Hell's Kitchen
"What's the plan now?" one of the men asked, his eyes darting nervously across the dimly lit warehouse.
"We find Jimmy," the leader growled, his tone sharp.
"Yeah? Then where the hell is he?" another snapped. "He should've been here thirty minutes ago!"
"I don't know," the leader replied, scanning the space, his hand resting on his holstered weapon.
The five men stood scattered in the warehouse, surrounded by crates and rusted machinery. The air was heavy with the stench of oil and damp metal. A single flickering bulb provided the only light—until it didn't.
The bulb blinked out, plunging the room into darkness.
"What the—"
A scream shattered the silence.
"Ahhh!"
"Max?" one man shouted. "Max, where are you?"
"Shit," the leader hissed. "We're under attack. Stay sharp!"
A sudden crash echoed as a crate flew through the air, knocking two men off their feet.
"Fuck! What is this?" one of them cursed, scrambling upright.
Before he could fully stand, a shadow darted toward him. A hand clamped down on his arm, twisting it with brutal precision. A loud crack followed, and he collapsed, screaming in pain.
"Focus!" the leader shouted, spinning around, but the shadow vanished into the darkness.
Another man was taken down in seconds—a disarmed weapon, a sharp punch, and he hit the floor, unconscious.
The last man tried to strike from behind, but the shadow moved too fast. His wrist was caught mid-air, twisted violently, and he was slammed into a stack of crates.
The silence that followed was broken by slow, measured footsteps. A masked figure stepped forward.
"Looking for Jimmy?" the voice was cold. "Don't bother. He's not coming."
With that, the figure vanished back into the shadows.
Queens
John entered the house, his expression calm but focused. He tossed his jacket onto the couch and walked toward the desk in the corner of the room.The screen illuminated his face in the dim light.
It had been three weeks since John activated the Jason Todd template. After establishing his new identity and moving to his house in queens, he had started working in Hell's Kitchen. Beginning with low-level gangs, he used each encounter to test his skills and deepen his assimilation with the template. Template transformation prevent someone to make any connections between him and him.
Each fight wasn't just survival—it was a calculated effort to refine his abilities. Every gang dismantled, every opponent subdued, brought him closer to mastery. Jason's combat instincts were now blending seamlessly with his own. The criminals were merely stepping stones on his path.
John smirked as his fingers danced over the keyboard. On the screen was a list of known gang hideouts, marked with detailed notes about their operations and vulnerabilities. His approach was meticulous and efficient, almost surgical.
"This is just the beginning," he murmured.
The Jason Todd template wasn't just about fighting—it was a way of thinking. And John had no intentions of stopping.
Hell's Kitchen wasn't chosen out of altruism. John wasn't there to fight crime—he was there to exploit it. The chaos, the gang wars, and the criminal underbelly provided the perfect playground for honing his skills.
Rumors swirled about a recent battle between Daredevil and Bullseye. To everyone's shock, Bullseye had emerged victorious, leaving Daredevil injured and out of commission. The resulting power vacuum was an opportunity John intended to seize.
His gaze landed on one name in particular: Wilson Fisk aka Kingpin
He is not interested in taking him down atleast till now . Fisk was the key to understanding the criminal underworld and the political games that controlled it.
"Some things can't be found in digital files," John thought, leaning back in his chair. "Sometimes, the old ways are best."
He just needed to find the right person to meet.
For now, he pushed the Kingpin aside and shifted his focus to another target.
Johnny Blaze.
A well-known motorcycle stunt performer, Blaze was famous for his death-defying tricks and miraculous survivals. John replayed one of Blaze's videos, the footage showing him walking away unscathed from a crash that should have killed him.
"People call him lucky," John muttered, studying the screen. "But I know better."
Anyone else in that situation would have been a corpse. Blaze wasn't just lucky—he was something else.
John leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he look at Johnny waving hands to the audience. "Looks like the Ghost Rider events are about to begin."
The Rider's abilities, particularly the Penance Stare, would be a problem."But it's not impossible to avoid," he murmured.
Shaking off the thought, John shifted his focus to his final target: AZI Pharmaceuticals and its CEO, Max Adam.
Max Adam had a tragic personal history. He was married, but his wife passed away just two years into their marriage. During that time, she had been pregnant and gave birth to a daughter. Sadly, the child didn't live long, passing away at the age of 11.
"People would never suspect that this tragic man, grieving for his wife and daughter, is secretly experimenting on mutants," John muttered, his voice dripping with disdain.
He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, as his gaze flicked across the gathered files on Max Adam and AZI Pharmaceuticals. On the surface, Max appeared to be a broken father, pouring resources into medical advancements to save lives. But beneath the facade, his company's dark experiments told a very different story.
"But why?" John asked aloud, his thoughts racing. "Why risk so much to develop a drug that enhances mutant abilities? Is it for profit? A power play in the pharmaceutical world?"
It didn't add up. The risks were astronomical, especially with how closely governments and mutant advocacy groups monitored mutant-related research. Even a whisper of illegal testing on mutants could destroy his company and his reputation.
"No," John said, shaking his head. "Money doesn't explain it. Max Adam isn't that reckless, not with so much to lose. And even if he's desperate enough to cut corners, he's smart enough to bury the evidence so deep no one could ever find it."
He scrolled through a list of AZI's patents, many of them connected to cellular regeneration and neural enhancement. The patterns were subtle but undeniable. Max wasn't just developing a drug to enhance abilities—he was building something specific, something he needed to succeed at all costs.
"Whatever this is, it's personal," John muttered, narrowing his eyes.
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