A/N- Bear with me on this chapter, I have to catch a train in a few hours so I wrote it in hurry, pls read it to the end
The cold wind clawed at my face as I sprinted across the rooftops, my boots barely whispering against the worn concrete. The Black Knife Set clung to me like a second skin, the dark fabric rippling with each stride. It swallowed sound, cloaking me in silence as I moved at breakneck speed. The city sprawled beneath me — a patchwork of dim streetlights, flickering neon signs, and shadowed alleys.
It was nearly midnight, but tonight felt different. The air was heavy, like the city itself was holding its breath.
M-Town was on edge.
Ever since that cursed batch of Kick — laced with whatever twisted mutagen Sublime had cooked up — hit the streets, things had spiraled. People had been dying... horribly.
Seventy-three dead.
That number refused to leave my head. Seventy-three lives — men, women, kids — gone. Not just overdoses either. I'd seen the aftermath. Flesh-bloated corpses, limbs twisted and gnarled like rotting tree roots. Mutations that should've been a gift turned into a curse, spiraling out of control until their own powers tore them apart... or until their hearts just gave out.
I'd seen enough horror tonight to haunt me for a lifetime.
And all because Sublime wanted to send a message — to me.
Message received, I thought bitterly. But the anger — that searing, bone-deep rage — was smothered by cold realization. This... this was exactly what he wanted.
He wanted me furious. He wanted me reckless. He wanted me to go charging straight into one of his distribution hubs, guns blazing — or in my case, fists burning — only to walk headfirst into an ambush.
But I'd learned my lesson that first night out. I knew better now.
I'd been so focused on choking off the Kick supply that I ignored what was happening inside M-Town itself — and that was a mistake. When I torched Sublime's warehouse, I must've destroyed hundreds of kilos of the stuff. I thought I'd done the right thing... but that shortage just made things worse.
Two days later, when the junkies were desperate for a fix, more product rolled in — this time from with help from the gangs.
Shaky Kaufmann. Filthy Frankie. Their people had been the ones peddling it on street corners.
These were guys who grew up here, people who knew what Kick was doing to their own community — and they still handed it out like candy for chump change. They sold out their neighbors, their friends... their own damn people, just to make a few bucks.
That made them worse than dealers — it made them liabilities.
And if I let them keep growing their influence, who knows what they'd sell out next? Sublime? Orchis? Maybe even the same monsters who turned Neverland into a killing floor?
No.
I wasn't giving them the chance.
By the time the sun rose, Shaky Kaufmann's crew and Filthy Frankie's thugs would be finished. Not a broken limb, not a warning — done. Their operations crushed, their hold on this neighborhood burned out like a dying ember.
Because tonight?
Tonight, I wasn't just fighting fires — I was snuffing out the sparks before they turned into an inferno.
I took me just 10 minutes to arrive at Kaufman's club. I was standing on a building overlooking the club when I felt the pressure of my power building up.
I had just used it a 6-7 hours ago but the pressure was back. I honestly don't know how or why the power works, but I won't ask any question of whom I won't get any answers.
I let the leash on it go and heard the dice roll.
19-13-Superpower wiki- Security Mastery-The user either innately or through training, is a master of security. They are aware of how to protect an object or person with the highest protection procedure. The user may also know how to construct or repair security systems or use their knowledge of securities to penetrate them. AJ gains a tinker/thinker power with the specialisation in security routines and systems. A good roll ensures AJ doesn't suffers from tinker fugues but the tech is still blackboxed.
The moment the power hit me, it was like someone had shoved a whole security manual into my brain — except instead of words, it was instinct. No diagrams, no explanations... just knowing.
I glanced at the alley gate across the street — rusty bolts, loose hinges, the latch barely hanging on. I knew exactly how I'd reinforce it — thicker screws, a steel plate along the frame, maybe a magnetic lock for good measure. The camera above it? Old model, blind spots at both corners. A quick tweak to its angle, and I could cover the whole area without leaving gaps.
