The first sensation was a rough texture against his cheek. Stiff, slightly dusty bedsheets chafed his skin. Then, a sound. A monotonous drip of water somewhere in the darkness, each drop echoing in the silence. The air around him was stale, carrying the scent of old wood and a long-unoccupied room.
Thomas opened his eyes.
A finely cracked cream-colored ceiling greeted him, illuminated by the gray light from the window beside him. He lay on his back. He could feel the weight of his body on the slightly sunken mattress. He could feel his own breath, regular and steady.
No pain.
The thought came so suddenly, so contrary to his last memory that it felt like a lie. His last memory was a blinding explosion of pain. The crushing impact of metal on bone. The flash of a red sports car. The sensation of being thrown and hitting shattering glass.
With a swift movement, he sat up. His hands instinctively felt his chest, pressing against his ribs, then moving down to his abdomen. Intact. He moved his arms, bent his legs. All his muscles responded without resistance, without the slightest pain. He took a deep breath. His lungs filled completely without any tightness or sharp pain from broken bones.
He was truly whole.
Thomas's eyes finally began to scan his new surroundings with sharper focus. He was in a small bedroom, perhaps a studio apartment. Beside the bed was a dark wooden table. Across from it, a matching wardrobe stood against the wall. The furniture appeared functional, chosen without a personal touch, as if pulled directly from a catalog to fill an empty space. There were no photos, no books, nothing to indicate the trace of a person's life. Only efficient emptiness.
His gaze fell on the only object that seemed out of place in the minimalist room: a dark brown leather wallet and a pristine white envelope lying on the table beside his bed. With steady steps, Thomas rose and picked up both items.
The wallet felt real in his hand. When opened, the first slot revealed an identification card. A New York State driver's license with his photo, staring back with a neutral expression he didn't remember making. Below the photo, a name was printed: Thomas Vance. Behind it, several crisp hundred-dollar bills were tucked away.
He set the wallet down and turned to the envelope. There was no name or address on it. As he tore the seal, a neatly folded sheet of thick paper greeted him. The text was typed, not handwritten, and the language was straightforward and to the point.
Welcome to World 1990 (or what you know as the Marvel World). Your initial identity and accommodation have been provided. Your profession as an FDNY Paramedic will begin tomorrow. Schedule details are in the desk drawer.
As a reminder from my colleague, the God of Chaos, your mission to acquire full power has begun. Your Decade Belt is currently empty. New power assets (Cards) can only be obtained through physical intimacy with selected female individuals. A notification system will activate when you are near potential targets. Good luck.
-God of Stories
As his eyes read the sentence about "physical intimacy," a sharp pang of irony pierced his chest. Not horror or disgust, but a distinct echo of Lucy's voice on the phone, so clear as if he had just heard it.
"Do it tonight. From eight o'clock until morning. I want to feel everything, Thomas!"
He recalled his promise, his serious tone when he replied, "Tonight, I'll make you climax until you forget this world."
He died on his way to fulfill that promise, for his first night with the woman he loved, whose playful breakup was merely a prelude to suppressed passion. And now, fate forced him to do the exact same thing with other women, not out of love, but for survival.
Thomas took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. He placed the letter back on the table with a controlled movement. The memory was data from a past life. An unchangeable variable. Complaining about it wouldn't change the mission's conditions. His adaptive nature, forged by years as a paramedic facing chaos with a clear mind, now took full control.
Alright. This was his new reality. He had a place to live, a job, and a mission with very unusual parameters. Time to stop looking back and start working.
With the mission accepted, the next step was inventory. Thomas began with the mundane. He opened the refrigerator and found basic groceries: a carton of milk, a dozen eggs, a loaf of bread, and several bottles of mineral water. Enough to survive, nothing more. His wardrobe was equally functional. Several pairs of jeans, plain t-shirts in neutral colors, and most importantly, a neatly folded set of FDNY Paramedic uniform. Everything felt like standard issue supplies for an agent deployed in the field.
Having finished with his physical assets, he moved on to the more important ones. Standing in the middle of the room, Thomas closed his eyes and concentrated on the warm sensation at his waist. He didn't need to know how; he just knew. When he opened his eyes, a silver belt with a large, complex central piece was fastened around his waist. The Decadriver. It felt familiar, as if it had always been a part of him.
