Navigating Manhattan with a tourist map, Luke was quite confused when he couldn't find Stark Tower anywhere. He had actually wanted to visit it as a tourist check-in spot.
He carefully recalled the plot of the movies. 'Wait, Stark Tower didn't exist in Iron Man 1. Its first major appearance was in The Avengers, right?' He distinctly remembered the scene where Tony Stark was working underwater to install the arc reactor that would power the new building.
Disappointed that he couldn't take a selfie at Marvel's most famous landmark, Luke decided to shift his focus. It was time to get some cash and settle down.
After all, the Ancient One had completely used him and tossed him out without giving him a single dime. On top of that, his identity was completely undocumented; he was essentially an illegal alien in the Marvel Universe. If the authorities caught him, they'd likely try to deport him—assuming they even could.
Walking down the street, he pondered how to make money. He had an army of tireless Shadow Ninjas, so his first thought was to get them jobs on construction sites. Manual labor paid decently, right?
But in the end, he dismissed the idea. Having a literal superpower and using it to move bricks felt a bit degrading. More importantly, superpowers on Earth were heavily concealed at this point in the timeline. If he started flaunting an army of shadowy construction workers, he would definitely attract the wrong kind of attention.
(Author's Note: Mutants do not exist in this continuity).
'If honest work is out, what about robbing the gangs in Hell's Kitchen?'
Hell's Kitchen was basically the starter dungeon for half the street-level heroes in Marvel. It was the perfect place to grind reputation, experience points, and, most importantly, cash. So...
Paul frowned as he patrolled the unusually quiet street. The usual crowds were gone, the local thugs who normally hung around shooting the breeze were nowhere to be found, and even his gang boss had strictly ordered everyone to lay low and avoid causing trouble.
All of this was because of a mysterious new faction calling itself the "Shadowkhan" that had recently appeared out of nowhere. They had been systematically raiding gangs all over Hell's Kitchen, completely stripping them of their money.
What was truly bizarre was their MO. They completely ignored the most valuable commodity—drugs—and simply burned it all. They only took cash. They didn't even steal the guns. Because of this, Hell's Kitchen had seen a sudden influx of scavengers creeping around to loot the leftover weapons.
'Shadowkhan, my ass. Probably just another gang of wannabe street vigilantes,' Paul spat on the pavement, his hand resting on the pistol tucked into his jacket.
He didn't care if they were vigilantes or not. If any of them showed their faces, he'd put a bullet in their heads. He refused to believe these guys were unkillable.
He pushed open the heavy steel door to his gang's hideout and stepped inside, only to notice it was far too quiet.
From the shadows directly behind him, a pair of glowing crimson eyes silently flickered open. A flash of cold steel swung toward his neck—
Luke sat on the roof of a nearby building, casually playing a handheld console. He had to thank Marvel's slightly accelerated timeline—even though smartphones weren't everywhere yet, handheld gaming was doing just fine.
Dozens of red eyes rippled within his own shadow, silently reporting back to him. Receiving the confirmation, Luke stood up, pocketed his game, and vanished into the darkness.
Phil Coulson received the alert and arrived at the headquarters of the 'Blood Hands' gang. The perimeter was already taped off with yellow police lines warning people to stay out, though it had clearly been torn open by looters picking the place clean.
Coulson ducked under the tape and walked straight in.
The first thing he saw was a decapitated corpse lying near the entrance. Since no one was going to foot the bill for the cleanup, the body had just been left there. Even the NYPD had only done a cursory sweep before completely abandoning the dangerous neighborhood.
As a top-tier agent, Coulson wasn't bothered by a headless body. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were trained to maintain their appetite even if they were staring at a man ground into minced meat.
He examined the doorway. The victim had clearly just walked into the base when his head was severed from behind by a razor-sharp blade.
Coulson checked the corners of the entrance. There was absolutely no physical space for someone to hide behind the door without being immediately spotted by the victim entering.
'An inside job?' he mused. 'Unlikely. The rest of this guy's "friends" are currently lying dead inside.'
He formulated a theory but reserved his judgment, proceeding deeper into the hideout.
The interior had been completely ransacked, but strangely, not a single bullet casing could be found.
Coulson rubbed his temples. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s intelligence network in Hell's Kitchen was woefully inadequate compared to their coverage elsewhere. By the time they received word of these massacres, it was always too late.
Looking at the carnage, Coulson sighed and began a thorough investigation.
After a while, he managed to piece together a disturbing picture.
All of the gang's narcotics had simply been flushed down the drains. Every single cent of their physical cash had been taken, down to the last penny. It was as if the culprit had some sort of 'money-sensing' superpower, yet was ironically uninterested in the far more lucrative drug stash.
Every single victim had been killed by sharp, bladed weapons in a single strike. Some bodies also bore the distinct puncture wounds of throwing stars, yet the culprit hadn't left a single shuriken or weapon behind.
Based on local inquiries, there had been no loud noises or gunfights during the incident. It was as if every person inside had been executed simultaneously.
But recently, the gangs in Hell's Kitchen had been on high alert, meaning almost all their members were heavily grouped up in their bases. How could a culprit silently assassinate so many people at once? S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn't authorized any special forces operations in the area.
Coulson counted the bodies. There were over a hundred. Most were clustered in large groups, while a few were stationed in highly concealed lookout spots. Yet, based on lividity and body temperature, the time of death for every single person was practically identical—a window of less than an hour.