It was... weird. One second, that gate had just been a gate. The next, I was mentally blueprinting an entire upgrade plan like I'd been designing security systems my whole life.
And it wasn't just physical stuff. Digital security hit me just as hard. I pulled out my phone, and suddenly the lock screen felt laughable. My fingers twitched as my brain ran through bypass tricks — spoofing apps, code injections — stuff I'd never even heard of before, yet now I knew it inside and out. I also now knew how to fight while protecting someone or how to knock someone out with using the least amount of force, I could also now knew Krav Maga, BJJ and Muay Thai.
For a moment, I felt invincible — like I could crack open Fort Knox if I really wanted to. But that buzz didn't last long. The more I explored this new skill, the more I realized there was a catch.
The stuff I could build? Cameras, locks, sensors — hell, I could probably slap together a fully functional security drone with enough junk from a hardware store — but none of it made sense to me. I couldn't explain why my designs worked; they just did. Every circuit, every wire, every weird combination of parts — it all fit together like puzzle pieces clicking into place, but I couldn't tell you why those pieces belonged there. It was like my hands knew something my brain didn't.
And that scared me.
What if one of my gadgets failed? What if someone figured out a flaw in something I built that I didn't even realize existed? Hell, what if something I made worked too well and ended up hurting someone?
The worst part is... I can't turn it off. I can't help but see vulnerabilities everywhere. Busted locks, cameras pointed at the wrong angles, easy points of entry — the city's one big open door just waiting for someone to walk through. And every time I spot one, there's this itch — this need — to fix it. Like I'm carrying some weird responsibility now, one that's impossible to ignore.
I don't know what's worse — knowing how easy it is to break into a place... or realizing how hard it is to truly keep people safe.
I push these thoughts to the back of the mind and refocus on the task at hand.
The cold night air clung to my skin as I perched above Daniel's Inferno, Kaufman's club and his little empire's heart. It was a building with ten floors, the first two floors and the basement were used as the nightclub while the upper floors were used by Kaufman as his HQ. The flickering neon sign painted the pavement below in pulses of red and gold, making the alleyway beside it look like a vein filled with sluggish blood. It was quiet there, tucked away from the chaos out front — perfect.
I spotted the guard almost immediately — a wiry guy leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette with all the enthusiasm of someone killing time. The alley was dark enough that I could barely make out the faint shine of scales on his arm — some kind of reptilian mutation.
I didn't waste time. Dropping silently from the rooftop, I hit the ground like a shadow. The guy barely had time to exhale before I was on him. My arm wrapped around his throat, cutting off his air before he could make a sound. He thrashed, his scaly arm flailing, but I held firm until his struggles slowed... then stopped. I eased him to the ground. He'd wake up with a sore neck and maybe a bruised ego — nothing more.
The employee door was next. My mind instantly lit up with possibilities — tension springs, magnetic locks, possible alarm triggers — all of it racing through my head like I'd been studying blueprints for hours instead of seconds. My fingers moved instinctively, bypassing the lock's wiring with barely a thought. There was no click, no snap — the door just... opened. I almost startled myself.
Gotta get used to that.
Inside, the muffled thump of the club's music seeped through the walls, the bass vibrating faintly beneath my boots. The hallway ahead was dimly lit, narrow, and stale with the scent of smoke and spilled beer. I moved cautiously, keeping close to the walls until I reached another door.
Pushing it open, I stepped into a changing room.
A row of mirrors lined one side, each surrounded by cluttered counters filled with makeup kits, brushes, and half-empty cans of energy drinks. Several servers were inside — women mostly — adjusting their uniforms or touching up their faces. A few were chatting quietly, and none had noticed me yet.
Unfortunately, the guy at the back had.
He was big, built like a linebacker, with jagged, bone-like spikes running down the side of his face and across his knuckles. He was leaned up against a counter, chatting up one of the servers — a woman with patchy blue skin and gills along her neck — his voice a low murmur of flirtatious garbage.
When he spotted me — armored, masked, and standing silent in the doorway — his mood soured fast.
"Who the hell are you?" he barked, stepping forward. The servers froze.
