The afternoon sunlight slanted through the glass doors of Dragon Pavilion, casting long spots of light across the floor.
Shaun Vance stood behind the counter in the open kitchen, holding a Chinese chef’s knife and scoring crosshatch patterns into chicken breasts.
The rhythm of the blade striking the cutting board was steady, the intervals between each thud almost identical.
The wind chimes above the door chimed.
Shaun didn’t look up.
“A rare guest, Counselor.
Didn’t bring Karen with you today?”
Matt Murdock stood at the entrance leaning on his blind cane, his dark grey suit neatly ironed, sunglasses obscuring his eyes.
He tilted his head slightly, as if “looking” in Shaun’s direction.
“I’m here to see you, Mr.
Vance.”
His voice was flat, devoid of emotion.
Shaun set down the knife, turned to open the double-door refrigerator behind him, and took out two glass bottles of Coca-Cola.
With a flick of his thumb against the edge of a bottle cap, there was a soft pop, and the cap flew into the trash can.
He held out one bottle to Matt.
Matt didn’t take it.
Shaun shrugged and took a swig himself.
“Standing around talking is exhausting.
Have a seat?”
“No need.”
Matt took two steps forward, the tap of his cane on the floor faint:
“The power Kingpin showed last night…
went far beyond his past physical capabilities.
He could withstand my ten-times gravity suppression, and his skin hardened enough to deflect blunt attacks.”
He paused for a second, lowering his voice further.
“You sold him a Devil Fruit, didn’t you?”
Shaun took another gulp of Coke and set the bottle on the counter.
“Yes,” he replied candidly.
“Zoan-type Bear-Bear Fruit, Koala Model.
One hundred million US dollars, cash.”
Matt’s fingers tightened around his cane.
“You know what kind of man he is!
Half of Hell’s Kitchen’s drugs, weapons, and human trafficking pass through his hands!
And now that he has this kind of power…”
“…he’ll be even harder to catch.”
Shaun interrupted him, his tone calm:
“Matt, I run a restaurant.
Someone walks through the door, orders a meal, and pays—I provide the service.
Whether he’s a mob boss or a philanthropist…
what does that have to do with me?”
“You’re an accessory to crime!” Matt took a step forward, thumping his cane heavily against the floor.
“You’re handing a weapon to a murderer!”
Shaun chuckled.
There was a faint trace of irony in his laugh, subtle but clear.
“Then how many civilians were killed by the missiles the United States military sold to the Middle East?
How many terrorist organizations received weapons manufactured by Stark Industries before they shut down their arms division?”
He walked up to Matt, standing less than a meter away.
“Go to Washington then.
Get Congress to pass a law banning the arms trade.
If you succeed, I’ll close up shop immediately.”
Matt opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“You’re a lawyer.”
Shaun pressed his advantage, his voice remaining smooth and composed:
“You should understand ‘procedural justice’ best of all.
I haven’t broken any laws.
New York State commercial law, Federal trade regulations—which one says ‘it is illegal to sell food to individuals with a criminal record’?
Kingpin’s rap sheet?
He hasn’t been convicted yet, Counselor.”
He patted Matt on the shoulder.
Matt’s body stiffened slightly.
“Instead of standing here accusing me, why don’t you figure out how to put Kingpin behind bars?
How far along are you in developing your Press-Press Fruit abilities?
How long can you maintain your gravity field?
Can you locally distort spatial structures?”
Matt fell silent.
A faint pink glow shimmered at the tips of Shaun’s right fingers, subtle yet visible in the afternoon light.
“ROOM: Scan.”
An invisible domain instantly expanded and retracted, taking less than half a second.
“Fractured ribs haven’t fully healed, slight internal bruising…” Shaun shook his head.
“You took quite a beating last night.”
He raised his hand again, and the pink halo enveloped Matt’s chest.
Three seconds.
The halo dispersed.
“All set.”
Shaun turned back, picked up his knife, and resumed cutting.
“If you get hurt in the future, you can come to me for free treatment.
Consider it my donation of medical supplies to the ‘vigilante cause.'”
