The sky was pitch black.
The rooftops of Queens receded beneath his feet as Ryan Quinn let out a long yawn.
He had been leaping across the city for over ten minutes, heading west from the edge of Queens, crossing the East River, and entering Manhattan.
He didn’t actually need to be in such a hurry.
The infected thugs weren’t going anywhere—they didn’t even know they were infected.
But if he didn’t deal with it tonight, he’d just have to come back tomorrow, or the day after.
The longer he dragged it out, the more troublesome it would become.
And he hated trouble.
The night wind whipped into his hood.
Ryan Quinn squinted, feeling a familiar wave of lethargy.
He wasn’t actually tired.
The Blacklight virus had pushed his physical functions far beyond human limits; he could go three days without sleep and be perfectly fine.
But his brain was hardwired for drowsiness.
It had been like this even before he crossed over—sleepy in class, sleepy after class, sleepy even while walking.
If he could lie down, he’d never sit; if he could nap, he’d never stay awake.
The “Ge You Slouch” was the ultimate tribute to his lifestyle.
Unfortunately, crossing into a new world hadn’t cured him of that habit.
He stopped at the edge of a four-story apartment building in Hell’s Kitchen, crouching down and resting his chin on his hand to look below.
Dark alleys.
Graffiti.
He could smell the stench of urine even from this distance.
What a pain.
According to Thompson’s memories, the mugging happened in the alley right down there—sandwiched between an abandoned auto repair shop and a 24-hour laundromat.
Those three thugs had stabbed Thompson, getting his blood on them, which meant there was a high probability they were now infected with the Blacklight virus.
If left unchecked, the virus might enter its active phase by tomorrow or next week, triggering an outbreak of Infected in Hell’s Kitchen.
Then SHIELD would get involved, the military would step in, and all of New York would turn into a chaotic mess.
He just wanted to live a quiet life; he didn’t want to be dragged into that level of trouble.
So, he was here to confirm.
If there was a problem, he’d solve it.
If it hadn’t spread, he’d go back to sleep.
Ryan Quinn dropped from the roof.
He didn’t control his strength well upon landing, and a crack spiderwebbed through the concrete beneath his feet.
He looked down at the crack and yawned again.
His strength was still growing lately, making it increasingly difficult to manage.
He’d have to train for fine control later—just thinking about it was exhausting.
Standing in the center of the alley, he closed his eyes and let his senses expand.
The heartbeat and body temperature of every living being within hundreds of meters, along with the composition of their blood, surfaced in his consciousness.
At the end of the alley, inside the abandoned repair shop: three people.
Body temperatures slightly high, heart rates elevated, Blacklight virus concentration in the blood—present, but not severe.
Incubation period.
The virus was dozing.
It hadn’t spread yet.
“Whew.” Ryan Quinn exhaled, shoved his hands into his pockets, and strolled toward the repair shop.
The roller shutter was heavily rusted, with a gap at the bottom just big enough for a person to crawl through.
Ryan Quinn didn’t crawl.
Crawling down meant he’d have to stand back up, and that was too much work.
He pulled his right hand from his pocket and pressed it casually against the shutter.
Black tendrils emerged lazily from his palm, snaking into the lock cylinder with a half-hearted effort.
The roller shutter let out a piercing screech as the entire door was ripped from its tracks and slammed into the ground with a heavy thud.
Dust filled the air.
Ryan Quinn sneezed in the middle of the dust cloud, rubbed his nose, and walked inside.
Three men were sitting in the repair shop.
A bald, burly man sat on a sofa drinking beer.
A tall, thin man leaned in a corner, filing his nails.
A third man stood by the coffee table, a joint in his hand, bringing it to his lips.
All three froze simultaneously.
A late-night talk show was playing on the TV with the volume turned low.
Beer bottles and cigarette butts were scattered across the coffee table next to a deck of cards.
The smell of marijuana in the air masked the scent of sweat, underpinned by the sour stench of expired pizza.
Ryan Quinn stood at the entrance, his hood pulled low and hands in his pockets.
He swept a glance over the three of them, barely bothering to lift his eyelids.
Cleaning up trash was a hassle.
But not cleaning it up would be even worse.
“Who the hell are you?” The bald man stood up, slamming his beer bottle onto the coffee table.
His six-foot-three frame blocked half the view.
Ryan Quinn thought for a moment but couldn’t think of anything worth saying.
So, he stayed silent.
“I’m talking to you, bastard!” The bald man clenched his fists, his knuckles cracking.
Ryan Quinn finally spoke.
His voice was flat, with a slight drawl at the end.
“Ah…
three days ago, you guys mugged a high schooler around here, remember?” The expressions of the three changed.
They became guarded.
“That idiot is one of yours?” The bald man sneered, taking a step forward.
“Here to get revenge for him?
With that scrawny body of yours?” Ryan Quinn tilted his head, as if considering whether that idiot counted as “one of his.” Thompson?
