullseye grinned, pressed two fingers together, and tapped the iconic bullseye scar right in the center of his forehead, chuckling under his breath.
Green looked down at the dusty bag at his feet.
He didn’t bend over.
Instead, he nudged the bag with the toe of his shoe, then reached down and hooked a few fingers through the straps, testing its weight.
An almost imperceptible glint flickered in his eyes.
The weight was wrong.
Short.
Having a laugh?
He slowly looked up, his gaze landing first on Kingpin’s emotionless face, then shifting to Bullseye’s provocative sneer.
“Heh-heh-heh…” He uncurled his fingers, letting the straps slide free.
The bag hit the ground with a soft *thud*.
As if nothing had happened, he turned and walked toward the bed of his pickup.
The tailgate popped open.
Inside, Tony lay curled up like a shrimp in the cramped space, his hands bound behind his back.
“I gotta say…
next time, you might as well let me ride shotgun,” Tony squinted against the sudden light, his voice weak and listless.
“I’m starving to death…
Hm?” His eyes swept over the fierce, menacing gang members surrounding them, and the corner of his eye twitched involuntarily.
“Tell me this isn’t a welcome party, right?” Green had knocked him out cold halfway through the trip and shoved him back here, leaving him completely clueless about where they were.
“It will be soon,” Green said, grabbing Tony’s arm and hauling him out without a trace of gentleness.
“Easy, bro!
For the sake of everything we’ve been through together, could you be a little gentler?” Tony stumbled as he found his footing, complaining loudly.
But the moment he caught sight of Kingpin a few meters away, all his complaints died in his throat.
Good news: He seemed to be back in New York.
Bad news: He was back in New York’s most infamous neighborhood, standing in the heart of its biggest crime empire’s lair, facing its overlord.
“Tell me we’re ready to break out of here.” He leaned over and whispered to Green, a last glimmer of hope in his eyes.
Green didn’t answer.
He didn’t even look at him.
He simply shoved Tony forward by the arm while planting a kick firmly on his rear.
“Ow!” Tony yelped, stumbling forward toward Kingpin and Bullseye.
Bullseye reached out and caught him, his grin widening even further.
“Hey there, big boy,” Bullseye purred into Tony’s ear, his voice slick and slimy.
“Don’t worry.
I’ll take real good care of you.” “Uh…
no need to be so enthusiastic.” A chill ran down Tony’s spine, his rear instinctively clenching.
He immediately threw a desperate look toward Green, only to find Green wasn’t even looking at him.
“Then my service is complete,” Green’s voice broke the brief silence.
“You can leave,” Kingpin said, tilting his head slightly.
His eyes flicked over Bullseye before settling back on Green.
Green hadn’t bothered to hide the look in his eyes earlier, and Kingpin had understood it perfectly.
Bullseye had skimmed off the Owl’s payment.
Though he mentally cursed the idiot for picking unnecessary fights, Bullseye was his man, and he had to cover for him.
“Mm.” Hearing what was practically an eviction notice, Green curled his lip and gave a nonchalant nod.
“Fair enough,” he shrugged.
“After all, it’s only eight in the morning.
Aside from money and an authentic Chinese dim sum breakfast, nothing’s gonna stop me from going back to catch some extra sleep.” He turned and walked back to the pickup, but didn’t get in right away.
Reaching inside, he pulled a heavy tactical bag from the back seat and placed it on the driver’s seat.
He unzipped it while reaching into his pocket, pulling out his communicator, and dialing a number.
“Hey!
What do you think you’re doing?!” “Don’t move!
Hands where I can see ’em!” The surrounding gang members tensed up instantly, snapping their guns up to point straight at Green.
Kingpin’s gaze turned instantly lethal, his massive fists subtly clenching.
Even Bullseye, who had been teasing Tony, froze and frowned at Green.
“Aw, look.
Our little bird seems upset.
Calling mommy?” Bullseye sneered, entirely unfazed.
He’d recently gotten some nice upgrades implanted and was looking for an excuse to test out their power.
*What is this lunatic doing now?* Tony’s heart sank, but seeing Green’s calm composure, a sliver of hope secretly flared up inside him.
He subtly flexed his wrist; he still had a taser concealed inside his sleeve.
Green paid no mind to the gun barrels aimed at him.
Yet the more perceptive gang members felt an eerie illusion—as if a massive beast was coiled across his upper body.
*Ring…* It rang only once before connecting.
A steady, calm middle-aged male voice—bearing the effortless composure of a long-time superior—echoed clearly through the hollow warehouse as Green switched to speakerphone.
“I’m glad you called, young man.” “Good morning, Mr.
Edgar.” Green spoke, his gaze fixing on Kingpin’s rapidly darkening face.
A smirk slowly spread across his lips.
“I was wondering…
would you be interested in Tony Stark?” The air in the warehouse instantly froze.
The muscles on Kingpin’s face locked tight, murder surging in his eyes.
He recognized the voice.
That man held power far beyond anything Kingpin could shatter.
When the hell had Green made a connection with *him*?
“…Alive?” The voice on the line paused for half a second.
“Mhm.” “I’ll have my people there immediately.” “Kill him!!” Kingpin roared, pointing a finger at Green as the call disconnected.
“Heh.
Flustered already.”