Meanwhile, Leon Carter drove home with several shopping bags piled beside him.
A piece of chocolate was clenched between his teeth.
For some reason, chocolate had smelled incredibly good today.
Earlier, while passing a candy store, Leon had caught the scent drifting through the open door and immediately stopped.
Normally, he liked chocolate well enough, but he’d never had any particular obsession with it.
Today was different.
The smell had been almost irresistible.
So he’d gone inside.
And somehow walked back out carrying an entire bag filled with different kinds of chocolate.
Crunch.
Leon finished the last piece and tossed the empty wrapper into the trash as he entered the house.
“Spider-Man…” He still couldn’t quite believe he’d actually met him.
Leon had already realized that there was something unusual about this world.
Over the years, he’d occasionally seen reports and heard stories that simply didn’t fit the ordinary world he’d known in his previous life.
Spider-Man made things considerably clearer.
Back at the orphanage in his previous life, plenty of the younger kids had loved superheroes.
Spider-Man had been particularly popular with them.
That childhood familiarity was the only reason Leon had recognized him.
Which meant…
This was apparently a world where characters he’d once considered fictional actually existed.
Unfortunately, Leon had never been interested in superhero comics or movies himself.
His knowledge was painfully shallow.
Spider-Man existed.
That was about it.
If he’d known he would someday wake up in a world filled with comic-book characters, he would’ve spent hours interrogating those kids about every superhero and villain they knew.
Instead, whenever they’d enthusiastically tried explaining superhero stories to him, he’d usually smiled, nodded, and returned to whatever he was doing.
Leon sighed.
“Little late to regret it now.” Knowing that fictional characters existed in this world didn’t automatically mean he knew what was going to happen.
He couldn’t predict the future.
He didn’t know secret identities beyond the few he’d happened to hear about.
He didn’t know which stories were relevant or whether this world even followed the same events those children had described.
There wasn’t much point obsessing over information he didn’t have.
Leon unlocked the door.
“I’ll just live my own life.” People like Spider-Man seemed far removed from the ordinary future Leon wanted.
He had Ben.
He was healthy.
He was starting college.
The pizzeria was doing well.
For someone who had spent his entire first life wondering how many years—or months—he had left, that was already more than enough.
Leon pushed the superhero question out of his mind and went inside.
The days passed.
A week before summer vacation ended, Ben finally returned Leon’s motorcycle keys.
Leon had rarely looked happier.
He immediately took the bike out and spent half the day riding around the city.
When Ben found out, he came dangerously close to confiscating the keys again.
Fortunately, Leon somehow talked his way out of it.
Mostly.
With his motorcycle privileges restored, he also started helping with deliveries whenever Old York’s Pizzeria became too busy.
The restaurant had only grown more popular, and the lunch and dinner rushes could overwhelm the regular delivery staff.
One afternoon, Leon looked through the waiting orders and selected several addresses he knew particularly well.
If he used the shortcuts he’d discovered, he could finish the entire route quickly.
Ben watched him load the insulated box.
“Don’t overload it.” “I know.” “I’m serious.” “So am I.” Ben opened the box himself and checked.
Leon stared at him.
“You don’t trust me at all, do you?” “No.” The answer came instantly.
Ben shut the box.
“And don’t speed.” “Yes, Dad.” Ben narrowed his eyes.
Leon put his helmet on before another lecture could begin.
“I’m leaving.” Less than half an hour later, nearly every order had been delivered.
Only one remained.
Unfortunately, it was considerably farther away than the others.
Leon stopped at an intersection and checked the address on the delivery slip.
“Let’s see…” He frowned.
“30 East 15th Street?” Leon looked at the paper again.
“That’s pretty far.” He scratched the side of his helmet.
“When did we start delivering all the way out there?” It was unusual for Old York’s Pizzeria to accept an order from that distance.
Maybe someone at the restaurant had overlooked the address.
Whatever.
The order had already been accepted, and the customer was waiting.
Pizza didn’t improve by sitting inside an insulated box forever.
Leon studied the surrounding streets for a moment, mentally calculated the quickest route, then accelerated toward his destination.
At 30 East 15th Street, someone was having a considerably worse afternoon.
A man lay on the living-room floor with his wrists and ankles bound.
His face had been beaten almost beyond recognition.
Both eyes were swollen.
Blood coated his mouth and nose.