Matt stood on the spot and reached up to touch his chest.
Indeed, the dull ache and the sharp pain when breathing had vanished.
The hidden injury left behind by Kingpin’s punch last night was completely healed.
His expression was complex.
His lips twitched, and ultimately he uttered two words under his breath:
“…Thank you.”
“Take care.”
Shaun didn’t turn his head.
“Remember to train your abilities.
It’s said that gravity awakening can pull down meteors to crash into the earth…
A bit exaggerated perhaps, but still better than where you are now.”
The tapping sound of the blind cane gradually faded into the distance.
The glass doors opened and closed, and the wind chimes jingled once more.
Shaun cut the last piece of diced chicken, set down his knife, picked up the half-empty Coke bottle on the counter, and slowly drained it.
He looked out at the street outside.
Matt’s figure had already vanished around the corner.
The corner of Shaun’s mouth curled into a faint smirk.
“Look at that.
I sold him out, and he still has to say thank you.”
Jessica poked her head out from the storeroom and asked cautiously, “Boss…
did you guys get into a fight?”
“Just a difference in philosophy.” Shaun turned on the faucet to rinse the chef’s knife.
“Tidy up.
We have quite a few reservations tonight.”
“Oh…” Jessica pulled her head back, but popped out again a few seconds later.
“Um…
Attorney Murdock…
he’s actually a pretty good guy.”
“I know.”
The water rushed out with a splash.
Just then, Shaun’s phone on the bar counter rang.
Caller ID: Tony Stark.
Shaun dried his hands, walked over, answered it, and turned on the speakerphone.
“Shaun!
What are you busy with?”
Tony’s voice blasted through the speaker, accompanied by background noises of sizzling welding sounds and the whirring of moving mechanical arms.
“Prepping ingredients for your future dinners.” Shaun picked up a green bell pepper and started de-seeding it.
“What’s up, busy man?”
“The ‘Stark Industries Racing Team’ I’m sponsoring is making its debut at the Monaco F1 Grand Prix next week!
Private jet, penthouse suite at the Monte Carlo Hotel, trackside VIP box…
Interested in being a tourist for a few days?
Everything’s on my dime!”
The knife in Shaun’s hand paused for a second.
Monaco Grand Prix.
Iron Man 2.
Whiplash’s first appearance.
Ivan Vanko, the genius villain who could go head-to-head with Tony in technology.
He resumed slicing the green peppers, his tone nonchalant:
“Monaco, huh…
Sunshine, beaches, rich folks, racing cars.
Sounds a lot more interesting than New York’s grease and smoke.
Sure, when are we leaving?”
“In three days!
Pepper’s coming too.
It’ll give her a chance to take a vacation, though she’ll probably still be holding video conferences while looking at the ocean view.”
“Can I bring Carl?”
“Of course!
The more beauties, the better!”
Tony laughed heartily.
“Oh, right, what about that little blonde waitress at your shop?
Bring her along too, let her see the world.”
Shaun looked toward the storeroom.
Jessica had already been listening with perked ears.
Now her eyes were wide, pointing at herself and mouthing, “Me?
I can go?”
“Did you hear that?” Shaun said to her.
“The big tycoon is picking up the tab.”
“Really?!”
Jessica vaulted directly over the second-floor railing, landing with a heavy thud, but she couldn’t care less.
“Monaco?!
F1?!
I get to go?!”
Tony shouted over the phone, “Get your tickets and passports ready!
See you at the airport in three days!”
The call ended.
Jessica spun around in the empty restaurant, then darted in front of Shaun, her eyes shining bright like two light bulbs:
“Boss!
You’re the best boss in the whole wide world!”
“Alright, alright.” Shaun waved his hand.
“Work hard.
There’ll be plenty more team-building trips like this in the future.”
“Yes, Boss!”
…
Moscow.
Evening.
The temperature was fifteen degrees below zero, and the biting wind cut like knives across the dilapidated industrial district.
Ivan Vanko pushed open a creaking iron door and stepped into an unheated apartment.