His hand moved to the device hanging on the left side of his belt, the Ride Booker. He opened it like a book. As the letter had stated, all the slots inside were empty, except for one. Carefully, he pulled out the only card he possessed. It felt solid between his fingers. On it was the iconic lightning bolt symbol against a five-color background. The Mighty Morphin Ranger Card. This was his only weapon, his only power for now. A random variable in a mission full of unknowns.
He put the card back and walked to the window. The view of Hell's Kitchen unfolded before him. Dense red-brick buildings, winding iron fire escapes on their sides, and dark, narrow alleys between them. He didn't see it through the eyes of a tourist or an ordinary citizen. He saw it through the eyes of an operator. He noted the flat rooftops that could be escape routes, the deep shadows that could be ambush points, and the street layout that could be a tactical advantage or disadvantage. The change within him was complete. He was no longer an accident victim. He was an agent in hostile territory, and this was his first reconnaissance session.
Thomas turned from the window, leaving the grim view of Hell's Kitchen behind. There was work to be done. He approached the wardrobe and took out his FDNY Paramedic uniform. The dark blue fabric felt sturdy in his hands. With movements that had become habitual over years in his old life, he neatly placed the uniform on a chair, ready for tomorrow morning. His boots were placed beside it. He checked the desk drawer and found his shift schedule, then set the alarm on the cheap digital watch also lying there.
Preparations complete. There was nothing more he could do tonight but wait.
He lay back on the hard bed, hands folded behind his head, staring at the dimly lit ceiling. In the silence, echoes from his past tried to creep back. A glimpse of Lucy's smile, her crisp laugh, and the passionate promise they made on the phone. A promise he could never fulfill.
A momentary pang in his chest, remnants of the man he once was. However, he consciously pushed the feeling away. That man was dead on the asphalt of Manhattan. Dwelling on the past was a luxury he couldn't afford. There was only the mission, survival, and power to be gained.
He closed his eyes, shutting off all unnecessary emotions. His mind shifted from the past to the future, from memories to strategy. Tomorrow, he would wear his uniform, not just as a paramedic, but as an undercover operator. Every emergency call, every interaction, every street corner, all were data.
Tomorrow, intelligence gathering begins.
The morning air in New York was cool, a brief respite before the summer sun turned the concrete streets into a furnace. Thomas arrived at the FDNY station fifteen minutes early, his uniform feeling snug and slightly stiff. Inside, the atmosphere was already lively. The strong, burnt smell of coffee mingled with the faint scent of disinfectant. Some paramedics joked near the coffee machine, while others checked checklists on clipboards with serious expressions. The sound from the communication radio occasionally broke the chatter, reporting the status of other units across the city.
A captain with a thick mustache and a belly bulging from beneath his shirt called Thomas over, then pointed to a man leaning near an ambulance. "Vance! That's your partner, Sal Moretti. He'll look after you. Don't piss him off."
Thomas nodded and walked closer. Sal Moretti looked exactly as Thomas imagined a veteran Hell's Kitchen paramedic would. He was in his fifties, with thinning hair and permanent tired bags under his eyes. He didn't turn as Thomas approached, just sipped his coffee from a paper cup.
"Thomas Vance," Thomas said, extending a hand.
Sal finally turned, his sharp eyes scanning Thomas from head to toe in a flash. He didn't return the handshake, just gave a small nod. "Sal. Ambulance 71. Check your gear, we're leaving in five minutes."
Inside the ambulance, as they began to cruise the streets for their first patrol, Sal finally started talking. "Alright, Fresh Meat, listen up," he said, his eyes fixed on the road. "Forget what you learned in the academy. In Hell's Kitchen, there are three types of calls. One, overdoses. You'll get sick of seeing them. Two, fights. Usually because of gangs, debts, or women. Three, all the other crazy shit you won't believe until you see it yourself."
He paused, as if letting his words sink in. "First rule, kid," Sal continued, his tone flat. "Don't expect too much. We're not here to be heroes, we're patch-up guys. We put on a bandage, take 'em to the hospital, then move on to the next call. Got it?"