I didn't say a word, just glared at him through my mask.
"You deaf?" he spat. "I asked you a question!"
When I still didn't answer, his temper flared. He charged.
I sidestepped, letting him barrel past me. He stumbled, cursing, but immediately turned back and lunged again. I pivoted once more, watching him blow by me like a drunken bull.
He's fast... but predictable.
"Quit dancin', freak!" he growled, charging a third time. This time I didn't move aside — I stepped into him. My fist shot out, and I caught him square in the jaw.
CRACK.
The bone plating on his face cracked like stone, and he hit the floor like a dropped sack of bricks. Out cold.
"Get out," I growled, turning to the servers.
That's all it took. Screams erupted, heels clattered, and in seconds they were gone — bolting down the hallway and into the club proper.
I took a breath, flexing my fingers. The new power — the instincts, the way my mind just... knew how to move, how to fight — it still didn't feel real. Like I'd skipped the hard part and jumped straight to the payoff.
But I didn't have time to dwell. There were more people here — Kaufman's people — and I wasn't leaving until I made sure they wouldn't be a problem ever again.
The moment I stepped through the door, I knew I'd screwed up.
I was on the dance floor now — out in the open. The bass thumped hard enough to rattle my ribs, and bodies swayed and twisted all around me. Hundreds of people, lost in the music, grinding and spinning without a care in the world. The air was thick with sweat, alcohol, and smoke.
In the center of the room, a massive glass tube stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with bubbling water. Inside it, two mutants with green skin and gills danced in slow, hypnotic motions — twisting and spinning like they were weightless. The flashing lights turned their scales into glistening emerald patches.
I didn't have time to gawk.
Near the bar, one of the servers I'd sent running was frantically talking to two guards. Big guys — brick walls in cheap suits. They barely waited for her to finish before they turned, eyes locking on me like I'd just slapped their mothers.
Damn it.
They rushed forward, shoving dancers out of the way. The music kept pounding, but I could feel the shift — a ripple of unease moving through the crowd.
One of the guards came in swinging — a meaty fist rocketing toward my face. I brought my arm up to block and, under the cover of my glove, I willed my arm to shift. Copper flowed beneath my skin, hardening my muscles and bone.
His punch connected — hard — but I barely felt it. His eyes widened, and I drove my own fist into his gut. He folded like a busted chair.
Before I could react, the second guy grabbed me from behind, locking me in a tight Nelson hold.
Not happening.
I shifted my weight, planting my foot and twisting my hips. With a grunt, I flipped him clean over my shoulder. He crashed down on top of his buddy, and both men groaned in pain.
I didn't give them time to recover. Rushing forward, I planted my foot and drove a copper-clad boot straight into one guy's chest, sending them both sprawling against the wall.
The crowd finally caught on that something was wrong. Faces turned, staring at me in wide-eyed confusion.
Then the gunfire started.
The first shot punched into the floor near my foot, and the crowd erupted. People screamed, shoving and trampling each other as they bolted in every direction. Strobe lights flashed, blinding me in bursts as bodies thrashed past.
I ducked low and spun, catching sight of the shooter — a bald guy in a leather vest, holding a pistol and grinning like a lunatic.
Then I saw the others.
Doors slammed open across the club. Five... six... seven guys stormed out, all packing heat — pistols, shotguns, and at least one guy with a full-on machine gun.
Oh, hell no.
I shifted gears fast, magic flaring inside me as I accelerated. The world blurred — dancers became streaks of color, bullets hissed past like angry hornets. I twisted and ducked, weaving through the panicked crowd as the guards sprayed lead across the club.
Glass shattered, sparks flew from ricochets, and the thumping bass throbbed like a war drum beneath the chaos.
I didn't know where I was going — I just knew I couldn't stop.
I kept moving.
The first guy barely had time to react before I accelerated behind him. One second, he was scanning the crowd — the next, I was right there. I drove my foot into the back of his head with enough force to make a thunk sound as his face bounced off the floor. He dropped like a sack of bricks.
