The Queensboro Bridge bore the scars of the previous night's battle like wounds that refused to heal. Supporting police units had arrived with the dawn, their vehicles forming orderly lines along the span while crime scene technicians worked methodically through the debris. The morning sun cast long shadows between the bridge's cables, illuminating a scene that looked more like a war zone than a routine traffic stop gone wrong.
Officers gathered around the deep, scorched gash left by John's energy blade, their heavy-duty flashlights tracing its perfectly straight edges with scientific precision. The mark stretched across both lanes of traffic, a canyon of fused asphalt that seemed to glow with its own inner light.
"I thought I was seeing things at the time," Officer Martinez muttered, crouching beside the groove and shaking his head in disbelief.
"What kind of weapon leaves a mark like this?" his partner wondered aloud, the beam of his flashlight revealing the glassy smoothness of the melted roadway.
"I just want to know when we get one," another officer called out, his voice carrying equal parts awe and envy.
Sergeant Marlene squatted down beside the scorch mark, her weathered hands hovering just above its surface. Even twelve hours later, it was still emitting faint wisps of smoke that carried a metallic, ozone-like scent—the smell of reality itself being rewritten. She touched the edge of the groove carefully, her fingertips registering the impossible transformation that had taken place.
The asphalt had been fused into something that felt like obsidian—harder than the original material, smoother than polished glass, yet still retaining a slight residual warmth that spoke of energies beyond conventional understanding. Her cop instincts, honed by decades of investigating crime scenes, told her that the power behind this attack must have been incredible.
This wasn't just advanced technology—it was generations ahead of anything currently on the market, possibly decades ahead of what the military claimed to possess. The precision was surgical, the effect was devastating, and the implications were terrifying.
She gritted her teeth, frustration building like pressure in a boiler. As one of Captain Stacy's most trusted officers, a woman who had earned his respect through years of loyalty and competence, it infuriated her that she had been kept completely in the dark about something this important. The Captain had always been straight with her—or so she'd thought.
I don't know whether to praise him for his excellent operational security or curse him for being such a cunning old fox, she thought, her jaw clenching. He looks so honest with that grandfather face of his, but who knows what other secrets he's hiding in that silver head.
The bitter taste of betrayal—or at least exclusion—sat heavy on her tongue as she stood up, brushing concrete dust from her hands.
The next morning brought the kind of crisp autumn air that made New York feel alive with possibility. Sunlight streamed through the windows of the modest apartment that John and Jane called home, warming the hardwood floors and casting golden rectangles across the kitchen table. The smell of coffee mixed with the aroma of toast and scrambled eggs, creating the kind of domestic atmosphere that felt like safety made manifest.
John finished arranging the breakfast plates with the careful precision of someone who took pride in small gestures of care. "Jane! Are you coming down to eat?" he called up the stairs, his voice carrying the comfortable authority of someone used to managing household routines.
The sound of a door opening echoed from the second floor, followed by the light patter of bare feet on wooden steps. His cousin Jane appeared at the top of the staircase like something from a morning dream—her soft, dark hair catching the sunlight as it flowed around her shoulders in gentle waves. She wore an oversized white t-shirt that fell to mid-thigh, revealing a pair of long, fair legs that spoke of youth and natural grace.
The shirt was one of his old ones, he realized—something she'd appropriated years ago and claimed as her own through the simple expedient of looking better in it than he ever had.
"I'm here," she said, padding into the kitchen with the kind of unconscious elegance that came from being completely comfortable in her own space. She settled into her chair across from him, tucking one leg underneath herself in a gesture so familiar it was like watching muscle memory made visible.
While picking at her scrambled eggs, she glanced up with eyes that sparkled with mischief. "So, John, how are things with that girl of yours?"
"They're good. Why?" His response was automatic, but he could feel heat creeping up his neck—Jane had always been able to read him like an open book, and her knowing smile suggested she'd caught his reaction.
"Just asking," she said, that smile widening into something almost predatory. "Do you need some more money? You should be generous when you're taking a girl out. Girls notice these things, you know."
"Uh, I'm good for cash," John said, reaching into his pocket almost absent-mindedly. He pulled out a thick wad of bills—twenties, fifties, even a few hundreds—and set it on the table with the casual indifference of someone who had genuinely stopped thinking about money as a limiting factor.
Jane's eyes widened, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth as she stared at the small fortune sitting next to the orange juice. "John, where did you get all that?" Her voice carried a note of concern that cut through her earlier playfulness.