"Got it," Thomas replied curtly.
Outwardly, he was a quiet, obedient rookie. Inwardly, his mind worked at high speed. He didn't hear the complaints of a cynical man. He heard raw intelligence reports. Sal Moretti wasn't just a partner; he was an asset. A source of information who had spent years mapping the violent ecosystem of this territory. And Thomas, the good listener, was ready to absorb every detail.
For nearly an hour, they patrolled in comfortable silence. Sal focused on driving, while Thomas scanned the streets, absorbing the layout of his new environment. Suddenly, the silence was broken by static from the radio, followed by the calm, emotionless voice of the dispatcher.
"Unit 71, available?"
Sal pressed the button on the microphone. "71, ready to receive."
"Suspected overdose. Male, 20s. 527 West 45th Street, apartment 4B. Police en route, no indication of violence."
"Received, 71 en route," Sal replied. The next second, sirens wailed, cutting through the city noise. Sal floored the gas pedal, maneuvering the large ambulance through traffic with a veteran's skill. Thomas said nothing, his instincts taking over. He moved to the back, opened the emergency kit bag, checked the naloxone ampules, and prepared the intubation equipment. His movements were quick, efficient, and without hesitation.
The apartment building was exactly as Sal had described: a tired-looking old brick building. The paint in the hallway was peeling, revealing layers of color from previous decades. A faint smell of dampness and urine hung in the air. As he climbed the stairs, Thomas saw spray paint graffiti on the wall: a drawing of an angry bulldog with "K-DOGS" written below it.
They found apartment 4B's door ajar. Inside, on a worn sofa, a young man lay with very shallow breaths and lips beginning to turn blue.
Thomas immediately knelt beside him. "No radial pulse, respirations about six per minute. Pupils pinpoint," he reported to Sal in a clinical tone.
"Narcotics. Give him Narcan," Sal ordered, preparing the ambu bag.
Thomas worked quickly. He injected naloxone into the young man's thigh. While waiting for the drug to react, his eyes never stopped scanning. He saw small bags of heroin with the same bulldog stamp as the graffiti in the hallway, scattered on the coffee table. His mind immediately connected the dots. The graffiti in the hallway. The same logo on the drug packaging. This was 'Kitchen Dogs' territory, as Sal had said. This overdose was part of their supply chain.
A few seconds later, the young man gasped, taking a deep, raspy breath. His eyes opened in confusion. The rescue mission was successful.
As they moved the young man to the stretcher, Sal patted Thomas's shoulder. "Good job, kid. Another one for the books. We'll probably see him again next week."
Thomas merely nodded. In his mind, he made his own notes. One data point successfully collected. The 'Kitchen Dogs' network was actively operating in this block.
Two hours passed quietly. They completed the report for the overdose case and returned to patrolling the streets bathed in the late afternoon sunlight. Sal occasionally pointed to a block or street corner, giving brief comments about gang fights or arrests that had happened there. Thomas absorbed everything like a sponge, building a mental map of his operational area.
Then, the radio crackled again, its tone more urgent this time. "Unit 71, assault reported on 9th Avenue, between 48th and 49th. Grocery store, O'Malley's. Male victim, conscious. Police already on scene."
"Received," Sal replied, and without a pause, the sirens wailed again.
The scene was chaotic. A police car was parked askew in front of the small store, its lights still flashing. Inside, several shelves had toppled over, their contents spilled onto the floor. An old man sat on a chair behind the counter, his head bowed while a younger woman, perhaps his daughter, pressed a cloth to his temple.
"We'll take it from here," Sal said to a young police officer.
Thomas approached the old man. "Mr. O'Malley? My name is Thomas, I'm a paramedic. May I see your wound?"
His voice was calm and reassuring. He gently moved the cloth away. A fairly deep laceration was visible on the man's temple, blood still oozing out. His eyes were swollen and bruised.
"Two guys," the man said, his voice trembling with anger and pain. "Came asking for 'protection' money. When I refused, they..."
"Shh, Dad, don't talk yet," his daughter interrupted. She turned to the police officer. "They were young! One was skinny, with dyed blonde hair. The other was bigger, had a spiderweb tattoo on his neck!"
