"Park Avenue? Now that's a serious upgrade."
Jessica Jones's eyes lit up slightly, a rare expression for her.
Park Avenue was the spine of Manhattan's elite. Police Plaza was nearby, and City Hall was just across the way. It was arguably the safest stretch of pavement in New York City. Compared to Hell's Kitchen, it was like moving from purgatory to paradise.
"Without Miss Jones to watch my back, I had to find a fortress," Vincent replied with a faint smile. "The broker got back to me yesterday. It's a high-end building."
"Oh, and I heard my neighbor is a cop," he added.
"Looks like you found another good neighbor," Jessica chuckled, the tension in her shoulders relaxing just a bit.
"I've always had good luck with neighbors," Vincent said softly. "Goodnight, Jessica."
"Night, Vincent."
Monday.
In the classroom, Vincent's mind was miles away from the lecture. His attention was glued to the hidden browser window on his phone.
Stark Industries (SIA)
The market had opened to a bloodbath.
Following Tony Stark's erratic return, institutional investors and panic-sellers were dumping stock like it was radioactive waste. In just one hour, the price had plummeted 40%.
Vincent knew this wasn't the bottom.
Obadiah Stane would use this chaos. He would suppress the price further, manipulating the media to drive it down so he could buy back a controlling interest for pennies on the dollar and oust Tony from the board. Stane knew the secret Tony brought back from the cave: Arc Reactor technology. Cold Fusion.
How do you value that? Ten trillion dollars? A hundred? It was the holy grail of physics—infinite, clean energy. In his old life, Cold Fusion was a scientific scam. But this was Marvel. Here, gods walked the earth and magic was real. Turning theoretical physics into a AA battery was just Tuesday.
"In ten years, Stark Industries will be the most valuable company in history," Vincent thought. "Weapons profit is pocket change compared to owning the global energy grid."
He pocketed his phone.
He had shorted at $12. His target cover price was below $6.
Lunchtime.
Sunlight filtered through the trees, dapping the cafeteria tables. Vincent sat alone, picking at the bland school lunch. Around him, students chattered about the weekend, oblivious to the financial war he was waging on his phone.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over his tray.
Vincent stopped eating and looked up. He never looked for trouble. But in a place like Midtown High, being quiet, smart, and Asian made you a magnet for it. Especially with the rich kids.
"Hey, Flash."
Vincent greeted the captain of the football team calmly.
Flash Thompson sneered, his face twisted in arrogant amusement.
"Hey, Vincent. Heard about Zhao?"
Vincent paused. Zhao Meng was an older student he used to pay for protection. He had graduated last year.
"What about him?"
"Dead," Flash laughed. "Got popped in Chinatown. Guess your Triad big brother can't save you now."
Vincent's eyes dimmed slightly. That was a shame. Zhao took the money, but he honored the deal. He kept guys like Flash on a leash.
"Is that so?" Vincent murmured, picking up his spoon. He went back to his mashed potatoes.
CLANG!
Flash slapped the tray, sending food splattering onto the linoleum floor.
"You yellow monkey," Flash snarled, his voice rising for the audience. "Who said you could eat at the table? Get down there. Don't waste food. Lick up that potato mash."
Vincent sat perfectly still.
A large hand grabbed the back of his neck, trying to force his face toward the mess.
"I said eat it!" Flash roared.
His cronies laughed, crossing their arms, enjoying the show.
Vincent's mind flashed to the movies. This was the classic Peter Parker scene. Now it was his turn. My canon event, he thought dryly.
Click.
The sound of a camera shutter made Vincent look up.
Peter Parker?
"Flash, let him go!" Peter shouted, lowering his camera. "You shouldn't be doing this!"
You really are a good guy, Peter, Vincent thought. But seriously? Taking photos for the school paper right now?
"Make sure you get my good side, Parker," Flash threatened, "or I'll break your lens and your face."
Vincent stiffened his neck. Flash pushed, but Vincent didn't budge an inch. It was like trying to push a statue.
Vincent looked around. The cafeteria had gone quiet. Students were watching. Some filmed with phones. None stepped in. They were waiting for the punchline.
Good, Vincent thought coldly. At least I see who you all really are.
"Flash, that's enough!"
A clear, sharp voice cut through the tension. Gwen Stacy pushed through the crowd, her eyes blazing.
"I'm not going to the dance with you, Flash. Right now, you look like a pathetic bully. It's disgusting."
Flash released Vincent, his face flushing red. He glared at Gwen, then at Vincent.
"You're lucky, Hall," Flash spat, shoving Vincent's shoulder one last time. "This isn't over."
He signaled his crew, and they retreated, muttering curses. He wouldn't cross Gwen. Her father was Captain George Stacy, NYPD. Even Flash wasn't that stupid.
"Are you okay?" Gwen asked, her anger melting into concern as she looked at Vincent.
"Just hungry," Vincent said flatly, looking at the mess on the floor. "Waste of potatoes."
"Hey, don't let him get to you," Gwen said softly. "But... you know, you should stand up for yourself sometime."
"Thanks, Gwen." Vincent offered a small, polite smile.
"Don't mention it," she grinned, adjusting her headband. "If you really want to thank me, just score lower than me on the next calculus exam."
"Sure thing," Vincent deadpanned. "Whatever you say, Miss Second Place."
"Excuse me?!" Gwen's eyes went wide, feigning outrage.
Vincent didn't reply. Hands in his pockets, he walked away, his gait relaxed and slow. He headed toward the restrooms.
He knew Flash's routine. After a confrontation, they went to the boys' room to smoke and high-five.
Vincent stood at the bathroom door.
Cough.
The sound echoed off the tiles.
Inside, Flash and his three friends turned around, cigarettes halfway to their mouths.
"I'll give you a handicap," Vincent said, tilting his head. A dark, predatory smile spread across his face. "No hands."
"You suicidal little shit..." Flash stepped forward.
Vincent moved.
It wasn't a fight. It was a blur. Utilizing the footwork of Mizong Boxing, he weaved through their clumsy haymakers.
Thud. Crack. Thud.
One kick to the solar plexus. One sweep to the legs. One heel to the jaw.
In three seconds, three bodies hit the floor, groaning in agony.
Flash Thompson stared, his cigarette falling from his lip. The fear in his eyes was primal.
"Flash," Vincent whispered, stepping over a groaning linebacker. "What did you call me earlier?"
He reached out—breaking his own rule—and grabbed Flash by his varsity jacket, lifting him off his feet with impossible strength.
"Wait! Wait, I—" Flash stammered.
"And what did you tell me to eat?"
Vincent didn't wait for an answer. His voice dropped to absolute zero.
He dragged Flash to the nearest stall, kicked the door open, and forced the quarterback's head into the bowl.
Flush.
Gurgle...