His entire head had puffed up from repeated blows.
Several men stood around him.
Only one was seated.
He was large, bald, and powerfully built, with the cold expression of someone for whom violence wasn’t a last resort but a favorite pastime.
Dry blood covered his fists.
The source of the prisoner’s injuries wasn’t difficult to guess.
The bald man leaned back in his chair and looked down.
“Joey Baker.” The man on the floor immediately began trembling.
“My old friend.” Harvey Harmon spoke almost conversationally.
“You’re still going to lie to me?” Joey’s swollen face twisted with panic.
“Harvey, boss, there’s been a mistake!” His words came out thick and uneven through his injured mouth.
“I swear!
There’s some kind of misunderstanding!” He struggled uselessly against the restraints.
“I would never betray the Bloodhound Syndicate.
Never!
I’ve always been loyal!” Harvey dug a pinky into his ear.
He looked bored.
Then, without warning, he raised one foot and brought his polished shoe down on Joey’s bound hands.
“AAAGH!” A sharp crack echoed through the room.
Harvey ground his heel down.
Bones gave way beneath it.
Joey screamed until his voice broke.
Only then did Harvey lean forward.
“If my brother hadn’t specifically told me to make sure you understood exactly why you were dying…” His stare was completely devoid of sympathy.
“I would’ve snapped your neck half an hour ago, you miserable piece of shit.” Joey whimpered.
Harvey removed his foot.
“The Bloodhound Syndicate gave you everything you wanted.” He began counting casually.
“Money.” Another finger.
“Women.” Another.
“Drugs.” Harvey shrugged.
“We don’t care what you do with any of it.” His expression hardened.
“But there’s one rule.” He bent closer.
“You don’t betray us.” Joey’s breathing became ragged.
“You were told that the day you joined.” Harvey reached inside his suit jacket.
“So stop begging.” He pulled out a small digital recorder.
“You knew the rules before you broke them.” Click.
Harvey pressed the button.
A recorded conversation began playing.
Joey went still.
His face drained of what little color remained.
There was no mistaking the voices.
One belonged to Joey.
The others belonged to members of a rival organization.
Joey had sold confidential information about the Bloodhound Syndicate for a substantial amount of money.
It had probably seemed like an excellent deal at the time.
Unfortunately for him, the Syndicate had discovered the betrayal before he ever had the chance to enjoy his new fortune.
Harvey watched Joey’s expression collapse.
No more excuses came.
No more declarations of innocence.
There wasn’t much left to argue about.
Harvey switched off the recorder and slipped it back into his jacket.
Then he rolled up his sleeves.
Joey’s eyes widened.
“Harvey—” The first punch landed.
“Please—!” Another.
Then another.
Harvey didn’t stop.
Joey’s screams filled the house once again.
Fists slammed into flesh.
Blood splattered across the floor.
Joey’s cries grew weaker with every blow.
Eventually, they became little more than wet groans.
Then even those stopped.
Harvey struck him several more times before finally standing upright.
Joey Baker no longer moved.
What remained on the floor barely resembled the man he’d been.
Harvey breathed heavily through his nose.
“Whew…” He wiped the blood from his hands with part of his jacket.
Then he looked at the men around him.
“Clean everything.” His voice was calm again.
“Get the gasoline ready too.” He glanced down at Joey’s corpse.
“This house burns tonight.” His men immediately went to work.
Harvey pulled a cigar from his pocket, clipped it, and lit it.
Smoke curled around his face.
He inhaled deeply.
A satisfied look entered his eyes.
Harvey knew exactly what he was.
His older brother was the intelligent one.
The planner.
The man who could build an organization and keep dozens of moving pieces under control.
Harvey had never pretended to possess the same kind of mind.
He didn’t need to.
His brother needed a weapon.
Harvey was perfectly happy being the sharpest blade in his hand.
Besides, violence came naturally to him.
He loved fighting.
The impact of flesh against flesh.
The warmth of blood.
Most of all, he loved feeling another person’s life slowly disappear beneath his hands.
Harvey leaned back, savoring the cigar as his men began erasing every trace of what had happened.
Then— Ding-dong.
The doorbell rang.
Every person in the room froze.
For one strange second, the house became completely silent.
Harvey slowly lowered his cigar.
His men looked toward the front door.
Ding-dong.
Someone was outside.
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