Forget it.
“You stabbed him,” he said plainly.
“And?” The bald man spread his hands, grinning wickedly.
“So we have to buy him a new school uniform?
Kid, do you have any idea whose people we are?” Ryan Quinn knew.
His senses had told him long ago—excessive muscle density and identical black crown tattoos on their arms.
Kingpin’s men.
But explaining that was too much trouble.
“Kingpin’s lackeys,” he said, his tone airy.
The repair shop went silent for a second.
The bald man’s sneer vanished.
He pulled a switchblade from his waist, his voice dropping low.
“You know too much.
But you don’t know enough.
If you know who we work for, you should also know—nobody who crosses us leaves Hell’s Kitchen standing.” Then he moved.
A direct stab toward Ryan Quinn’s abdomen.
To be fair, he was pretty fast.
For an ordinary person, he’d be considered a pro.
Kingpin certainly had a system for training his men.
Ryan Quinn watched him rush over and sighed inwardly.
This really is a hassle.
He stepped to the side, and the blade grazed his jacket, leaving a slit in the fabric.
His clothes were ruined.
He’d have to buy new ones now.
Even more trouble.
His right elbow followed through, slamming into the bald man’s ribs.
He didn’t control his strength well; the sound of bone shattering was both crisp and dull.
The bald man’s body tilted to the side, but he didn’t fall, grabbing Ryan Quinn’s wrist with his left hand.
“Now!” the bald man roared.
The tall, thin guy charged from the side, a knife slashing toward Ryan Quinn’s throat.
The tattooed man approached from behind, swinging an iron pipe at the back of his head.
Ryan Quinn didn’t dodge.
Black biomass automatically surged from the surface of his skin, forming a thin, hard shell over his neck and the back of his head.
The tall guy’s knife snapped in two, and the tattooed man’s pipe bent.
The bald man felt the mass of black substance in his palm squirming.
It was warm.
It was alive.
“What the—” He didn’t finish.
Ryan Quinn’s right hand pulled out from the bald man’s grip with sheer, overwhelming force, snapping several of the man’s fingers.
The bald man opened his mouth to scream, but Ryan Quinn’s left hand was already clamped over his face.
Black tendrils emerged lazily from his palm, burrowing into the man’s eye sockets, nostrils, and the corners of his mouth.
The consumption began.
The bald man’s body vanished completely within three seconds.
No blood, no residue, not even his clothes remained.
Once the consumption was finished, Ryan Quinn withdrew his left hand and let out a small burp.
Most of the things in the bald man’s memory were trash.
Street brawls, collecting protection money, sleeping with a woman he shouldn’t have in a bar.
But beneath the trash was a bit of useful information—intel on Kingpin.
Not much, but enough.
The tall, thin guy froze in place, the broken knife in his hand shaking.
“Mon…
monster…” He turned to run, but his legs were too weak to move.
Ryan Quinn sighed.
He raised his hand, and the black biomass condensed into a long whip, lazily coiling around the tall guy’s ankle.
With a yank back, the man was pulled into the air, his back slamming into the concrete with a sickening crack of his spine.
“Don’t…
don’t kill me…
I can give you money…” The man clawed at the ground, his fingernails breaking and bleeding.
“Kingpin…
Kingpin will kill you…” Ryan Quinn crouched down, resting a hand on the man’s head, his voice tinged with sleepiness.
“Are you done?” Consume.
Next was the tattooed man.
That one was paralyzed, standing still with the bent iron pipe in his hand.
As Ryan Quinn walked over, the man’s lips moved, but no sound came out.
A silent consumption.
The process took three seconds; Ryan Quinn’s sigh took five.
Finally, it was over.
The repair shop returned to silence.
On the TV, the host was still telling bad jokes, and bursts of audience laughter drifted out.
The beer bottle was still bubbling, and the playing cards were scattered in the ash.
It was as if nothing had ever happened.
Ryan Quinn closed his eyes and sorted through the memories of the three men.
Most of it was garbage, but the pieces of information regarding Kingpin were somewhat useful when put together.
The top floor of that skyscraper in Midtown Manhattan—Kingpin himself.
An Italian restaurant on the south side of Hell’s Kitchen—upscale on the surface, but actually a place for money laundering and meeting important clients.
But more importantly— The virus hadn’t spread.
The Blacklight virus in their bodies had been in a low-activity incubation state.
After the blood left Thompson’s body, the virus’s activity dropped sharply; by the time it entered these three, it was too weak to complete a full infection cycle.
In other words, there was no risk of an outbreak.
“Hmm,” Ryan Quinn muttered to himself.
“That saves some trouble.” He walked out the back door.
The night wind, laced with thin rain, hit his face with a cool chill.
Ryan Quinn pulled up his hood, shoved his hands into his pockets, and began the walk back through the dark alleys.