Chapter 5: What Arms Dealer Doesn't Sell His Goods to Two Companies?
American journalists often claim to "arrive at the scene earlier than the police." There is, however, one glaring exception — when the scene itself is created by the police.
So it was with the shooting of the black Air Force pilot in San Francisco. By the time the first reporters swarmed the neighborhood, the white officer Jack Bryan had already vanished, escorted quietly by superiors. All that remained was a stretcher, an ambulance, and the unconscious body of Will Fortson.
Had Will been conscious, the vultures with cameras would have descended immediately — waving microphones in his face, bribing paramedics for "exclusive access." Would they have delayed the rescue? Certainly. But in this land where capital reigns as God, who cares about a single black man's life when ratings and clicks promise a bigger payday?
After all, tragedy is just another headline — and the darker the victim, the brighter the studio lights.
The two black men once "kneeled to death" before the nation's eyes had also been robbed of time. When ambulances tried to reach them, journalists' cars blocked the street. The last words they ever spoke — "I can't breathe" — had made millions cry, tweet, and then forget.
And when it was all over, the same reporters who had suffocated them under camera flashes wiped away crocodile tears on live TV, condemning racial injustice while smiling at their soaring viewership bonuses.
The blacks died. The whites profited. And America moved on — brighter than before.
But young Will Fortson wasn't as naïve as the others thought. He was pretending to be unconscious, his mind burning with fury and the voice of the devil whispering beneath it. He wanted to make this bigger — much bigger.
Meanwhile, the "news vultures" on-site pieced together the story through gossip and eyewitnesses. A white cop shooting a black Air Force pilot — it was perfect.
Racism. Excessive force. Military versus police authority. Every word screamed "viral."
"Boss! I need air time now!" shouted a frantic reporter into his mic. "We've got gold here — racial tension, military outrage, human rights — all in one shot!"
"Yes! Big news! Huge!"
Newsrooms from San Francisco to New York lit up. In an age when superheroes dominated headlines and alien invasions had briefly stolen humanity's thunder, a grounded story like this — real blood, real skin, real outrage — was priceless.
Within hours, TV stations across the country aired the footage, stirring the old racial wounds that never truly healed. It was 2008 — the year "Black Lives Matter" had become a slogan, and the Democrats were polishing their first black presidential candidate for the upcoming election.
Public opinion exploded. Protesters gathered overnight. Social media boiled. And in New York, civil rights attorney Ben Collenson — sharp-tongued, ambitious, and cynical — saw his chance.
"Find out who represents this Will Fortson," he barked at his assistant. "Call his family, now. I'm taking this case personally."
He threw his schedule aside and booked the next flight to California. This case was his jackpot — fame, talk shows, money, moral high ground. "Even if Jesus himself shows up," he sneered, "I'm not letting anyone else have this one."
Hours later, when Collenson arrived at the San Francisco hospital, he expected chaos, death, and cameras. Instead, he walked into the intensive care unit — and froze.
The atmosphere was… off. The Air Force liaison, hospital staff, and Fortson's family stood around the bed, faces twisted in confusion. The man who should have been riddled with bullets was sitting up, breathing easily.
Bandages covered his torso, but his wounds were superficial — skin grazes and shallow burns, nothing close to fatal.
"What the hell…?" Collenson muttered.
He had imagined martyrdom, headlines, and fiery speeches. Instead, he found a man who looked like he'd survived a paintball match. How could he fan the flames of national outrage with this?
Still, the lawyer quickly regained his composure. Adjusting his tie, he stepped forward with practiced sympathy. "Mr. Fortson, I'll be your representative in pursuing justice and compensation from the San Francisco Police Department. If you have any requests, any demands — tell me."
"This warrior of justice," he thought, "will not fall under my watch."
The Air Force representative said nothing. He was staring too closely at the wounds. The skin around the impact zones bore heat scoring — the kind caused by high-velocity rounds — yet the depth barely broke the flesh. He frowned.
"Will," he asked carefully, "how are you still alive after six shots at close range?"
He knew the standard-issue police firearms — modified StarkTech kinetic pistols developed under the Homeland Security Enhancement Act. Their rounds could punch through metal. Even army-grade ballistic vests couldn't have saved this man.
Something was wrong.
"I… I don't know…" Will stammered, unsure how to explain. The truth — that the bullets had melted into smoke before piercing his heart — seemed impossible.
And then, in his head, the devil spoke.
"Confess."
Lin Hao's voice — deep, cold, resonant — rippled through Will's consciousness. Across the continent, in his New York branch lab under the Shenlei Bureau's covert S.H.I.E.L.D. cover, Lin Hao smiled faintly, monitoring through his Demonic Resonance Array.
Originally, he had planned to discard Will after collecting enough resentment energy. But the transformation results had exceeded expectations. The defective Artificial Zoan Fruit — reverse-engineered from Vegapunk's early prototypes and enhanced with Lin Hao's demonic energy — had produced a hybrid unlike any before.
When Lin Hao's imp first retrieved the "Smile Fruit" blueprint from the One Piece world, it was a mess — a half-complete imitation by Caesar Clown. Vegapunk had dismissed it as a failure for its uncontrollable color mutations and unstable gene splicing. But to Lin Hao, it was a perfect weapon base.
His version could reconstruct itself around a host's demonic signature, preserving transformation freedom while binding the soul. Unlike Caesar's "Smiles," which warped users into mindless beasts, Lin Hao's variant allowed reversion — though not without a price.
A perfect soldier — obedient, deadly, and morally hollow.
He smirked. "What arms dealer," he mused, "doesn't sell his goods to both sides?"
Lin Hao's company, Inferno Biotech, was already feeding weapons data to both S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra, playing them against each other while secretly testing demonic augmentations under both banners.
For America's streets, he offered "non-lethal restraint enhancers." For Hydra's agents, he supplied Zoan-class mutations. Both believed they were the only buyers. Neither realized they were just fueling the Demon King's grand experiment.
Back in the hospital, Will's muscles twitched beneath the sheets. The black sheen of his skin darkened slightly — as if absorbing light itself. His heart pulsed with unnatural rhythm, each beat whispering of the abyss.
He could feel Lin Hao's will inside him — cold, vast, commanding.
The Demon King had found his first American vessel.
And as Will lifted his gaze toward the ceiling, faint crimson sparks flickered in his pupils.
Outside, cameras flashed. Inside, something unholy opened its eyes.