Just as he was about to leave, the phone in his pocket rang.
*Ring—Ring—* The piercing ringtone echoed through the street.
Ryan Quinn’s footsteps paused.
His eyelids drooped as he slowly reached into his pocket.
His movements were excruciatingly sluggish, his face maintaining that perpetual look of someone who hadn’t quite woken up—the only change being his eyelids lifting just a fraction.
The blue light of the screen lit up in the darkness, illuminating half his face.
Caller ID: Gwen Stacy.
“Ah…
man…” Ryan Quinn let out a long, drawn-out sigh, his voice trailing off at the end.
There was no one else but Gwen who would call at such an ungodly hour.
He glanced at the time—12:20 AM.
At this hour, a normal person should be a corpse in bed, not answering a phone in a Manhattan alleyway.
If he hadn’t come out for serious business, he’d be a corpse in bed right now, too.
What a pain.
Accepting his fate, he wedged the phone between his ear and shoulder, leaning against the alley wall.
Rain dripped from the eaves, splashing into the puddles at his feet.
His voice was listless.
“Hello…
Gwen.
If you’re calling at this hour, you better have some world-ending news for me.” “It’s me, Alex,” Gwen’s voice came from the other end.
She was deliberately keeping her tone light, but there was a hint of guilt underneath.
“Don’t tell me I woke you up and now you’re super grumpy.” “It’s 12:20 AM.
What do you think?” Ryan Quinn drawled.
It sounded like a pointed remark, but there was no real anger in his tone—just a groggy mumble.
He didn’t even bother to move.
His gaze lazily swept the street—no people, no cars, only a flickering streetlight in the distance that looked like it was about to give up.
Looking at it was tiring.
“Uh…
okay, okay, I apologize.” Gwen’s voice was clearly sheepish now, though it felt a bit performative, likely a setup for whatever she was about to say next.
“I admit, I picked this time on purpose.
You know, some things feel really weird if you say them during the day.
Like late-night TV—the stuff the stations don’t dare broadcast during the day gets saved for this slot.” Ryan Quinn listened to Gwen’s analogy about late-night TV without much of an expression.
The wind blew, sending mist into his face; he squinted slightly but didn’t move.
Gwen’s tone sounded casual, but he could sense a hidden nervousness.
It wasn’t the kind she showed in the face of danger; it was something else—something that felt like a lot of effort to process.
Ah…
such a hassle.
“So…” He scratched the back of his head.
“Are you trying to discuss some late-night TV topics involving sex and violence?
This seems like a bad time for that.” His tone was lazy, making it impossible to tell if he was joking or serious.
That was just how Ryan Quinn was—he said everything in the same monotone, leaving people wondering if he was being earnest or just messing with them.
The other end went silent.
Several seconds passed.
Leaning against the wall, Ryan Quinn could almost imagine Gwen on the other end, stunned into silence—mouth open, eyes wide, probably struggling with how to respond to that.
Kind of interesting.
“Ahem.” Gwen finally found her voice, clearing her throat awkwardly.
“Of course not!
I mean…
the Spring Formal is coming up.
Would you mind being my date?” The Spring Formal.
Ryan Quinn blinked, his reaction lagging by several beats.
He stared at the flickering streetlight across the way for two seconds.
His brain seemed to be trying to switch from combat mode back to daily life mode, but the transition wasn’t smooth; it was stuck somewhere in the middle.
This news was a bit sudden.
His relationship with Gwen—if occasionally meeting in the library, taking midnight phone calls, and walking together for short stretches could be called a relationship—didn’t seem close enough for them to be each other’s dates.
Gwen didn’t lack friends or suitors; she could have asked anyone.
But she had called him, at this ridiculous hour, with this ridiculous tone.
Well…
she probably had her reasons.
But using his brain to analyze that was too much trouble.
“A date, huh…” Ryan Quinn spoke slowly, his voice dripping with the desire to avoid effort.
He was about to follow up—likely with a rejection, considering a formal dance meant wearing a suit, socializing, and standing under spotlights for everyone to see.
