Ben Shaw enjoyed the meal. The portions were generous, and the flavors hit exactly right.
A big pot of rice, beef and potato stew, tomato scrambled eggs, a fresh salad, steak, lamb chops—plenty of fuel.
His cooking leaned Huaxia-style.
His parents might have emigrated, but they were Huaxia through and through.
With a Chinatown in Queens, his tastes naturally skewed East.
Over time, the local environment pushed him toward more Western dishes too.
Thanks to that, he wasn't a stranger to either Eastern or Western cooking.
Western food was simpler—big portions, high fat.
Perfect for him now.
As he ate, he mapped out his next steps. Compared to what was coming, the year 2000 was relatively calm. Not many world-ending events on the immediate horizon—and if something did flare up, the Sorcerer Supreme in Kamar-Taj wasn't exactly a pushover.
In other words, he had roughly a decade of golden development time.
He'd build on Earth first. Once he reached a certain level, he'd look higher.
Right now, Earth was a starter zone. In a bit over a decade, it would turn into a battlefield of bosses and constant crises.
No need to worry about that yet.
For now, his role was simple: grow stronger by hunting people or monsters—preferably ordinary criminals, drug dealers, and gang members.
Vampires, werewolves, and other extraordinary species were out of reach for the moment.
And they weren't easy to find anyway.
Laying low and developing came first. That's why he wore a cap, hood, gloves, and plastic shoe covers when he killed, and used simple, low-splash methods.
He didn't want to leave anything traceable at the scene.
His targets were criminals. To commit crimes, they chose blind spots with no cameras. In this era, surveillance wasn't everywhere.
That gave him ideal hunting grounds.
"I need a dedicated kit for kills. I should learn hacking to pull info online and scrub my own data to avoid being traced—or hire a top hacker. To be determined.
"I also need to study combat and killing techniques—meaning detailed human anatomy. Medical knowledge would help. Firearms, too.
"I need to learn the layout of all of Queens—and the other boroughs—so I can plan multiple exfil routes for every job."
After two rounds of strengthening, Ben thought clearly.
His physical fitness had hit the peak of human potential—maybe around Captain America Steve Rogers' level post-super-soldier serum. But in essence, he was still just human—without World War II experience, without mastery of firearms and multiple fighting styles.
He wasn't there yet.
He wouldn't let a "golden finger" make him reckless. A planned, rational growth path was the only right choice.
Kill, harvest life essence to strengthen, pick up cash on the way, and study hard. Knowledge is power—especially in this universe, where it's literally true.
He finalized the plan. After finishing the rest of the food, he picked up a large cup and downed the milk in one go.
Thump.
The bottom of the cup hit the table with a soft thud. In the dim living room of that old house, the sound might as well have been a death knell for New York—and the world. A God of Death was quietly waking.
...
At the Queens precinct in New York, Captain Simon was raging in his office.
In uniform, standing behind his desk, he slammed a stack of files down and roared, "F—! In just four months, unexplained murders have topped two hundred. You realize there were just over three hundred murders in all of New York last year?"
"In Queens alone we've almost hit that number in four months. What are we doing? What are our officers doing? Burning taxpayers' money?"
Simon was livid, cursing out the assembled precinct heads.
Murder and shootings were nothing new in New York—or the U.S.
Plenty of cases ended cold with no clues, boxed up and archived.
That was normal. What wasn't normal was the spike under his watch—four months of deaths nearing the city's yearly total.
Worse, not a single one of these murders or shootings had been solved in four months.
He was becoming a laughingstock across the NYPD. His subordinates looked useless.
For Simon, less than two years into the job, this could stain his record. The review board would question his competence, open a probe, and likely force him out.
How could he not be furious?
After he vented, the room stayed silent. No one argued; they had nothing to show for four months.
"Sir… we set up a special task force," a middle-aged white precinct chief finally said. "The suspect is extremely cautious—left nothing behind."
Simon slumped into his chair, rubbing his forehead. "Give me something useful."
The chief stepped forward, set a folder on the desk, opened it, and said, "The common thread is this: every victim was a bad guy."
"A bad guy?"