Another burst of gunfire barked from above — one of the guards had taken up position on the upper level. I sprinted toward the nearest wall, vaulted off a table, and leapt high. My fingers caught the railing, and I swung myself over just in time to meet the shooter's surprised face.
"Hey," I grunted, before grabbing him by his shirt and tossing him straight over the side. He flailed as he plummeted into the chaos below, landing with a crash that knocked over a whole set of chairs.
Bullets punched into my back — felt like someone flicking pebbles at me. The armor held.
I spun around and spotted two more guys standing side by side, unloading at me. They weren't exactly crack shots, but I wasn't about to let them keep trying.
I accelerated again — the world smeared into streaks of color as I blitzed forward. Before they could react, I grabbed their heads and slammed them together like cymbals in an orchestra. They crumpled in unison, groaning as they hit the floor.
The next guy's gun clicked empty, and in a panic, he yanked a knife from his belt and charged me.
"Seriously?" I muttered.
I stepped forward, grabbed his arm, and with a single copper-boosted kick, launched him backward. He went sailing through the air and crashed into the bartending station, shattering glasses and sending bottles flying.
Two left.
They glanced at each other — then ditched their guns and stepped forward.
The first guy's hands wreathed in some sort of dark energy, and he shot a crackling blast of shadow straight at me. It hit my chest... and I barely felt it. Just a faint tingle.
The second guy spat a stream of green acid at me — I sidestepped fast enough that it only splashed the wall behind me, sizzling and hissing on impact.
"Yeah... no."
I lunged forward, driving a fist into the shadow guy's gut, doubling him over. The acid-spitter tried to bolt — I grabbed the back of his shirt and slammed him face-first into the nearest table.
Both out cold.
I took a breath — sharp and ragged. The club was trashed — overturned tables, broken glass, bodies groaning across the floor.
But I wasn't done yet.
Kaufmann... where are you hiding?
I picked up one of the mooks and asked him "where's your boss?"
" Top… floor, panic ….room probably" was all he could grunt.
I wiped the sweat off my brow and took a deep breath. The club was in ruins, but I wasn't finished yet — not even close.
I found the stairwell in the back corner — a narrow metal thing with steps that clanged under my boots. No doubt they heard me coming, but I didn't care. They'd know soon enough.
The second I pushed open the door, three guys were waiting. One had a crocodile-like maw with rows of jagged teeth, drooling onto his shirt. Another had rocky, chiseled skin that made him look like someone sculpted him from bricks. The third guy? Big, muscular, and covered head to toe in thick, coarse fur.
"Yo," Croc-face sneered. "Look who's stupid enough to—"
I accelerated.
Croc didn't even finish his sentence before my fist smashed into his jaw. Teeth and blood sprayed as he dropped.
The furred guy rushed me next, roaring like an animal. He swung wild — bad technique, pure aggression — and I caught his arm mid-swing. I turned my body, twisted his limb, and snapped his elbow in a way that left him howling.
The rock-skinned guy tried to use the distraction to grab me from behind — I stomped hard on his knee, felt the joint buckle, and smashed his face into the wall. He crumpled.
One floor down.
This sequence went on for 5 more floors until I reached 8th one.
The air practically crackled as I stepped onto the 8th floor landing. The faint scent of ozone clung to my nose, sharp and metallic. My skin tingled — not like goosebumps, but like tiny needles pricking my arms.
Yeah... this is bad.
The hallway stretched out ahead of me, dimly lit by flickering ceiling lights. At the far end stood a lean guy with wiry muscles, his fingers crackling with arcs of blue electricity dancing between them like restless serpents. His eyes glowed faintly with the same electric hue.
"You should've stayed downstairs," he called out, his voice cocky and casual, like we were old friends catching up over beers.
I didn't respond. No point. I just shifted my stance, ready to move.
He grinned. "Guess you're not much of a talker." His arm shot out — fingers splaying wide — and suddenly the air snapped with a brilliant blue flash.
Move.
I accelerated, the world around me blurring. The bolt screamed past me, lighting up the hallway like a camera flash and scorching a black mark into the wall. The air reeked of burnt ozone.