Thomas heard the description clearly while cleaning the old man's wound. His mind recorded every detail: height, hair color, specific tattoo. Nearby, the police officer jotted notes in his pocketbook with a bored expression. "Alright, ma'am. We'll sweep the area," he said in a tone that didn't sound convincing at all.
As they took Mr. O'Malley to the ambulance to transport him to the hospital, Sal shook his head. "Useless," he muttered softly, just loud enough for Thomas to hear. "The day after tomorrow, or next week, they'll send someone else."
Inside the moving ambulance, Thomas monitored the old man's vital signs. However, in his mind, the data had crystallized into something more than just information. The "Kitchen Dogs" gang was no longer just a name. They had faces, or at least descriptions. And their crimes now had real victims before him, a hardworking old man beaten in his own store.
That night, Thomas returned to his quiet apartment. The fatigue from the long shift was in his muscles, but his mind was remarkably clear. He didn't turn on the television or music. The silence helped him focus.
After showering and changing into a t-shirt and cargo pants, he sat at his small wooden table. He took out a cheap notebook he had bought that morning and a pen. Under the dim light of the desk lamp, he opened the first page.
At the top of the page, he wrote a title in neat capital letters: ASSETS: KITCHEN DOGS.
Below it, he began to list in bullet points, transforming the day's chaos into structured data.
Known Territory: Area around West 45th Street. Active in low-income apartment buildings. Illegal Activities: Heroin distribution (bulldog-stamped packaging). Extortion/ "Protection" money from local businesses (e.g., O'Malley's on 9th Ave). Identified Personnel (Low Level): Subject 1: Male, thin, dyed blonde hair. Subject 2: Male, larger build, spiderweb tattoo on neck.
He stopped writing and stared at the page. This was no longer just notes. This was a target file. The abstract had become concrete. Gang name, modus operandi, and perpetrator descriptions. It was all there.
His hand moved, and the tip of his pen firmly circled the descriptions of the two thugs. They were the first threads to pull.
Thomas closed his notebook. He knew what to do next. He felt no anger or doubt. All he felt was a cold clarity of purpose.
Observation complete, he thought as he turned off the desk lamp, letting the room be enveloped in darkness. Time to plan the intervention.
Two days passed in a monotonous routine. Thomas went through his paramedic shifts, each call an opportunity to validate data and deepen his understanding of Hell's Kitchen. However, his mind was never far from the notebook stored in his desk drawer.
On his third day, he had a day off. His quiet apartment had transformed into a modest command center. He sat at the table, his notebook open to the page titled "ASSETS: KITCHEN DOGS." Beside him, the screen of a cheap laptop he had recently bought displayed a satellite map of the area around O'Malley's Grocery Store.
His eyes moved back and forth between his handwritten notes and the digital image. He traced the most likely routes the two thugs would take, analyzing every alley and back door. His mind worked with cold logic. Extortionists operate on cycles and arrogance. They would return. Most likely within a week, to show consistency. They would come in the late afternoon, when the store wasn't too crowded but the cash register was already full. And they would feel safe, using the same route.
The alley behind the store. That was the perfect ambush point. Isolated, with one easily predictable exit.
His plan was formed. Simple and direct. He didn't plan for a long or complicated fight. His goal was efficiency: get in, neutralize the targets, get out before anyone realized what had happened.
He rose from his chair and walked to the wardrobe. He had no advanced costumes or armor. His preparations were practical. He chose a set of all-dark clothing: a long-sleeved t-shirt, cargo pants, and sturdy boots. Into a small backpack, he packed a bottle of water, a few energy bars, and a roll of plastic zip ties. Minimalist. Just enough to get the job done. His only non-standard equipment was hidden, waiting to be activated.
His plan was solid. His equipment was ready. Now, all that remained was to wait.
The next day, Thomas was in position.
The late afternoon sun hung low in the New York sky, casting long shadows between the brick buildings. From the roof of a building across the street, Thomas had a perfect vantage point. The heat from the tarred roof still radiated onto his palms as he lay prone, hidden behind an old chimney. He aimed his cheap binoculars at the street below, his eyes patiently scanning the crowd.
