"Luke is a man with noble aspirations," Leonardo said after a brief pause, his tone carrying a strange mix of admiration and hesitation. The words sounded like praise on the surface, but the expression on his face told a different story, one that made it clear this wasn't entirely a compliment.
He let out a quiet breath before continuing, his voice dipping slightly as if weighing each word. "He works two jobs every day. It's… honestly unbelievable. The discipline alone is insane, even for someone like him."
Locke listened without interrupting, his gaze steady as he processed the report. There was no reaction on his face, but the faint shift in his posture suggested he was already forming conclusions.
"I tracked him down to a barbershop called 'Old Man,'" Leonardo went on, his tone sharpening as he recalled the scene. "You wouldn't believe it if you saw it yourself. A guy with skin harder than steel, someone who could take bullets without flinching, standing there quietly washing a customer's hair like it was the most normal thing in the world. He didn't look like a hero at all."
At first, Leonardo had assumed it was some kind of eccentric habit, maybe even a deliberate disguise. But the longer he observed, the more the truth became obvious, stripping away any illusion of mystery.
"He's not hiding anything," Leonardo said flatly. "He's just broke. During the day, he cleans up wherever he can find work, and at night, he's washing dishes in a nightclub owned by Connor—the guy they call 'Cottonmouth.'"
Locke's eyes narrowed slightly, a faint glint of interest flickering through them. "And you followed him for how long?"
"A week," Leonardo replied without hesitation, nodding once. "At first, I couldn't find a good way to approach him without raising suspicion. He's cautious, more than most. But then something happened that changed things."
His grip tightened around the hilts of his twin swords as he continued, the memory clearly still fresh. "The gang activity around that nightclub spilled over into the barbershop. Gunfire broke out right in front of innocent customers. One of them was shot in the head, and the shop owner—the old man himself—had his arm shattered. Luke stepped in to protect the owner's son."
Locke tilted his head slightly, his voice calm but direct. "And you chose to intervene?"
"Of course," Leonardo answered immediately, his tone carrying a hint of pride. "Luke doesn't trust easily, so I gave him a reason to. I intercepted one of the gang members before he could get a clear shot, and after that, it just flowed naturally. We fought side by side and wiped out their stronghold."
A faint, almost feral satisfaction crept into his expression as he spoke, his earlier restraint slipping just a little. "It's a shame there weren't more of them. They barely put up a fight."
Locke absorbed the information in silence, the pieces clicking together in his mind with unsettling clarity. Heroes like Luke—people who tried to do the right thing despite everything—always seemed to follow the same pattern. No matter how deep they sank into the filth of the world, something would eventually drag them back into the spotlight.
Even gold thrown into a cesspool didn't stay buried forever.
His thoughts drifted briefly to the casualties mentioned, the innocent people caught in the crossfire. The death of a single customer, or even several, wouldn't go unnoticed. It would ripple outward, drawing attention, pulling Luke into the center of a storm he couldn't avoid.
Trouble was coming for him. That much was certain.
And when it did, Locke would be ready.
After all, this was Luke Cage—a man whose body could withstand bullets and explosions, whose resilience bordered on absurd. A fighter who had spent years in Hell's Kitchen, standing his ground against criminals and chaos alike. Someone who would eventually stand among the Defenders, protecting a fragile sense of justice in a broken city.
More importantly, he was stubborn. That kind of personality made him predictable in certain ways, and more importantly, it made him someone who could be pulled into Locke's orbit.
Locke had already secured the allegiance of two key pieces—Iron Fist and Daredevil. Leaving Luke and Jessica out of the equation would make the entire setup feel incomplete, like a structure missing its final supports.
There was no reason to leave things half-finished.
He gave Leonardo a simple instruction, his tone carrying quiet authority. The objective was clear—make contact, build trust, and pull Luke in when the moment was right.
As Leonardo accepted the order, Locke's thoughts briefly wandered, brushing against the absurd resilience of Luke's body. Even with the inherent limitations of human biology, the man could withstand damage that would obliterate anyone else. It was almost ridiculous to think about.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Locke's lips as a particularly dark thought crossed his mind, but before he could dwell on it any further, a familiar mechanical chime echoed in his mind.