"Not bad," Lightning Guy muttered, already charging up another shot. His fingers twitched, and this time two bolts lanced out — one low, one high.
I twisted sideways, barely avoiding the first. The second caught my arm.
CRACK.
Pain stabbed through me like molten glass being poured into my veins. My muscles seized up — my whole body jerking violently as my copper form barely dulled the shock. My vision blurred, and I staggered back, forcing my legs to stay under me.
"You're quick," Lightning Guy sneered, "but you're not fast enough."
Another bolt tore through the air. I barely ducked in time, feeling the heat lick past my scalp. My head throbbed from the static charge, and the hairs on my arms stood on end.
I can't keep dodging like this...
I shifted my stance again, keeping low, watching his rhythm. He was fast, but he kept flexing his fingers between shots — a half-second delay every time.
There's my opening.
He flicked his wrist, another bolt sizzling toward me. This time I let it come closer — waited until I could feel the static crawling over my skin — then lunged aside at the last moment.
The bolt slammed into the wall behind me, exploding plaster in a spray of dust.
"Ha! Not bad!" he barked. "Let's see you dodge this!"
Lightning danced across both his arms now, sparks spitting from his fingertips like firecrackers. He was powering up something bigger.
Too big.
I faked a stumble, letting my breathing hitch like I was on my last legs. I staggered, slumping one shoulder low like I could barely keep standing.
"Oh, you're done," he laughed. "You can't outrun this one."
The lightning in his hands surged brighter — a violent storm of blue arcs hissing and spitting like angry vipers. He brought his hands together, electricity coiling between them like a writhing ball of energy.
I let my legs give out.
I dropped hard, chest heaving, face slack. My fingers twitched weakly on the floor.
"Too easy," Lightning Guy muttered as he walked forward, electricity crackling in his palms.
Closer...
I waited — muscles tense beneath my armor, ready to spring.
Closer...
His shadow fell over me.
Now.
I shot up like a spring trap — my copper-boosted arm driving a fist straight into his ribs. His breath left him in a sharp gasp, and the lightning in his hands flickered out.
"You—!"
I hit him again, faster this time — knuckles slamming into his gut. He stumbled, but still swung a crackling hand toward my face.
I caught his wrist.
"Bad move," I growled.
I twisted his arm back, wrenching him off balance, and drove my knee into his side. He doubled over, gasping for air. Before he could recover, I grabbed the back of his shirt, spun him around, and slammed his head into the wall.
His body twitched once, then slumped to the floor.
I stood there for a second, chest heaving, the taste of copper in my mouth. My arms still tingled from the static charge, muscles twitching involuntarily.
That... could've gone worse.
I flexed my fingers, wincing as the tingling refused to fade.
I moved towards the 9th floor,
I was greeted by a blonde guy in black suit, his face was filled with scars but he was emotionless.
The stairwell to the ninth floor felt like a march into the lion's den. My muscles ached, my breathing was ragged, and the faint scent of ozone from the lightning guy still clung to my clothes. But I pushed on.
The door creaked open, and standing there — calm as you like — was a blonde guy in a sleek black suit. His face was a patchwork of scars, jagged lines running across his cheeks and forehead, but his expression was as cold and flat as a frozen lake.
He raised one hand, palm out. "Mr. Kaufman would like to talk to you," he said, voice dry and clipped. "If you would please follow me."
Then he turned and started walking, not even bothering to check if I'd follow — like he knew I would. No hesitation, no glance over his shoulder.
Cocky bastard.
I didn't trust him, but I followed anyway.
The top floor was more office than lair. Dark wooden floors, sleek black walls, the faint scent of cigar smoke lingering in the air. At the far end, a massive monitor flickered to life. On the screen, Daniel Kaufman — Shaky Kaufman to most folks in M-Town — stared back at me. Calm, but with his jaw clenched so tight I could practically hear his teeth grinding.
To the side, I spotted a large metal door, reinforced and gleaming. That's where he's hiding.