For nearly two hours, nothing happened. Life in Hell's Kitchen went on as usual. Yellow cabs passed by, pedestrians hurried about their business, and children played on the sidewalk. Thomas waited with cold discipline. He was not an impatient man. In his profession, waiting was part of the job; waiting for a patient to stabilize, waiting for the police, waiting for dawn after a long shift. This was no different.
Suddenly, his focus sharpened.
At the end of the block, two figures recognized from the description in his notebook appeared. They walked with the swagger typical of thugs who felt they owned the streets. One was thin, his pale dyed blonde hair striking in the sunlight. The other was larger, and even from a distance, the dark spiderweb tattoo was faintly visible on the side of his neck as he turned his head.
His prediction was correct.
Thomas's heart began to beat a little faster, not from nervousness, but from the familiar rush of adrenaline. The wait was over. The hunt had begun.
He continued to observe as the two men strolled casually, passing pedestrians indifferently, and stopped directly in front of O'Malley's Grocery Store. After exchanging a few words and a laugh, they pushed the door open and disappeared inside.
Thomas lowered his binoculars. His eyes were now fixed on the mouth of the alley across the street, next to the store. The stage was set. Now, it was time for the main actor to enter.
Thomas moved. Silently, he traversed the rooftop, his movements quick and efficient. He descended the fire escape lightly, landing in the deep shadows at the mouth of the alley behind the store. The air there smelled of garbage and stagnant water. He leaned his back against the cold brick wall, his breathing steady, his hearing alert.
While waiting, a faint, ironic smile played on his lips. He thought, "Perhaps someone would ask why I'm doing this. What else would you expect from a 24-year-old man with a Kamen Rider Decade belt?"
A harsh laugh came from the back door of the store, and his two targets emerged. The blonde was counting some bills, while the spiderweb-necked one grinned with satisfaction. They took a few steps into the alley before finally realizing there was a third figure there.
Thomas stepped out of the shadows. He pulled the only card from his Ride Booker. "Henshin," he muttered.
He inserted the card into the Decadriver and pushed the levers on both sides of the belt.
KAMEN RIDE: MIGHTY MORPHIN!
An emotionless electronic voice announced the result.
BLUE RANGER!
Blue light enveloped Thomas's body, forming a Triceratops helmet, a chest protector with a white diamond pattern, and a sturdy suit. In his hands, two parts of the Power Lance formed and merged into a spear. "A spear. Good for keeping distance," he thought, immediately adapting to his equipment.
The two thugs froze in surprise. "What the hell is this?" exclaimed the blonde, instinctively pulling out a switchblade.
The spiderweb-necked one was faster. He pulled a handgun from under his jacket and fired without hesitation.
BANG!
The bullet hit the center of Thomas's chest. The impact felt no more than a hard pinch. The 9mm bullet dented upon hitting the suit material and fell to the ground with a faint clink. The shooter stared in disbelief. The blonde then charged forward, wildly slashing his knife. The tip of the knife only produced a deafening screech as it scraped the suit's surface without leaving a single mark.
Fear now replaced arrogance on their faces.
Thomas gave them no more time. He took a step forward, spinning the Power Lance in his hand. He didn't thrust. He used the spear like a staff, hitting the shooter's wrist with enough force to dislodge his gun. Before the man could react, the blunt end of the spear struck his kneecap with a dull crack, sending him to his knees with a scream.
The blonde tried to flee, but Thomas was too fast. A hard swing of the Power Lance hit his back, sending him sprawling forward. The fight was over in less than thirty seconds. Quick, brutal, and efficient.
With trained movements, Thomas zip-tied the hands of the two groaning thugs. He didn't say a word. His mission was complete.
He turned and quickly climbed back up the fire escape, disappearing onto the roof just as police sirens began to sound in the distance. From above, he caught a glimpse of the first patrol car arriving. He deactivated his transformation. The blue suit vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving Thomas in his dark clothes. The adrenaline began to recede, replaced by a cold, analytical satisfaction.
He looked at his hands. He had done it.
First intervention successful, he thought before turning and disappearing into the shadows. The data proves this method is effective.