[Ding! Congratulations, host. You have triggered a random mission.]
——
Times Square had turned into something unrecognizable.
What was once a place filled with light, laughter, and endless noise had been swallowed by chaos. Smoke and dust hung thick in the air, drifting like a suffocating fog, while embers flickered weakly across the shattered ground. The atmosphere felt heavy, oppressive, as if the city itself was holding its breath.
Cries of pain and terror echoed from every direction, overlapping into a chaotic symphony of suffering. People staggered through the wreckage, some injured, others simply too shocked to process what had happened. The air was filled with desperate pleas and bitter accusations, each voice adding to the overwhelming noise.
"Please, someone help us!" a man shouted, his voice cracking as he tried to lift a fallen beam off someone trapped beneath it.
"This is that mutant's doing. We have to kill him!" another voice yelled, raw with anger and fear.
"Is this the end? Is someone trying to wipe us out?" a woman cried, her words dissolving into sobs.
"Damn mutant freak!"
Even in the middle of the chaos, someone managed to call the police, their trembling fingers dialing for help as the situation spiraled further out of control.
——
Inside the New York Police Department, the atmosphere shifted instantly as reports of the incident came in. Officers who had been casually going through their routines just moments earlier were suddenly on edge, their expressions tightening as the gravity of the situation became clear.
An explosion in the middle of the city's busiest district wasn't something that could be ignored or contained quietly. Whoever was responsible had either lost their mind or simply didn't care about the consequences.
For the officers on the ground, the weight of what they were walking into was already settling in. But for Chief George Stacy, the situation was even more frustrating.
He had barely recovered from the ordeal of rescuing his daughter, and now this.
"Do we deploy immediately?" Misty Knight asked, her tone sharp with anticipation. There was a spark in her eyes, the kind that came from someone who thrived in high-pressure situations.
George exhaled slowly, forcing himself to steady his thoughts before giving the order. "If not now, then when?" he said, his voice firm despite the fatigue weighing on him. Within moments, he had organized two teams and was already moving toward the epicenter of the disaster.
As New York's so-called shield, they didn't have the luxury of hesitation.
——
At the center of it all, Max stood frozen.
The devastation around him felt unreal, like something pulled straight out of a nightmare he couldn't wake up from. The ground was scorched black, the air thick with the smell of burning, and the people scattered across the scene were either unconscious or writhing in pain.
A crushing wave of guilt slammed into him, stealing the air from his lungs.
He hadn't meant for any of this to happen.
He had just been an electrician before all of this—just another invisible face in a city full of them. He had never asked for power, never wanted to become something people feared.
"Bang… bang… bang…"
Max suddenly brought his fists down against his own head, over and over, as if trying to knock the thoughts out of his mind. The sound echoed dully, each impact heavier than the last as he dropped to his knees.
"What did I do?" he muttered, his voice shaking as the weight of reality crushed him. "How did it turn into this? I didn't want this… I didn't want any of this…"
His body trembled as he leaned forward, his hands pressed against the ground as if he could somehow anchor himself. The guilt, the fear, the confusion—it all twisted together into something unbearable.
"I'm guilty," he whispered hoarsely, the words barely audible.
A sharp metallic sound cut through the air.
Max lifted his head, his vision blurring slightly as something rolled to a stop in front of him. It was a shield, its surface gleaming despite the surrounding destruction, a bold star emblazoned across its center.
Recognition hit him a second later, followed by a cold, sinking feeling.
Before he could react, a figure stepped into view, clad in a familiar battle suit, his presence commanding and unyielding. Even behind the mask, there was an unmistakable sense of authority, a brightness that stood in stark contrast to the devastation around them.
But when he spoke, his voice carried none of that warmth.
"Put your hands behind your head and kneel," Captain America said, his tone cold and resolute. "Don't even think about resisting. Based on the casualties you've caused, we have every right to execute you on the spot."
.....
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