The next night, it rained.
Hard. Dirty rain. The kind that made the city smell like rust and gasoline.
Max stood under an awning near 43rd Street, hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. His boots were soaked. His jaw clenched.
Across the street, he saw a man shove a boy into an alley.
Max's eyes narrowed.
It wasn't instinct that moved him. It was decision.
He crossed the street. Stepped into the alley. The man had the kid by the collar, yelling about money.
"Let him go," Max said.
The man turned. "What the hell do you want?"
Max stepped forward. "You deaf?"
The man swung a switchblade.
Max caught it. Bent the blade with his fingers. Punched once.
The man flew back and hit the dumpster with a crack. Didn't get up.
The boy stared at Max. Then ran.
Max didn't chase. He just stood there.
Not shaking.
Not scared.
Just… calm.
For the first time in weeks.
---
The next day, he bought a new shirt. Black. Tight. Something he could move in.
He pulled the old blue tank top from his bag. Wore it over the black. Looked at himself in the mirror.
He didn't put the mask on. Not yet. But he packed it in his coat pocket.
Just in case.
---
He kept walking. He started intervening.
Muggers. Drunks. Crooked cops shaking down shop owners. He stepped in.
Didn't always talk.
Didn't always punch.
But when he did, the street noticed.
They called him names. The Blue Freak. The Phantom Strongman. Some said he was a ghost. Others said he was just some washed-up circus act.
He didn't care.
He slept less. Ate whatever he could buy cheap. Trained in abandoned buildings, punching cinderblocks into dust.
He was still only five-foot-six. But now he moved like a man who knew what he could do.
---
Weeks passed.
Then months.
He started patrolling the same blocks. Helping the same vendors. Carrying groceries for old ladies when no one was looking.
Once, he pulled a cab out of a flooded underpass.
Another time, he stopped a runaway streetcar by bracing his legs against the tracks.
Still, no one saw his face.
Only the mask.
The blue, full-face cover with white eyeholes. The black shirt. The tank top. The boots.
He didn't look like a hero.
But slowly—quietly—the neighborhood began to treat him like one.
---
Then one night, a man in a suit approached him while he was eating on a bench.
"You're stronger than you should be," the man said. "And you move like someone trained, not born."
Max looked up.
"I'm just trying to help."
"You're doing more than that," the man said. "You ever hear of Liberty Flame?"
Max said nothing.
The man handed him a card. Just an address. Nothing else.
"Come by. Or don't. But you don't have to do this alone."
He walked off.
Max stared at the card.
Rain started again.
He folded it once. Tucked it in his coat.
And kept walking.
But this time, he walked with purpose.
The mask stayed in his hand.
Because now, he had something to hit back with.
And maybe—just maybe—he was finally becoming more than just a boy with strength.
He was becoming Marvelo-Man.