A shockwave erupted from where their fists collided.
Unable to withstand the horrifying pressure, massive slabs of asphalt buckled and tore upward.
The ground beneath Linus Vance sank half a meter, forming a funnel-shaped crater.
Yet he remained standing, arm raised in that effortless lift.
His right arm didn’t tremble in the slightest, and his jet-black Vibranium suit didn’t show so much as a wrinkle.
Hulk’s fist, the size of a water barrel, was caught firmly in Linus’s single hand.
The wind died down.
Around them, hundreds of fully armed mercenaries and American soldiers held their breath, their breathing dropping to a dead hush.
Linus twisted his wrist, his fingers clamping down like steel vices around Hulk’s rough green knuckles.
“Too light.”
Linus offered the two words casually.
Hulk let out a low growl, swinging his other massive fist in a blur straight for Linus’s temple, the air shrieking under the force of the strike.
Instead of retreating, Linus stepped forward, shattering a flagstone beneath his left foot as he leaned into the thunderous air pressure.
Slipping neatly inside the arc of the punch, he chopped his free left palm like a blade into Hulk’s ribs.
*Bang!*
A dull, thunderous boom echoed, leaving everyone’s eardrums throbbing.
Hulk’s massive ten-foot frame lost its balance.
He stumbled backward over a dozen paces, plowing through three red-brick walls in succession before coming to a halt.
Over the earpiece, Betty’s breathing broke into ragged hitches.
“Linus!
Get away from that beast!”
Linus reached up and pressed the miniature receiver in his right ear.
“Quiet.”
His tone was calm, free of scolding, carrying instead a quiet reassurance.
“Look at this bespoke suit.
Has a single speck of dust touched it?”
In her Manhattan apartment, Betty stared fixedly at the monitor screen.
The man on screen remained elegantly composed, every gesture oozing complete control over the situation.
She bit her lower lip, her fingers slowly loosening their grip on the collar of the white shirt she wore.
The terror clogging her throat was rapidly giving way to an inexplicable, feverish adoration.
This was her man.
Hulk dragged himself up from the rubble, shaking his massive head, driven to absolute fury.
He tore up a snapped utility pole beside him and hurled it like a spear.
Linus casually tilted his head aside.
The thick pole speared into a junked pickup truck behind him, running clean through its sheet-metal bed.
“Game’s over.
First punch.”
Linus pushed off the ball of his foot, transforming into a streak of black lightning.
He materialized directly in front of Hulk, pulling back his right fist with a crackle of popping knuckles, and drove it unadorned straight into Hulk’s abdomen.
A circular shockwave of white vapor blasted out from Hulk’s back.
Hulk’s eyes bulged, a strange gurgle strangled in his throat, and his immense body lifted clear off the ground, doubled over like a shrimp.
“Second punch.”
Linus gave him no room to breathe.
Carrying the momentum of the strike, he launched into the air and brought a heavy high axe kick down onto Hulk’s broad shoulder.
*Crack.*
The sickening sound of fracturing bone echoed through the neighborhood.
Hulk crashed face-first into the ground, his knees driving half-meter-deep pits into the stone pavement.
Aboard the helicopter, General Ross gripped the edge of the open bay door so tightly that blood seeped from beneath his fingernails without him even noticing.
His mind went completely blank.
That was a monster conventional heavy weaponry couldn’t pierce, a terror no crossfire could suppress!
And now a man in a suit was beating it like a punching bag?
The weapons technician swallowed hard, his finger hovering over the fire button.
“Sir!
Should we fire?”
General Ross exploded.
“Get your hand off that button!
If you so much as touch it, I’ll kick you out of this chopper myself!”
If they angered a human with the power of a walking nuclear warhead, this helicopter wouldn’t survive three seconds.
Hulk remained on his knees, straining his arms to push himself up for one last desperate stand.
Linus shoved one hand into his trouser pocket and strolled up in front of him.
Looking down.
“Third punch.
Consider it a breakup gift from me, on behalf of your ex-girlfriend.”
Linus raised his right arm.
It wasn’t a complex martial arts technique, just a plain, straight punch.
Yet backed by the strength of the Perfect-State Hulk, the blow instantly sucked the surrounding air dry.
