Watson's eyes flickered open, assaulted by a blinding white light overhead. He groaned, the sharp sting lancing through his skull like a jagged blade. His fingers twitched, instinctively trying to shield his face, but the movement sent another jolt of agony ripping through his chest. A choked gasp escaped his lips.
"Whoa there, kid. If I were you, I'd stay still," came a voice, calm yet tinged with amusement.
Watson turned his head slowly, his vision swimming before it settled on the speaker—a middle-aged man with silver-streaked hair and a knowing smile. Doctor G stood beside the bed, jotting something down on a clipboard with the ease of someone who had seen too many patients, too many close calls.
Memories slithered through the fog in Watson's mind, disjointed and elusive, like scattered puzzle pieces refusing to fit. His name—Watson Diarand. His past—a newly discharged conscript, ready to return to civilian life. And then—the screech of tires, the impact, the unbearable cold creeping into his bones.
Doctor G sighed, breaking the silence. "Lucky doesn't even begin to cover it, kid. A steel bar went straight through your lung. By all rights, you should've been dead on the spot." He gestured to Watson's right arm, now encased in a thick cast. "Your arm's busted too. You're gonna be feeling that one for a while."
Watson swallowed thickly as another memory surfaced, sharp and brutal. His uncle. "My uncle…" His voice barely registered above a whisper.
Doctor G's expression softened, but his next words hit like a sledgehammer. "I'm sorry, Watson. Your Uncle Rocco didn't make it. He died on impact."
The world tilted. His breath caught. Uncle Rocco—his mentor, his anchor—gone.
Grief swelled inside him, dark and suffocating, but Watson shoved it down, forcing his expression into something unreadable. He nodded stiffly. "Thanks, