After a full day of classes, Emily finally understood what it meant to fear attention more than danger.
During every break, students kept approaching her.
Some girls asked whether her hair was dyed or natural.
Others wanted to know where she came from, how she studied, why her test scores were so high, and whether she had any social media.
A few boys tried to act charming and asked for her number.
Emily handled all of them with the same cold expression.
If she could answer with one word, she would never use two.
She rejected every attempt at conversation cleanly and directly, leaving no room for misunderstanding.
She did not want friends.
She did not want popularity.
She did not want people remembering her name.
She only wanted to be invisible.
When the final bell rang, Emily packed her bag almost instantly.
She pulled her hood up to hide her white hair and walked out of the classroom as quickly as possible.
Her only plan was simple: leave school, avoid everyone, go to Chinatown, and eat something hot.
“Emily!
Wait a second!”
Peter Parker hurried after her, holding his bag close to his chest.
His face carried the same nervous but sincere smile from the morning.
“I just wanted to say thank you again,” Peter said.
“For what happened with Flash.
Also, if there’s anything you don’t understand—classes, school rules, directions around New York—you can ask me.
I’ve lived here my whole life.”
Emily looked at him silently for two seconds.
Peter meant well.
That was obvious.
But that was exactly why he was dangerous.
Good people attracted trouble in this world.
And Peter Parker attracted the worst kind.
Emily shook her head.
“No need.
Thank you.”
Her tone was polite, but distant.
Before Peter could say another word, she stepped around him and merged into the crowd of students leaving school.
Her hood covered most of her face, and within moments, she disappeared among the bodies moving toward the exit.
Peter stood there helplessly, watching her go.
After a moment, he scratched his head and sighed.
Emily did not look back.
Today had been a close call.
She had crossed paths with Peter Parker, stopped Flash Thompson, and drawn more attention than she wanted.
But at least nothing major had happened.
Her abilities remained hidden.
No one knew what she truly was.
As long as she kept her distance from Peter, everything would be fine.
That was what she told herself.
New York at night was never truly quiet.
Especially near the border between Queens and Manhattan.
Neon light leaked across the streets, painting dirty walls in red and blue, but even that light could not reach the deeper alleys.
Emily sat at her apartment desk, staring at an anonymous email on her laptop screen.
The sender information had been wiped clean.
The message was short.
A company server had crashed.
The core database files were corrupted.
The system needed to be repaired within two hours.
Payment would be made in cash.
Reward: $1,500.
Location: Hell’s Kitchen, an underground room near 10th Avenue.
Emily’s first instinct was to delete it.
Hell’s Kitchen was not a place normal people entered casually.
It was one of the roughest areas in New York, filled with gangs, illegal businesses, dirty deals, and violence.
The police avoided it unless things got truly ugly.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
probably watched the area from a distance, but even they would not bother with every street-level disaster happening there.
Going there for money was stupid.
Dangerous.
Unnecessary.
Emily moved the cursor toward delete.
Then paused.
$1,500.
Cash.
She worked several small jobs a day and barely made two hundred dollars.
This single job was worth almost a week of income.
With that money, she could pay rent, buy better food, prepare emergency funds, and maybe even start planning a way out of New York.
She stared at the number for three full minutes.
Then reality defeated caution.
“No way,” she muttered.
“They’re paying too much.”
Emily typed only two words in reply.
Deal accepted.
She changed quickly.
The white hoodie stayed, but she tucked all of her long hair inside it, leaving only a few pale strands visible.
She put on plain black-framed glasses to soften the impact of her bright blue eyes.
After checking herself in the mirror, she looked less like a strange fantasy character and more like a tired student doing a late part-time job.
Good enough.
She took her wallet, portable computer, and left the apartment.
The subway ride toward Manhattan felt heavier than usual.
A drunk man leaned against the wall, muttering to himself.
A tattooed man in the corner watched everyone with sharp eyes.
The carriage smelled of alcohol, smoke, sweat, and cheap perfume.
Emily stood in the corner, head lowered, presence reduced as much as possible.
When she finally stepped out near Hell’s Kitchen, the difference was immediate.
The streets looked older, dirtier, and more broken.
Walls were covered in graffiti.
Many streetlights were dead.
Only a few bars and late-night shops gave off weak neon light.
Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed, but they never came closer.
Emily followed the address into an alley lined with trash cans and found the place named in the email.
Iron Anchor.
The heavy iron door was half-open.
Loud rock music and the sound of clinking glasses came from inside.
Emily knocked.
The music stopped almost instantly.
A man opened the door.
He was huge, nearly two meters tall, with a skull tattoo on one arm and a bulge at his waist that was almost certainly a gun.
He looked Emily up and down with obvious suspicion.
“You here to fix the server?”
“Yes,” Emily said flatly.
“That was the agreement.”
The man scoffed.
Clearly, he had not expected a girl who looked barely old enough to enter a bar.
Still, he stepped aside.
“Come in.
Don’t look around.
Don’t touch anything.
Fix it, take the money, leave.
Understand?”
Emily did not answer.
She followed him inside.
The bar was full of smoke.
Men in leather jackets sat around with guns either visible or poorly hidden.
Their eyes landed on Emily at once, full of mockery, suspicion, and curiosity.
She ignored all of them.
The large man led her past the bar, down a narrow staircase, and into a damp underground room.
Several server cabinets buzzed against the wall.
A workstation sat nearby, frozen on a blue screen.
Beer cans, cigarette ash, and wires covered the floor.
A bald man with a scar across his face sat in a chair.
He raised an eyebrow when he saw her.
“You’re the tech?”
“Show me the problem,” Emily said.
The scarred man stared at her for a moment, then pointed at the workstation.
Emily set down her portable computer and connected it.
The issue was simpler than expected.
The server had been attacked by a rival hacker.
The main database partition was damaged, and the system had collapsed during the intrusion.
To ordinary technicians, recovering it might take days.
For Emily, it was barely an inconvenience.
She did not use anything too obvious.
No instant miracle.
No impossible display.
Just fast typing, clean commands, and a repair process that looked impressive but believable.
Lines of code rolled across the screen.
The blue screen disappeared.
The workstation restarted.
The database came back.
Total time: forty minutes.
Emily unplugged her cable and turned around.
“It’s fixed.
The database is restored.
I also patched a few firewall vulnerabilities.
You should be harder to hack now.”
The scarred man leaned in, checked the recovered files, and finally looked surprised.
He nodded to one of his men.
The man handed Emily a thick envelope.
She took it, checked the weight, and opened it slightly.
Old bills.
Non-sequential.
The amount felt right.
Good.
Now she only had to leave.
Then—
Bang!
A gunshot exploded from upstairs.
Glass shattered.
Women screamed.
Then heavy gunfire erupted like fireworks in a metal box.
The scarred man’s face changed instantly.
He grabbed a shotgun from under the table and cursed.
“It’s the Vipers!”
Emily froze.
You have to be kidding me.
She had come here to fix a server.
How did that turn into a gang shootout?
Before she could move, the underground room’s door was kicked open.
Bullets tore through the air and slammed into the server cabinet, sending sparks flying everywhere.
The huge man who had opened the door for her jerked violently as blood burst from his chest.
He collapsed near Emily’s feet.
Warm blood splashed across the floor beside her shoes.
Emily’s mind went blank for half a second.
Then survival took over.
She threw herself behind the server cabinet as bullets ripped through the room.
Men shouted.
Guns roared.
Wood splintered.
Concrete broke apart.
The air filled with smoke and the sharp smell of gunpowder.
One thought screamed inside her head.
Run.
Run now.
A bullet shot past her ear and struck the metal cabinet behind her with a harsh screech.
At that instant, something inside Emily’s mind activated.
A pale blue holographic interface unfolded before her eyes.
Cold.
Precise.
Mechanical.
Data streams flashed rapidly across her vision.
The chaos of bullets, muzzle flashes, and shouting suddenly transformed into numbers, paths, and calculated danger zones.
Fire Control Radar activated.
Scanning range: 500 meters.
Targets identified: 17 firearms.
Ballistic calculation complete.
Danger zones marked.
Emily stared.
The world changed.
Every gun in the room was outlined in red.
Every bullet dragged a pale blue predicted path behind it.
Impact points appeared before the bullets even landed.
Shooting angles, reload timing, damage range, and safe gaps were all displayed clearly in front of her.
For a moment, she forgot to breathe.
Fire Control Radar?
Ballistic prediction?
This was not something Navigator TB should have.
TB was supposed to be a tactical assistant.