The more he thought about it, the more his headache grew. To pull this off, the perpetrators would have needed a highly trained strike team of at least fifty men. They would also need X-ray vision to instantly locate all the hidden guards, and the impossible speed to butcher over a hundred armed men in under an hour without a single shot being fired.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Recalling the impossible angle of the first kill at the doorway, Coulson reached a grim conclusion: the culprit was likely enhanced.
While the number of superhumans currently active was incredibly small, S.H.I.E.L.D. was well aware of their existence. But usually, those individuals did everything in their power to hide in the shadows, terrified of being captured and dissected. Whoever this was, they were openly flaunting their power.
Despite having a working theory, Coulson was frustrated. The scene was completely sterile. No strange fingerprints, no foreign footprints, no DNA. Nothing.
As he was trying to figure out how to report this absolute ghost story to Director Fury, a man quietly slipped through the entrance.
Looking at the man's purposeful approach, Coulson wasn't surprised. It was obvious the guy had come specifically looking for him.
"Would you like to know who is responsible for all this?" the man asked.
Deep in the heart of Hell's Kitchen, a massive, imposing figure stood before a floor-to-ceiling window, gazing out over the city blocks below.
Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin, was highly annoyed.
Recently, a new faction calling itself the "Shadowkhan" had abruptly appeared in his territory. They completely ignored the established rules of the criminal underworld, brutally wiping out gang after gang. What baffled him the most was their refusal to take the most valuable goods. They ignored the drugs, completely destroyed them, and only stole the cash—a fraction of the actual value. It was utterly bizarre.
Their methods didn't match any of his usual vigilante headaches. This meant a new player had entered the board. And unlike the masked fools who usually caused trouble, this new enemy was brutally efficient and highly lethal, costing him a significant amount of money in a very short time.
But the authority of the Emperor of the Underworld could not be insulted. The Kingpin had already prepared a "gift" for these interlopers. However, to deliver it, he first needed to uncover their identities.
And when it came to gathering intelligence on the impossible, who was better than that government agency? They were the professionals, after all.
Fisk casually squeezed his massive hand, shattering his tempered glass tumbler into pieces. Brushing the shards off his perfectly unmarred skin, he pulled out a phone.
"Did you pass the information to that... Strategic Homeland... whatever agency?"
Coulson left the gang hideout, his mind racing. He hadn't expected a new player to emerge in Hell's Kitchen so suddenly. Combining this new tip with the evidence he had gathered, Coulson sensed a major operation brewing. He quickly got into his beloved vintage car and sped off to report his findings.
Oblivious to the grand schemes moving against him, Luke returned to his modest apartment, offering polite greetings to his neighbors in the hallway before unlocking his door.
One by one, Shadow Ninjas melted out of the darkness, silently placing stacks of cash and stolen jewelry onto the floor.
Luke moved the loot into a spare bedroom that he was slowly filling with money. He hadn't hit his goal yet. Deep down, he had the soul of a hoarder; watching the pile grow was deeply satisfying.
He had absolutely no idea that his actions had deeply offended the Kingpin, nor did he know that Fisk had intentionally fed clues to S.H.I.E.L.D. just to flush him out. All he knew was that he had just eradicated another gang of scumbags, and he felt incredibly at peace.
'I'm doing a great job,' he praised himself.
When he first started, he hadn't been this ruthless. Initially, he had just ordered his ninjas to knock the gangsters out and steal their money.
But that changed when he raided a gang and found their basement. Inside were dozens of kidnapped women, many of them underage, kept in horrific conditions. In the corners of the room, several bodies had been unceremoniously dumped, swarming with flies and maggots.
The sight had filled Luke with a blind, suffocating rage. He immediately ordered the Shadowkhan to execute every single member of that gang. Since that day, he hadn't left a single survivor in his raids.
He knew his methods were brutal, bordering on a violent anti-hero crusade, but he also knew that some people simply didn't deserve to breathe.
To borrow a famous quote: "Forgiveness is between them and God. It's my job to arrange the meeting."
Adopting that philosophy, Luke had orchestrated the deaths of nearly a thousand gang members in Hell's Kitchen. Naturally, his ninjas did 99.99% of the killing. He had only personally killed one person—a gang leader who, even with a blade at his throat, had dared to threaten Luke and his victims.
And so, a true demon was born in the shadows of Hell's Kitchen.
The demon in question was currently admiring his treasure hoard before picking up his phone to order takeout. The delivery fee was almost as expensive as the meal itself, simply because the driver had to enter Hell's Kitchen.
Thinking back to that horrific basement, he remembered calling the police to handle the victims. However, he had deliberately left several ninjas hidden in the shadows to monitor the situation, ensuring the corrupt cops didn't just sell the girls back to another gang.
It wasn't paranoia; it had actually happened. Once, he had stumbled upon a ledger containing hard evidence against several corrupt NYPD officers. He had anonymously submitted it, only to watch the evidence disappear and the targeted gang receive a warning. Since then, he made sure to personally verify everything.
Opening his System interface, Luke reviewed his progress. After days of relentless grinding, his army had grown to 70 Shadow Ninjas. However, he had finally hit the bottleneck the Ancient One had warned him about. He had completely depleted the starter dimension's crystals, meaning his maximum capacity could no longer increase.
His current status read:
[Luke]
Shadow Ninjas: 70
Crystal Mining Rate: 7 / minute (Capped)
Energy Regeneration: 7 / second
Current Crystals: 71
He hadn't spent those remaining 71 crystals to buy more ninjas. He was deliberately hoarding them as an emergency mana reserve, terrified of being caught in a life-or-death situation without enough energy to fight back.