Ethan didn't have time to ponder Ryan's psychological journey. He looked curiously at the building in front of him.
It seemed like an ordinary structure, but inside, it was a different world entirely.
Faint sounds drifted from within, barely audible even to his sharp hearing. For an average person, it'd be impossible to hear anything at all.
Ryan led Ethan into the building. After passing through a few unremarkable hallways, he suddenly opened a door labeled "Fire Exit." Instantly, a wave of noise—screams, shouts, and deafening chaos—burst forth, overwhelming the senses.
Ethan quickly activated his absorption ability near his ears, filtering out most of the sound. Only then did he feel a bit better.
This ability, it seemed, would come in handy often.
He could also absorb some of the light. Normally, there was no need for such keen eyesight.
Inside the door was what appeared to be a bar—a rowdy, chaotic one. Ethan watched in surprise as young, vibrant women on stage twisted their bodies in ways he'd never seen before, flaunting themselves shamelessly. Around them, a group of leering men occasionally splashed drinks on them or grabbed at their thighs.
So this was the decadence of capitalism? He couldn't help but be intrigued.
"Right next to Hell's Kitchen is Broadway," Ryan explained. "Lots of girls with dreams of starring in musicals go there, but the rent's sky-high, and the cost of living is brutal. So they end up here, surviving by selling their bodies." Seeing Ethan's fixed gaze, Ryan smirked inwardly. Even this superhuman had a weakness, huh?
He liked women? Perfect. Hell's Kitchen might lack a lot of things, but women were never in short supply.
"Wait, did you say this is Hell's Kitchen?" Ethan caught a key detail.
"Yeah," Ryan nodded. "The official name's Clinton District, but who cares about that?"
"I've heard of it," Ethan said, nodding. Hell's Kitchen was a real place, not just something made up for movies or TV.
He kept scanning the neon-lit chaos around him. In this dim environment, looking was all he could do. If he activated his super vision for a close-up scan, every speck of grime and grease would stand out like lice on a bald head—a sensation he'd already experienced in the car earlier.
Without his absorption ability, he'd have thrown up by now.
They crossed the bar and reached the back, passing through another door. The noise faded instantly.
They entered a long corridor lined with gang members in sharp suits. Ryan must've held some rank, because they merely nodded at him and let them pass without a search.
"After you," Ryan said, pushing open a door for Ethan. Beyond it lay a vast, pristine space: polished floors, scattered bodyguards milling about, and a bearded man sitting in the center of the room, watching TV.
No need to ask who he was. Ethan doubted anyone but the boss could sit there smoking a cigar and watching SpongeBob in a criminal organization.
"Boss!" Ryan called softly.
"Hold on," the man waved him off, eyes glued to the screen.
"Our boss is Bronte Quinn, nicknamed 'Plague Rat,'" Ryan whispered. "He's a master of close combat and pistol shooting. The guy next to him is Calander Quinn, his brother. Ex-Marine, top-notch in hand-to-hand fighting and marksmanship."
Ethan didn't look at them. His eyes were on the TV.
He'd always liked SpongeBob. Growing up poor, he'd been too busy studying to watch it. Later, when he had money, he was too busy gaming or working. Lounging on a couch, watching cartoons—this had once been his dream.
So he stepped forward, scanned the sofa, absorbed every speck of dirt and bacteria until it was spotless, and plopped down.
Bronte Quinn whipped his head around, stunned. "Who said you could sit?"
Smack! Ethan slapped his shoulder. "Say that again."
Scum like this didn't deserve polite conversation. Ethan preferred to get straight to the point.
Bronte froze, feeling a sudden weakness wash over him. As a skilled fighter, he knew his body well. In an instant, he recognized the symptoms: anemia and oxygen deprivation from massive blood loss. But how? He ate well, exercised regularly—why was this happening?
Ethan grabbed the remote, turned off the TV, and faced Bronte.
"I hear you're interested in my phone?" he asked.
"You?" Bronte stared at him, then shot a betrayed glare at Ryan. You sold me out?
"Not a bad eye," Ethan said, pulling out his phone. "This is a smartphone from 2020. A hundred-megapixel camera, 8GB RAM, 256GB storage, 66W fast charging, supports 3G, 4G, 5G. Shame your country cut off its chip supply—killed its successor."
He unlocked the phone with his fingerprint, then leaned toward Bronte, flashing a peace sign for a selfie.
Bronte gaped at the crystal-clear image on the screen, a mix of shock and fear in his eyes. These days, a 3-megapixel phone camera was considered top-tier. Even digital cameras rarely hit that mark. This phone's front camera was 12 megapixels.
Knowing the tech behind it only made it worse. Why had he targeted this phone? Who did this kid work for? Could he afford to mess with them? And why was he so casually spilling all these details?
There was an old saying: knowing too much could get you killed.
"You people are all the same," Ethan muttered. "You jack up the price of what you've got, then scramble to steal what you don't. When you can't, you play dirty. You're still the shining beacon now, but give it ten years—everyone'll see you for what you really are."
"What… what are you talking about? I don't get it…" Bronte was on the verge of tears. America playing dirty? What's that got to do with me? If you hate America, we're on the same side! I'm a blight on this country too, you know!
"I've never killed anyone before," Ethan said calmly. "But it looks like I don't have a choice now. So I'm just saying some things to get me mad enough to do it."
"Huh?" Bronte blinked.
He watched as Ethan pulled a silver revolver from his jacket and pressed it to his forehead.
Calander finally noticed something was off. He drew his gun and fired—all in under 0.7 seconds. But then he saw the gleaming bullet freeze midair near Ethan's temple, turn to dust, and vanish silently.
Bang!
Ethan pulled the trigger.
His first kill. It felt awful.
He used to be the kind of guy who'd feel bad for hours after accidentally stepping on a snail. But did he have a choice?
If he didn't kill Bronte, the man wouldn't stop coming. That phone represented a trillion-dollar market. It wouldn't just be Bronte—maybe even the CIA or FBI would get involved. He'd be on the run, exposing more of his abilities, drawing bigger threats.
It'd never end.
He didn't have money. Was he supposed to rob his way through life? Swallow the phone and destroy the evidence? No way. That phone was a symbol of innovation, a chance to shift the game. Ethan had to do something.
Bang!
Bronte was dead.
He turned the gun on Calander.
One shot had already taught him the recoil. An invisible force steadied the weapon.
Calander tried to dodge, but in slow motion like this, it was hopeless.
Bang!
A bullet to the forehead. Instant death.
Calander was gone.
"Assassin!" The surrounding bodyguards had sensed trouble earlier, but it all happened too fast—less than a second from Ethan drawing the gun to killing both men. Who could react to that?
Some of the sharper ones were only now pulling their weapons. But they didn't shoot. The boss was dead—capturing this gunman alive to find out who was behind it mattered more. Plus, taking over as boss and avenging the old one was a golden opportunity.
More importantly, the kid was now pointing the gun at his own head.
"Starting today," Ethan's clear voice echoed through the hall, "the Gray Rat Gang is mine."