"What's your price?" Kaufman asked flatly.
I frowned. "I don't want your money."
He chuckled, but it was dry — humorless. "Everyone's got a price."
"Not me."
"Then what the hell do you want?"
"You're responsible for the seventy-three mutants who died in M-Town," I growled. "That mutagen-laced Kick — that was your shipment."
Kaufman shook his head. "I didn't know it was bad product. That wasn't me." His voice was firm, almost convincing.
"You knew exactly what you were selling," I shot back. "People OD'd in the streets, their powers ripping them apart. Kids died. And you're telling me that's just 'business'?"
"That's exactly what I'm telling you," Kaufman sneered. "I didn't make the stuff — I just moved it. I've got powerful people watching my back. You think you're gonna change things with some fists and party tricks?"
I clenched my fists, my knuckles tightening under the armor. "I don't care who's backing you. This was the last time your drugs hurt anyone innocent"
"You should," Kaufman said, smirking. "Because you can't touch me. I'm sitting behind four inches of solid titanium." He tapped his fingers against the metal door. Clink, clink, clink. "You're not getting through that."
Before I could reply, the guy in the black suit lunged.
His fist shot out faster than I expected. I barely jerked my head back in time, the knuckles skimming past my face. I retaliated with a solid punch to his ribs — enough force to break bones — but he barely flinched. Blood dripped from his mouth, but he kept coming.
I hit him again — this time across the jaw — but all I got was a blank stare and a slow, bloody grin.
No pain... great.
He swung again, and I ducked. This time I grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, and drove my knee into his spine. He staggered, but still wouldn't drop.
"I'm starting to hate you," I muttered.
He grabbed my arm with unnatural strength, twisting me around. His face was pale now, streaked with blood, but still locked in that empty stare. Whatever mutation he had — durability, pain resistance, whatever — he wasn't stopping.
I switched tactics. Grappling him from behind, I snaked my arm under his chin and locked in a chokehold. He thrashed, flailing wildly, but I held firm. Seconds dragged by, his movements slowing, then finally he went limp.
I let his body slump to the floor, gasping for air.
"Idiot," Kaufman's voice sneered from the screen. "You can choke him out all you want, but you're not getting through this door."
I smirked. "You sure about that?"
Concentrating, I let the heat swell inside me — the fire magic building like a furnace in my chest. Flames crackled along my arms as I focused it, shaping the fire into something more solid — more precise. A long, curved blade formed in my hand, shimmering like molten steel.
A scythe.
I spun the weapon once, feeling its weight — heavy, sharp, dangerous. The flames danced along the edge like hungry vipers.
Kaufman's face paled.
"Wait... wait, let's talk about this—"
I drove the flaming scythe into the titanium wall. The metal hissed and shrieked as the fire bit into it, molten streaks running like wax down the door's surface. I pushed harder, the blade carving deeper — glowing orange veins spreading across the metal like cracks in scorched earth.
With a loud clang, a gaping hole burst open. Smoke poured from the ragged gap, and behind it, Kaufman stood frozen.
His face was pale, his fancy silk shirt clinging to him with sweat.
"Y-you don't wanna do this," he stammered.
I stepped forward, scythe still glowing hot in my hand. Kaufman's gaze dropped — I realized then that he'd pissed himself.
"Yeah," I said coldly. "I really do."
I dragged Kaufman and his goons down to the ground floor, tossing their limp bodies in a heap at the center of the room like discarded trash. Some of them groaned, half-conscious, but I couldn't care less.
I turned on my heel and marched back upstairs, sweeping through each room. Drugs, guns, explosives — anything incriminating or illegal — I dragged it all down and dumped it right beside them. The pile looked like something out of a crime show — a mountain of evidence no one could ignore.
Pulling out my Digivice, I pressed a button. "What's the ETA?" I asked.
Elecmon's voice crackled back through the speaker, cheerful as ever. "They'll be there in seven minutes!" he practically sang.
"Good work," I said.
"Did I do good, partner?" Elecmon asked eagerly, like a kid waiting for a gold star.