The room was less than twenty square meters, packed with all kinds of electronic components:
Car batteries, secondhand circuit boards, exposed copper wires, and soldering tools.
The air was thick with the scent of rosin and the acrid stench of scorched metal.
The small television on the desk was broadcasting CNN International News.
On the screen, Tony Stark stood at a press conference podium wearing an impeccably tailored suit, sporting a bold, confident smile.
The headline was in English, but Ivan could understand it:
“Iron Man Announces Clean Energy Initiative; Stark Industries Stock Soars.”
Ivan stared at the screen, his breathing growing progressively heavier.
He gripped a rusty wrench in his hand, his knuckles turning white.
Suddenly—
Clang!
The wrench slammed onto the desktop, causing a pile of resistors and capacitors to bounce into the air.
Ivan breathed heavily, turning around to grab the items leaning against the wall.
Two long metal whips.
The bodies of the whips were modified from thick cables wrapped in low-grade insulation, with exposed high-voltage arc generators attached to the ends.
Crudely welded to the handles were overload circuits and car battery connectors.
Crude, dangerous, but functional.
Ivan grabbed the handles and pressed the switch.
Bzzzt—!
Blue and white electric arcs flickered along the length of the whips, illuminating his stubble-covered face and dark, brooding eyes.
“Tony Stark…”
He growled in Russian, his voice raspy.
“Your father stole everything from my father!
Honor, wealth, future!
And now you play savior before the whole world?!”
On TV, Tony was saying into the camera, “We are going to completely revolutionize the energy industry…”
“Revolutionize?” Ivan scoffed.
“With stolen technology?”
He lashed the whip forward!
Crack—BOOM!
The whip struck the TV, the high-voltage arc piercing straight through the screen instantly.
The explosion wasn’t loud, but debris and electric sparks scattered across the floor.
The room plunged into darkness, save for the crackling electric arcs on the whips that reflected Ivan’s twisted expression.
He panted a few times and slowly calmed down.
Walking over to the bed, he fished an old pocket watch from under the pillow.
The cover popped open, revealing a black-and-white photograph inside.
Two young men stood shoulder to shoulder in white lab coats, with a laboratory in the background.
The one on the left had a bright smile—Howard Stark.
The one on the right had a grim expression—Anton Vanko, Ivan’s father.
On the back of the photo were faded fountain pen words: 1947, Strategic Scientific Reserve.
“Time to pay the debt…” Ivan stroked the photo, his voice low.
“Thief.”
He closed the pocket watch and began packing his belongings.
The crude arc reactor he built by hand went into an inner pocket.
The two electric whips were disassembled into components and packed into a worn black briefcase.
Finally, he pulled an iron box from under the bed, containing a stack of crumpled Euros.
The last of his assets, obtained from selling this apartment.
He counted them: eight thousand six hundred Euros.
Enough.
Ivan put on his heaviest coat, picked up the briefcase, and walked to the door.
He cast one last look back at the room he had lived in for forty years:
The frost-covered window, the corners piled with scrap metal, the math formulas scribbled by his father on the wall.
No nostalgia.
He opened the door, and cold wind rushed inside.
At the end of the hallway, a thin man wrapped in a leather coat was waiting.
“Ticket.”
The thin man handed over a filthy slip of paper.
“Tomorrow night, Black Sea port, cargo ship Polaris.
Once we reach southern France, near Monaco waters, a small boat will drop you off.
If you get caught, you’re on your own.”
Ivan took the ticket and stuffed it into his coat pocket.
“They won’t catch me,” Ivan said, his voice cold.
“I will…
make an entrance.”
The thin man shrugged, turned, and disappeared around the stairwell corner.
Ivan walked down the stairs holding his briefcase, every step heavy and firm.
An echo of a news broadcast came from a TV in the stairwell:
“…Stark Industries CEO Tony Stark has confirmed he will personally attend the Monaco Grand Prix to support the team he sponsors…”
The corner of Ivan’s mouth holding a toothpick curled into a cold smirk.
Wait for me, Tony.
See you on the track.