It was past two in the morning when he returned to Ingram Street.
The street was quiet to the point of feeling surreal—a tidy row of townhouses lined up beneath the streetlights, front lawns neatly manicured, the branches of old oaks swaying gently in the night breeze.
A world apart from that cave in Afghanistan, and a world apart from the electronics shop he had just left.
Leo Vance paused habitually on his own roof, casting a glance toward the Parker house.
On the second floor, Peter’s window was dark—the kid was finally asleep.
On the first floor, Ben’s car sat parked in the driveway, and the porch light beside the front door remained lit.
That was Ben’s habit—leaving a light on before going to bed.
May had once said it was “for anyone coming home late.”
Perhaps for a neighbor, perhaps for someone in his memory who had once returned late.
Everything was normal.
He slipped through his own window, bending his knees slightly to cushion his landing.
After retracting the suit into his system space, he went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water.
Standing by the sink as he drank, he looked down at his right hand—his fingers were perfectly steady, just as they had been before setting out.
Yet his body still remembered the movements: the Pressure Point Striking’s force controlled across three distinct tiers—light, moderate, and heavy—each executed with pinpoint precision.
This was the first time the force-generation techniques of Kryptonian combat had been truly put to use in real combat, and the instinct to anticipate his opponent’s next move was already beginning to weave itself into his muscle memory.
The system hadn’t simply given him power.
It had given him tools, and he was learning how to use them.
Finishing his water, he placed the glass in the sink, walked over to the desk in the living room, sat down, opened his notebook, and turned to today’s date.
Stroke by stroke, he jotted down key details of tonight’s operation: target type, guard count, duration, and the practical efficacy of his martial techniques.
He specifically noted the three tiers of force for the Pressure Point Striking—this had been his first time utilizing all three levels in live combat, and he needed to record the results for future reference.
He also sketched a rough diagram: storefront layout, backyard location, and the orientation of the parked truck.
At the bottom, he added a final note: “Receiving party did not arrive.
Target point likely has a higher-tier contact upstream.
To be tracked.”
On the map, several red lines pointing toward Hell’s Kitchen remained in their original marked positions.
He hadn’t yet found the time to follow up on the cross-district supply chain he had observed at the edge of Queens last time.
Turning back a page, he reviewed the preliminary information recorded about the Hell’s Kitchen lead: industrial zone container numbers, the license plate of that SUV, and the auto repair shop’s address.
He added tonight’s new intel: the stolen goods originated from a supermarket chain’s inventory, and a chain of that scale had at least three locations in Queens and another on the edge of Manhattan—positioned directly toward Hell’s Kitchen.
Picking up his pen at the top of the page, he paused briefly before writing two words:
“To investigate.”
As he closed the notebook, his phone screen on the desk flickered to life.
A new message.
He picked it up and checked the sender—Tony Stark.
Time: 2:11 AM.
Since returning from Afghanistan, he and Tony hadn’t been in direct contact.
Rhodes had handled all the military formalities, and once Tony got back to New York, he had plunged headfirst into company affairs—shutting down the weapons division, clashing with the board, and dealing with Obadiah’s pressure.
He was in the news every single day.
Leo Vance lived his own life in Queens, never initiating contact, and neither did Tony.
Until now.
He opened the message.
Just a single line, no greeting, no context—classic Tony Stark style, diving straight into the middle and omitting all pleasantries.
“So you just plan on never reaching out to me?”
Leo Vance looked at the text and remained silent for a moment.
He leaned back against his chair, fingers hovering over the screen.
Tony had sent this past two in the morning—messaging at this hour meant he was either pulling an all-nighter in his lab or had just returned from some party.
Or both.
He typed a single word: “Busy.”
The reply came back instantly: “Busy with what?”
“Job hunting.”
The other side fell silent for a few seconds.
Then three messages popped up in rapid succession:
“You managed to put together a set of gear in a place like Afghanistan.”
“You got out of that cave faster than I did.”
“And now you’re telling me you’re busy job hunting in New York?”
Leo Vance watched the three messages, his mouth twitching slightly.
He didn’t explain—Tony didn’t need an explanation.
Tony hadn’t sent these to interrogate him; he just wanted to confirm one thing: *Are you still around?*
He typed another line: “How are you holding up?”
This time, the silence lasted longer.
About thirty seconds passed before a message popped up:
“A total mess.
The board wants to kick me out, Obadiah hints every day that I’m ‘immature,’ and Pepper looks at me like I’m a ticking time bomb.
The coffee machine in the lab is broken.”
Pausing a few seconds, another message appeared: “I almost died from one of my own bombs, you know.
In that cave.
Yinsen said if the shrapnel had been two millimeters off, you wouldn’t have even had time to hook up that old reactor.”
Leo Vance didn’t reply with “I know” or “I remember.” He simply typed two words:
“The coffee.”
“Fix the coffee machine first.
Take the rest one thing at a time.”
An even longer silence followed.
Then a single word popped up:
“Fine.”
Followed by another message:
“And you owe me a dinner.
You said it on the way back from Afghanistan—Rhodes heard it.
He said he can testify.”
Leo Vance looked at the message, mentally retracing his steps.
He didn’t recall saying anything about dinner out in the desert, but he doubted Tony remembered either.
Tony was just looking for a reason—to make their next contact feel less like “calling only when there’s trouble.”
“Only after you fix the coffee machine,” he replied.
Tony sent back an emoji: 👍
Leo Vance set his phone down.
Outside the window, the streetlights on Ingram Street swayed gently in the night wind.
Light seeped through the gap in the curtains, casting a thin, constantly quivering band of pale yellow light on the wall.
Across the street, the Parker household was dead quiet, the porch light still glowing.
He closed his eyes, mentally reviewing tonight’s operation from start to finish.
The three levels of force in the Pressure Point Striking—light, moderate, heavy—corresponded to different demands.
He had used them correctly this time.
The force-generation of Kryptonian combat still needed more real battle to fully refine, but the element of “anticipation” was already taking effect.
Next time, he needed to be faster.
Faster in making judgments, faster in shifting force, faster in choosing between pulse strikes and combat techniques.
Speed wasn’t achieved through raw strength, but through decision-making—shortening the window between assessment and execution.
By the time he opened his eyes, the streak of light on the wall had moved to the ceiling.
He stood up and turned off the living room light.
In the dark, a system panel flickered at the edge of his vision.
[Character Completion Rate: 32%]
[Evaluation: Completed first independent reconnaissance and neutralization in New York.
Practical application of the Pressure Point Striking is satisfactory.
Continue.]