"Yeah... yeah, you did. But don't stop yet — we've still got one more stop to make."
I glanced back at Kaufman's groggy face. His swollen eye cracked open, barely focused. His lips twitched — maybe trying to speak, maybe just a reflex — but I wasn't interested in hearing him whine.
You see, I knew the cops weren't just going to roll into M-Town and start making arrests out of the goodness of their hearts. They'd ignored this place for years — ignored the drugs, the violence, the death. But tonight, I wasn't giving them a choice.
Ever since Elecmon ended up in this world, I'd pushed him to learn human coding. Sure, he already had a knack for digital manipulation — data flowed through him like water — but closed-off systems, government firewalls, encrypted files? That stuff gave him trouble. So I made him study. He soaked it up fast — faster than I expected.
Now? Now my little buddy was a damn master.
While I was putting Kaufman to sleep, Elecmon hacked the local precinct's system — every computer screen now plastered with a message screaming for cops to get down here now. He didn't stop there, either — he pulled the club's security footage, edited it into a nice little highlight reel showcasing the illegal deals, the weapons stash, the Kick sales — all of it.
If the cops wanted to keep ignoring M-Town, fine. But tonight, I'd humiliate them into doing their damn jobs.
I stepped outside. The cold air stung my face, but I barely noticed. Sirens echoed in the distance — faint, but closing in.
Kaufman's done. Time to deal with Frankie.
Frankie's lounge wasn't quite far.
It took me 15 minutes roof hopping to get there.
The place used to be quite lively, people would be going in and out quite frequently but right now everything was boarded up and half a dozen guys holding guns were looking around frantically for anything to move so they can shoot it down.
Looks like the word of my rampage reached Frankie and he wizened up.
Shame, it won't stop me.
I jumped down the building and landed on the hard concrete ground denting it and raising dust all around.
10/10 superhero landing.
The guards didn't waste a movement and instantly fired upon the spot they thought I was.
They didn't stop until they ran out of bullets and started changing magazines.
To their surprise when The dust cleared up instead I had instantly moved to the side.
I cracked a " ahm" and they turned their heads and looked to me.
One of them spoke " can we talk about this ?" while gulpng.
" no we cannot" was my response.
___________________________________________________________________________
I dragged the six unconscious men to the front of the building and dumped them there like garbage. Then I turned back to the lounge's door and kicked it in.
The place was nearly empty — no guards, no thugs, no terrified staff scrambling to escape. Just one man slouched against the bar, cradling a half-empty bottle of vodka like it was a lifeline.
Frank Zapuder — Filthy Frankie.
He turned his bleary eyes toward me, blinking slow like a man who'd been expecting this for a while. His mouth stretched into a crooked smile, half amusement, half resignation.
"You finally came," he said, voice slurred. "I was waiting for you."
He took a long swig from the bottle, then pointed lazily toward the far end of the room. I followed his finger and saw stacks of cash littering the table — neat bundles of bills alongside boxes filled with Kick.
"I sent my boys away," Frankie muttered. "Told 'em to take the good stuff with 'em. Left this behind 'cause... well..." He shrugged and took another swig. "Guess I was feelin' generous."
He leaned back against the bar and grinned like we were old friends. "Heard you took care of Shaky. Good riddance, I suppose."
I said nothing, just stared at him.
"I know what you're thinkin'," Frankie slurred. "Why am I sittin' here, just waitin' for you? Why am I offerin' myself up on a silver platter?"
His chuckle turned into a wheezy cough, but he didn't stop. "Lemme tell you somethin', cowboy... this ain't my first rodeo. Unlike Shaky, I've been around long enough to see this all happen before."
He tapped the side of his head, as if he was about to share some great wisdom. "Y'see... I don't gotta fight you. Don't gotta win. I just gotta outlast you. That's all. And lemme tell you, cowboy... people like you? People with good hearts? They don't last long 'round here. Not longer than a candle wick."
His grin stretched wider, like he was sharing some cosmic joke.