The fist landed flat on top of Hulk’s head.
There was no sky-shattering explosion—only a heavy, muted hum.
An invisible wave of destructive force poured through Hulk and plunged deep into the earth.
Every pane of glass within a hundred meters shattered simultaneously.
Hulk’s fully inflated muscles instantly deflated, shrinking at a speed visible to the naked eye.
The furious green drained away, reverting to pale human skin.
Within seconds, a stark-naked, emaciated man lay unconscious at the bottom of the cracked crater.
Bruce Banner had been beaten back into his human form.
The entire Rocinha favela fell into a dead silence.
Nothing remained but the howl of the wind over broken stone and the thrum of helicopter rotors in the distance.
The American soldiers holding rifles stood slack-jawed, oblivious to their gun barrels resting in the dirt.
Linus pulled a white plaid handkerchief from his suit pocket.
He unhurriedly wiped his hands, then flicked his wrist.
The handkerchief drifted down, landing neatly over the unconscious Banner’s face.
Without lifting his head, Linus sent his voice ride the wind toward the sky.
“General Ross.”
“I’m leaving the man here.
You can handle the waste sorting.”
General Ross’s throat bobbed, unable to squeeze out a single word.
Ignoring the hundreds of guns trained around him, Linus turned and walked toward the edge of the block.
He tapped his miniature comms unit.
“New York central station, do you copy?”
In the Manhattan apartment, Betty watched the black silhouette walking away on screen, her entire body soaked in sweat.
She raised the microphone, her voice raspy beyond recognition.
“I’m here.”
“Is your red wine decanted?
I’m already on my way to the airport.”
Betty looked down, glancing at the oversized men’s shirt clinging to her frame.
“The wine is on the table.
The bath is drawn.
You can come back whenever you like.”
Linus let out a soft laugh.
He could hear the subtle note of reliance trembling at the end of her sentence.
Without subjecting her to this extreme shock of absolute security, it would have been impossible to wipe away every trace Banner had left behind.
Now, the final lingering threat had been shattered by his own hands.
“Prepare lunch.
And take off that shirt and hang it up—I’m only lending it to you for today.”
…
Over a dozen hours later, John F.
Kennedy International Airport, New York.
Bypassing any potential military eyes, Linus took the private corridor directly to the black Maybach waiting on the tarmac.
Outside the window, Manhattan’s neon lights whirred backward in a blur.
Instead of heading straight back to the apartment, he instructed the driver to detour to an upscale Western restaurant in Brooklyn, picking up a takeout order of Beef Wellington and several side dishes.
After steamrolling a fight, his body wasn’t tired, but he still needed a mundane, ordinary way to reset his senses.
Night deepened.
The private elevator carried him straight to the penthouse apartment.
The doors opened to a quiet hallway.
Linus walked composedly to the front door, food container in hand.
The door wasn’t locked tight, leaving a narrow crack.
A dim, warm yellow glow peeked through the sliver.
He pushed the door open.
The central air conditioning inside was running slightly warm.
The main lights were off; only a floor lamp beside the wine cabinet cast its glow.
The red wine in the decanter exhaled a rich, fruity aroma.
Linus pulled the door shut behind him and set the food container on the kitchen island.
Just as he reached for the buttons of his suit jacket—
A faint sound of bare feet tapping softly against the wooden floor came from behind him.
Before Linus could turn around, a pair of supple, soft arms reached around from behind, wrapping tightly around his waist.
A gentle warmth pressed firmly against his back, seeped through the custom suit fabric and shirt beneath, stubbornly radiating inward.
The air was thick with the fresh scent of body wash, blended with her personal fragrance and the subtle waft of red wine lingering from the decanter.
Linus paused.
He looked down and saw those fair arms tightening around his waist, her slender fingers gripping with a strength that betrayed insecurity and deep reliance.
The sleeves of the oversized men’s white shirt were messily rolled up, exposing her delicate wrists.
“You didn’t do as I said.
You’re still wearing the shirt.”
Her breathing hitched behind him.
Betty pressed her cheek flush against Linus’s back, feeling his steady heartbeat through the fabric, her voice soft as velvet.
“I…
I didn’t have anything else to wear.”