Ryan glanced at the map on the wall. Hell's Kitchen was circled, its ninety-plus blocks shaded in different colors. He didn't think much of it at first, assuming Ethan was just studying the distribution of the various factions in the area.
That is, until Ethan spoke.
"How long do you think it'd take to bring all of Hell's Kitchen under our control?" Ethan asked.
Ryan froze for a moment before shaking his head. "That's impossible, boss. Hell's Kitchen has too many factions—hundreds of gangs, big and small, from every background. That alone makes it a nightmare to deal with. Then there's the kingpin of the underworld, Fisk, who'd never let anyone unify Hell's Kitchen. And don't forget the major corporations, the religious groups…"
In short, Hell's Kitchen was a chaotic mess. Unifying it? Out of the question.
Ethan shook his head. "Nothing's impossible. If there's a problem, you solve it. If there's opposition, you eliminate it!"
As long as your resolve doesn't waver, there's always a way to overcome obstacles.
Defiance? That just means you haven't killed enough yet!
Besides, it's just Hell's Kitchen—what threat could it possibly pose to him?
In the timeline of the movie universe, most of the so-called heroes in Hell's Kitchen were still kids. The only notable one was Daredevil, but he was a close-range fighter.
Come at me up close, I dare you.
Plus, Daredevil was a gentleman—and gentlemen were far too easy to handle.
As for Fisk…
He was a close-range fighter too.
And still just a mortal. No matter how big his muscles were, he was still human.
For someone like Ethan, who aimed to steal the Infinity Stones and had set his sights on opponents like the Ancient One and Thanos, a guy like Fisk was barely worth a second thought.
Of course, while he could dismiss his enemies strategically, tactically he still had to take them seriously. That's why Ethan kept his gravity field active at all times—just in case some sniper tried to take a shot at him.
"Let's start close to home!" Ethan pointed at 45th Street. "Our goal is to take these four blocks and expand our territory to six!"
"The Viper Gang controls 45th Street," Ryan said. "They've got six blocks under their thumb. We're no match for them! And if we make a move on them, the Redneck Gang from 47th Street will definitely seize the chance to hit us from behind!"
Hell's Kitchen had 24 streets, home to over a hundred factions, big and small. Move against one, and the whole web trembles.
Why wasn't there an exact number of gangs? Simple—fights broke out every day. Gangs formed one day and got wiped out the next. The underworld's information network wasn't exactly public, so updates were slow. Sometimes a gang could be gone for six months before word reached the next street over.
So how had the Gray Rat Gang, as weak as they were, managed to survive this long?
Their position was unique.
From the window, you could see the vast Hudson River and Pier 86, where a dozen aircraft of all kinds were docked—fighters, reconnaissance planes, and even the famous Concorde, a supersonic passenger jet built by a European collaboration.
Back in the day, the Concorde was developed to meet the demand for faster transport and the military rivalry of the U.S.-Soviet Cold War. But its deafening noise and a string of accidents eroded public trust, and by 2003, the Concorde was retired. One of them ended up here.
Why were all these planes parked at Pier 86? Because it was the site of the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum, a decommissioned aircraft carrier turned tourist attraction. Though the ship itself had been towed away for major repairs in 2006, leaving the pier without its centerpiece, some of the planes not stored aboard the carrier remained on display.
The Gray Rat Gang's territory bordered Pier 86. Naturally, they couldn't fly those fighter jets—they didn't have the money or pilots for that—but they could blow them up.
The Gray Rats couldn't win a straight fight against any gang, but they could detonate the planes and bring down what they called "divine retribution"—the wrath of the American military. Everyone would go down together.
Thanks to that threat, the Gray Rat Gang clung to life on 46th Street, running a handful of bars and casinos.
Their income came from bars, gambling, prostitution, drug trafficking—"laundry powder" in their slang—human trafficking, debt collection, you name it.
The Viper Gang next door wasn't much different. It was the same story across America.
Ryan was still grumbling, but Ethan ignored him, focusing instead on intel about their neighbors.
"Rednecks" was a derogatory term used by "high-class whites" for "low-class whites," akin to "hillbilly" or "country bumpkin." Most of them hailed from the American South, with a good chunk from Texas—so much so that "redneck" sometimes just meant Texan.
Their ancestors were farmers, poorly educated and prone to heavy drinking, which made them quick-tempered and hard to reason with.
That lack of education also led to early marriages and kids. Pair that with uneducated women and boozy husbands, and what do you get? Sky-high rates of domestic violence.
And because they weren't well-educated, they struggled to tell right from wrong. In Ethan's world, a clever guy once won them over with simple metaphors, avoiding complex arguments, and threw in some rousing, empty slogans. That guy rode their support all the way to the top of American power.
As for the Viper Gang, its core members were from southern Mexico. Gangs there often outmuscled the government, and the competition was brutal. One group that couldn't cut it smuggled themselves into the U.S. and set up shop in Hell's Kitchen.
Thanks to their connections back home, the Viper Gang had access to a steady supply of "laundry powder." They were Hell's Kitchen's biggest supplier, funneling nearly 40% of the drugs into the area and beyond, across the U.S.
From a cautious standpoint, taking out the Redneck Gang first made more sense. If they hit the Viper Gang and disrupted the drug supply chain, every gang in the area would come knocking, and that'd be a mess they couldn't handle.
But Ethan wanted that chaos.
He was a superhuman, practically invincible in Hell's Kitchen. Why waste time picking off gangs one by one like some American sitcom dragging out its seasons?
Better to round them all up, have a little chat, and settle it in one go.
A dish called General Tso's chicken was a favorite in some circles, though it wasn't as common as people might think. Ethan was seeing it for the first time.
Golden-brown, crispy outside, tender inside, with a sweet-spicy crunch that wasn't half bad!
Next up: a spicy tofu dish.
Ethan didn't come from some wealthy family. The spicy tofu he'd had growing up wasn't anything special—some versions were too mild, others too hot, and the tofu varied wildly.
What was it supposed to taste like? He had no idea.
But the version Ryan picked up? Pretty damn good.
"There's a restaurant around here?" Ethan asked, curious.
"Yeah, a place just downstairs, not far!" Ryan said. "The owner's a short, chubby guy!"
As he spoke, he instinctively tugged at his eyes to mimic a squint but froze mid-motion, remembering his boss's background. To pull or not to pull? Awkward.
"You're Latino yourself, part of a group that gets discriminated against, and you're mocking others?" Ethan chuckled. He'd heard certain groups had it rough in America, and this really drove it home.
Ryan gave an embarrassed laugh. "No, no, boss, I've always respected you!"