A support intelligence.
A system meant for fleet management, data analysis, and command assistance.
This kind of combat calculation belonged to warships.
Or worse—
Siren combat units.
But there was no time to think.
A rifle round was about to penetrate the cabinet she was hiding behind in three seconds.
The interface marked a safe route.
Emily moved.
She ducked low, pushed off the floor, and rushed to the side.
One second later, the bullet tore through the cabinet exactly where her body had been.
Concrete exploded behind her.
Emily landed behind a support pillar, breathing hard.
The prediction had been perfect.
Not close.
Perfect.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, but now it was not only fear.
There was something else.
Familiarity.
The system felt natural, as if it had always been part of her.
She could understand every number instantly.
Every route.
Every danger.
Every opening.
Using a naval-level fire control system to dodge gang bullets was ridiculous.
But it worked.
Emily scanned the room.
Both gangs were too busy shooting each other to notice her.
The fire exit was less than ten meters away, but the path was blocked by crossfire.
To normal eyes, it was impossible.
To her new interface, the crossfire was full of tiny, temporary safe gaps.
Emily took a slow breath.
You fight your war.
I’m leaving.
The moment two shooters began reloading, she moved.
Emily dashed through the gunfire.
Bullets crossed around her like deadly rain.
She stepped left, ducked right, turned her shoulder, and slipped through gaps that should not have existed.
Every impact point appeared before her eyes.
Every dangerous angle was avoided by inches.
Not a single bullet touched her.
As she passed the bar, she saw an open cash box on the counter.
Stacks of bills sat inside.
Emily’s hand moved before her conscience could object.
She grabbed the two thickest stacks and stuffed them into her hoodie pocket.
Mental damage compensation.
Completely reasonable.
She had come to fix a server and nearly died.
A little extra payment was only fair.
Without slowing down, she reached the fire exit, threw it open, and rushed inside.
The moment the door shut behind her, she locked the electronic mechanism with a thought.
It was the only direct use of her electronic control ability that night.
But survival came first.
The fire escape was pitch black, but Emily’s vision adjusted automatically.
She ran down the stairs, burst into the back alley, and kept going.
She did not stop after one street.
Or two.
Only after reaching a main road three blocks away, where there were lights, cars, and normal pedestrians, did she finally slow down.
She leaned against a wall, gasping.
The gunfire was gone.
The night wind touched her face, cold enough to make her realize her back was soaked in sweat.
Emily adjusted her glasses.
The blue interface vanished.
The Fire Control Radar shut down.
The world returned to normal.
On the subway back to Queens, Emily sat in the corner with her head down.
Her hand kept touching the cash hidden in her hoodie pocket.
The original $1,500, plus the money she had taken from the bar, added up to more than four thousand dollars.
It was more than she could earn in half a month.
But she did not feel happy.
Only confused.
And uneasy.
Because something was wrong.
Navigator TB should not have a combat-grade Fire Control Radar.
She was supposed to be a support intelligence, not a battlefield machine.
Fleet scheduling, information processing, tactical assistance—those made sense.
But ballistic prediction?
Real-time firearm analysis?
Combat movement optimization?
That was not normal.
Emily frowned and searched through every memory she had of TB’s abilities, but none of it explained what had happened.
She quietly activated the interface again.
A pale blue display unfolded in front of her.
Every electronic device within range appeared.
Every moving target was marked.
Every object with potential danger received a silent label.
Not an illusion.
It was real.
Emily stared at the strange Siren-style code on the interface.
For the first time since arriving in this world, doubt settled heavily in her chest.
Maybe she had been wrong from the beginning.
Maybe she had not become Navigator TB.
Maybe she had become something else.
Something closer to a Siren.
The subway announcement interrupted her thoughts.
Emily closed the interface and lowered her head.
No matter what it was, it had saved her life tonight.
For now, that was enough.
But one thing was certain.
She was never taking another job in Hell’s Kitchen again.
Not for four figures.
Not for five.
Money mattered.
But staying alive mattered more.
Emily pulled her hood lower, clutched the heavy cash, stepped out of the subway station, and disappeared once again into the night of Queens.
Behind her, the station cameras flickered.
Every trace of her return was wiped clean.
As if she had never been there at all.
l’ve Become a Siren and Wandered Into the Marvel Universe?!
Comment it and let me know.