In her heart, John had always been the good kid—gentle, honest, sometimes too trusting for his own good. She knew he wouldn't do anything illegal, which only made the sight of so much cash more bewildering. Her mind immediately went to the darker possibilities: loans from questionable sources, gambling, involvement with people who solved problems with more than just money.
"Harry gave it to me," he explained simply, taking a sip of his coffee as if the explanation was perfectly ordinary.
"Why would he give you money?" The question came out sharper than she'd intended, protective instincts flaring to life.
"Harry, Peter, and I are starting a company," John said, his tone suggesting that this was both completely normal and slightly boring. "This is just part of our initial living expenses."
Jane's expression shifted from concern to something closer to exasperation. "Ah, a rich kid's game," she said, her tone turning cautionary as years of working in corporate environments informed her response. "John, be careful messing around with him. High society is a chaotic world—lots of pretty smiles hiding sharp knives."
"Jane, Harry's a good guy. You might have the wrong impression of him." John's voice carried the kind of loyalty that came from genuine friendship, but also the slight defensiveness of someone whose judgment was being questioned.
"I don't know," she said, unconvinced. Her experiences in the working world had taught her to be suspicious of easy wealth and casual generosity. "Look at Tony Stark. He puts on a good show for the cameras, but he's notoriously promiscuous. You shouldn't learn from his example."
"Aren't you still working at Stark Industries? I thought you liked it there." John raised an eyebrow, noting the contradiction between her criticism and her career choice.
"The work is fine," she admitted, her expression souring slightly. "I just dislike him personally. He hit on me the first time we met—right in front of a conference room full of people. And he's unbelievably narcissistic. Everything is about Tony Stark, all the time."
The memory clearly still rankled. John could see it in the way her jaw tightened, the way her fingers drummed against the table. The protective anger that flared in his chest was immediate and intense.
"No way," he said, taking a forceful bite of his toast that made his feelings clear. "Next time I see him, I'll beat him up for you."
Jane laughed—a sound like silver bells that transformed her entire expression. "It's sweet that you'd offer to defend my honor, but you don't need to do that. He's actually one of the better ones, as far as billionaires go."
She didn't take his threat seriously, assuming he was just being a protective younger cousin. The idea of John—barely eighteen and still growing into his adult frame—confronting someone like Tony Stark struck her as both endearing and naive.
"I'm serious. If anyone harasses you, you call me," he said, his voice carrying a weight that made her look at him more carefully. There was something in his eyes, something that suggested he wasn't just making empty promises. "I'm on good terms with Harry's dad now, too. I can ask him for help. I put his number in your phone."
"I know you did," she smiled, touched by his concern even if she couldn't quite take it seriously. "But why are you kids worrying about my problems? I can handle myself."
"Don't treat me like a child," he said, frustration creeping into his voice as he leaned forward slightly. "I can be your support now. I can take care of things."
There was something in his posture, something in the way he held himself, that was different from the boy she remembered. When had he started carrying himself like someone who expected to be taken seriously? When had his voice gained that note of quiet authority?
"Alright, alright, you're a grown-up," she chuckled, though her eyes continued to study him with new attention. His confident expression was almost comically serious, but there was something underneath it that gave her pause.
John rubbed his forehead in exasperation, feeling the familiar frustration of being perpetually underestimated by the person who mattered most to him. She still saw him as the little kid she'd helped raise, the teenager who'd needed her guidance and protection. The disconnect between his new reality and her perception of him was becoming increasingly difficult to navigate.
"Jane, you... never mind. I have to go." He started to push back from the table, but her voice stopped him.
"Wait," she called out, her tone shifting to something more serious. "John, I heard you've been skipping school a lot. Is it because of this company you're starting with Harry?"
"Something like that," he admitted, not quite meeting her eyes. The truth was infinitely more complicated—how could he explain that traditional education seemed irrelevant when he was already working to change the fundamental structure of human society?
"But I'm not that busy," he added quickly, seeing the worry lines forming around her eyes. "If you ever get into real trouble—I mean real trouble—you can call me. I can solve it."
"I know you'd try," she said softly, her voice carrying the kind of gentle condescension that made his chest tighten with frustration. "The main thing is, are you still planning on going to college?"
"Probably not," he replied, the words coming out more bluntly than he'd intended. "I don't think I need to."