"I've seen guys like you before. Little men who get big powers, thinkin' they're some kinda messiah. Thinkin' they can fix everything — right every wrong, feed the hungry, heal the hurtin'. But let me tell you somethin'... this place?" He gestured vaguely toward the room, the street, the whole damn city.
"This place gets what it deserves. And what it deserves is people like me — people who know how to control things. These people? They're scum. They made this place the way it is. They chose this. And you?" He let out a ragged laugh. "You're wastin' your time."
His smile turned sharp, mean. "You think these people deserve good things?" His voice dropped, his eyes hardening. "Look around, cowboy. They did this to themselves. Doesn't matter how many Shakys or Frankies you take down — these people are broken. You think you can change that?"
He leaned forward, raising the bottle like a toast. "You ain't gonna fix nothin'. And when you're gone — 'cause you will be gone — guys like me? We'll still be here."
I hit him.
Not a warning punch. Not a jab or a shove. A full-force strike to the jaw that sent him sprawling across the floor, vodka bottle shattering beside him. He groaned, half-conscious, but still muttering to himself.
"You'll... never change... nothin'..."
I stood over him, fists clenched, breath heavy. My anger flared like fire in my chest, but it wasn't just rage.
It was disgust.
Not at Frankie — at the fact that some part of me knew he was half-right.
But that didn't mean I was going to stop.
I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him toward the front door, tossing him beside his unconscious goons. Then I marched back inside, scooped up the cash, the drugs, and whatever other evidence I could find. I piled it all in the middle of the floor.
Grabbing my Digivice, I pressed the button.
"Elecmon," I said. "Send the message. Let 'em know where to find these bastards."
"You got it, partner," Elecmon's voice chirped back, cheerful as ever.
I looked back at Frankie, still out cold. His words echoed in my head — You can't fix this place.
Maybe I can't fix everything, I thought. But I can damn well make sure scum like you never run it again.
The cold wind gnawed at my face as I sat on the edge of a rooftop, watching the cops haul Frankie and his goons away. The flashing red and blue lights danced across the streets below, but I barely noticed.
Something about this whole thing felt... hollow. Maybe it was Frankie's words still gnawing at me, or maybe it was that ugly little voice whispering that he might've been right.
No... no he wasn't.
Everyone deserves a second chance. M-Town deserves one. Sure, the place is rough, and yeah, there are people here who've done bad things — but that's not all they are. This place has too much heart to be written off. People here still hope, still try. I wasn't about to let scumbags like Frankie choke that out.
And right then, my power seemed to agree with me — a familiar heat flared in my chest, a charge building up like static crawling across my skin. Another roll. It felt like a nod from the universe, like my power was saying: Yeah, you're on the right track.
I braced myself as that familiar dice-clatter echoed in my head.
7-17- Jujutsu Kaisen- Ice Formation- Uraume's innate technique gives them the ability to create and manipulate ice. It can range from small to large quantities, depending on the desired utilization. Due to the high roll this technique gets assimilated into the god slayer magic as another element and AJ get's all the techniques to use it.
The magic flared inside me, colder this time — sharp, like inhaling icy air on a winter morning. My bones felt like they were freezing solid, and for a second, I swore I could see frost spreading beneath my skin.
A second core formed beside my fire one — and this time, it didn't burn. It just... settled. Almost peaceful. Like a calm certainty.
I let the magic flow to my arms — cold ice crawling down my left, fire licking up my right. Where they met, steam hissed and sizzled.
Balance.
I was just starting to experiment when—
Thwip! Thwip!
"Oh, c'mon…"
Before I could react, webbing shot out and glued my arms to my sides.
"Aw, what the—?" Another string hit my chest, yanking me off the ledge like a piñata that owed someone money. I hit the rooftop hard, groaning as I lay there wrapped like a burrito.
"Alright, Johnny Snowcone," a voice quipped. "Wanna explain who you are, why you called me here, and — oh yeah — how you know Peter Parker is Spider-Man?"
The figure of the friendly neighbourhood spiderman perched on top of the rooftop entrance didn't look friendly at all at this moment.