Guns and weapons lay scattered across the floor. Tables and chairs were upended. Bullet holes pocked the walls. The floor was cracked.
It looked like a war zone—but there wasn't a single body.
The 911 calls said there was a gunfight and a madman massacring people. So where were the corpses?
They'd rushed from the precinct because of how serious it sounded. It took roughly thirty minutes, and sure—maybe someone could move bodies in that time. But the blood? The heads?
The bar was empty. Even without gore, the officers on scene felt a chill.
"John, check the control room—pull the surveillance."
"Lina, canvas outside. I want statements from everyone who was here. And find out if anyone saw anyone enter or leave in the last thirty minutes."
Everyone went to work. The results were predictable.
The surveillance tape was missing—pulled by someone. No one outside noticed anyone coming or going in that half hour. A few men and women claimed they saw the killer at the bar, but their statements sounded vague—fantastical.
They described a blonde bartender being beheaded—her head flying—and then the body igniting in a shower of sparks.
In the dimness, with fear spiking, their first instinct was to run.
No one got a clear look at the killer's face.
The detectives were baffled. Was everyone hallucinating?
Or was the killer a mutant—with some special ability?
While the NYPD puzzled over the Stonewall scene in Brooklyn, Ben Shaw had already exfiltrated along a preplanned route. In 2000, New York didn't have cameras on every corner.
For Ben, finding one or more unmonitored paths was easy.
Back in Queens, though, new cameras had popped up near his building. He knew who to thank for that. He had his own method: skip the sidewalks. He ran the skyline and came home from the rooftops.
By now, after repeated upgrades—especially after tonight's vampire purge—his jump height, explosive power, and coordination were beyond human.
A hundred-meter leap was simple. On raw physicals alone, even a future Spider-Man would be the little brother.
Rooftop parkour got him home without issue.
A quick sweep—sharp eyes and perfect recall told him no one had entered his apartment.
It made sense. With a top spy like Natasha Romanoff, you don't kick doors. That flips the table.
Keep distance. Keep deniability. That was their play.
As for S.H.I.E.L.D. and the human authorities, Ben feared them less and less. Keep your distance, and he'd act like they didn't exist and keep grinding experience. If they pushed their luck, he wouldn't hesitate to cut S.H.I.E.L.D. down.
His stance flexed with his strength.
When weak, you lie low. When strong, you don't flinch.
Flexibility above all.
In this universe, "do not blaspheme the strong" is practically a law. Thor might be a reckless oaf early on, but beneath it is the calculus of power.
I'm stronger than you, so I can indulge you. Cross my line and posture too hard, and I take your head.
Tonight had paid well. Ben followed his routine: cook a good meal, eat, wash up, sleep.
The aftershocks? Not his problem.
The next day, he moved to phase two. He found an abandoned parking structure on the western outskirts of New York.
"Parking lot" was generous—just a big empty concrete shell.
No one lived within a kilometer.
An undeveloped pocket of the city.
He chose it for one reason: the mana surging inside him.
Mana opened new paths. He needed to develop it. His body was already monstrous—he wouldn't chain himself to one lane.
He needed to think—build techniques—make the mana his own.
This place was perfect.
By daylight, Ben began. He'd already drafted a plan: how to control mana and craft moves around it.
Mana is energy. Energy has a core. Through that core, you release it in specific patterns to produce desired effects.
Step one: control—precise, granular control. Whatever the discipline, mastery begins there.
He let mana circulate—through every part of him—bones, organs, muscle fibers, down to the cells.
As it flowed, he tracked the subtleties.
Life essence had strengthened him comprehensively, and his mental power rose with his physique. In raw mental force, he was already beyond many magicians who meditated daily.
At this rate, he believed that purely in mental power, he could surpass Professor X—eventually.
Perceiving internal changes came easily.
He discovered that when mana covered and suffused his organs, bones, and muscle fibers, they entered a state of accelerated reinforcement.
A hypothesis formed.
He focused his mana, sheathing his fist in that flowing energy. Then he stepped out to the open expanse beside the structure and drove his fist down.
Boom!!