Jane's expression shifted to something between concern and disapproval. "I think you should reconsider," she advised, her voice taking on the patient tone she'd used when he was younger and she was trying to teach him important life lessons. "Harry starting a company is just for fun—something to do before he takes over his father's business. If it fails, you'll still need to find a real job. And without a college degree, that's not easy in today's market."
"Jane, you don't need to worry about me." John's voice carried a note of finality that surprised both of them. "Money, work... those are trivial matters now."
The words hung in the air between them, creating a moment of silence that felt heavy with unspoken implications. Jane stared at him, trying to reconcile the boy she'd raised with this young man who spoke about money and career prospects like they were beneath his consideration.
"You little rascal, lecturing your older sister now," she chided, but her tone was gentler than her words suggested. "You'll see you were wrong when you're broke and have to come asking me for help."
"That will never happen," John said, his voice carrying absolute conviction. The certainty in his tone was so complete that it gave her pause—this wasn't teenage bravado, it was something deeper.
"Alright, still stubborn as ever," she sighed, standing up from the table with fluid grace. Her expression shifted to something playful and fond, the kind of look she'd given him since he was small. "Come here and give your sister a hug before you go save the world."
"No, I'm too old for that," he protested, even as he found himself rising from his chair. "You still treat me like I'm ten years old."
Jane ignored his refusal completely, closing the distance between them with a few quick steps. She wrapped her arms around him with the easy affection of someone who had been hugging him goodbye for years, her familiar presence enveloping him like a warm blanket.
Her subtle fragrance—something light and floral that he'd been unconsciously associating with home and safety for as long as he could remember—washed over him. The scent triggered a complex mix of emotions: comfort, frustration, protective love, and something else he couldn't quite name.
He felt his body stiffen for a moment as he became acutely aware of how she felt against him—the warmth of her through the thin cotton of her shirt, the way her hair tickled against his cheek, the soft pressure of her arms around his shoulders. When had she stopped feeling like just his cousin? When had these innocent gestures started creating this strange tension in his chest?
He sighed, confusion and affection warring in his mind, and gently hugged her back. Her embrace was fierce, almost desperate, as if she was trying to hold onto something that was slipping away from her.
After she had held him for what felt like both forever and not nearly long enough, he couldn't help but ask, "Are you alright, Jane?"
She reluctantly let go, but not before reaching out to pat his chest with the kind of casual intimacy that made his breath catch. Her hand lingered for just a moment, and he could feel the warmth of her palm through his shirt.
"You're in good shape," she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief that didn't quite hide something deeper—a kind of melancholy that made him want to pull her back into his arms.
"Jane, stop it," he said, his voice coming out rougher than he'd intended. Heat crept up his neck as he stepped back, creating distance that felt both necessary and wrong. "Maybe you should find a boyfriend."
"Ugh, I can't stand most of them," she sighed dramatically, but her eyes never left his face. "They're all so... ordinary. Selfish and small-minded and boring." She paused, her expression growing wistful. "If only I could find a man who was half as good as you."
The words hit him like a physical blow, creating a tightness in his chest that he couldn't identify. "Whatever you want," he managed, shaking his head as if he could dispel the strange atmosphere that had settled between them. "Worst case, I'll just support you for life. I have to go."
"Be good to that girl, okay?" she called after him as he headed toward the door, her voice carrying a complex mix of affection and something that might have been resignation. "And if you don't know how, come ask your sister for advice. I know about these things."
"I know! Goodbye, Jane." John waved without looking back, afraid that if he turned around, he might see something in her eyes that would complicate his world even further.
"Take care of yourself," she whispered, though he was already too far away to hear.
Jane stood in the doorway long after the sound of his footsteps had faded, her arms crossed over her chest as if she were trying to hold something inside. The morning sunlight caught in her dark hair, and her expression shifted through a dozen different emotions—love, worry, longing, and a kind of sad acceptance that spoke of feelings too complex to name.
The apartment felt suddenly empty without him, too quiet, too still. She touched her lips unconsciously, remembering the scent of his cologne, the solid warmth of him in her arms, the way his voice had changed when he'd promised to take care of her.
When did he stop being a little boy? she wondered, her heart aching with a mixture of pride and loss. And when did I start looking at him like...
She couldn't finish the thought, even in the privacy of her own mind. Some truths were too dangerous to acknowledge, even to herself.
Instead, she watched the street where he'd disappeared until the morning grew too bright to bear, then slowly closed the door on another day of pretending that everything between them was still simple, still safe, still just the innocent love between cousins who had grown up together.
But the way her heart was beating suggested that nothing about this was simple anymore.
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