Just thinking about it was exhausting.
Rejection lines like “I’d rather stay home and sleep” were already forming in his head.
Then, he lazily lifted his eyelids and glanced toward the other end of the street.
The words caught in his throat.
Someone was walking toward him.
It wasn’t a normal late-night traveler, nor was it one of Kingpin’s low-level thugs.
The footsteps were heavy, splashing into the puddles with a very steady rhythm.
They weren’t hurried, but the sense of pressure was undeniable.
Ryan Quinn’s expression didn’t change much, but his fingers tightened slightly around his phone.
“Hello?
Alex?” Gwen’s voice came through the receiver, sounding confused and a bit annoyed.
“Are you still there?
What I just said—” “I’m here,” Ryan Quinn said.
His voice was still flat, but his speaking speed was a fraction faster than usual.
He didn’t hang up, but he didn’t continue the conversation either.
His eyes were fixed on the approaching figure.
The light from the streetlamp filtered through the rain, slowly sharpening the person’s silhouette.
A blue and white hood, form-fitting tactical armor—the chest plates glinted coldly under the lamp.
The person walked steadily and lightly, every step perfectly on beat.
The person was on a call.
Ryan Quinn saw a communication headset by her ear, and her lips were moving slightly.
The sound was muffled by the rain, but his Blacklight-enhanced hearing still caught a few blurred syllables— “…position…
missing…” Two psychos talking on their phones in the rainy night were about to cross paths.
Ryan Quinn stared at the person, his pupils constricting slightly.
He remembered.
This look—the blue and white hood paired with tactical armor, and the blue light tracing the edge of the goggles.
In the movie he’d seen before crossing over, she was called Taskmaster.
No, her name was Antonia Dreykov.
An assassin raised by the Red Room, with a smart chip implanted in the back of her neck that allowed her to mimic anyone’s combat skills.
And now, this woman was walking toward him.
“…About the date.” Ryan Quinn’s voice returned to its lazy drawl, but his eyes never left the figure.
“I need to think about it.
Now isn’t the time to discuss this.” “Of course it’s not the time to discuss it; it’s 12:21 AM.” Gwen sounded a bit miffed, but with a touch of playfulness.
“I picked this time on purpose so you couldn’t think straight and would just groggily agree to—” “Gwen.” Ryan Quinn’s voice suddenly dropped, only by a fraction.
But that slight change was enough.
Gwen stopped talking immediately.
The other end was silent for two seconds, and then Gwen’s tone shifted.
The forced lightheartedness vanished, replaced by a layer of genuine alertness.
“Are you…
outside?” Ryan Quinn didn’t answer.
The person had reached the mouth of the alley.
He could see more clearly now—her windbreaker pockets were bulging in a shape that looked like a gun.
The goggles beneath the mask had a ring of blue light that was constantly flickering, scanning something.
Ryan Quinn felt a prickling sensation on his skin.
The Blacklight virus hummed lowly within him—she was scanning him.
Body temperature, heart rate, muscle density…
she was scanning everything.
“Alex?” Gwen’s voice rang out again.
“Are you okay?” He should just hang up on Gwen; it was too dangerous.
He thought this, but what he said was: “I’m fine.” He lowered his voice slightly.
“Someone just came looking for me.” “What?
Who?
Where are you right now—” Ryan Quinn pulled the phone away from his ear and glanced at the call interface.
Gwen’s name was still active.
“Talk tomorrow,” he said into the mic, then ended the call.
the person stopped ten meters away.
The rain fell between them, dropping into the puddles on the ground.
Ryan Quinn stuffed the phone back into his pocket and leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, posture incredibly casual.
But the Blacklight virus was already accelerating through his veins, and his muscle fibers were slowly expanding, ready to explode at a moment’s notice.
He tilted his head and looked at the woman, letting out a yawn.
“Ah…
what a hassle,” he mumbled, his voice mostly swallowed by the rain.
“Just finished one fight, and another shows up.
Can’t a guy just go home and sleep at this hour?”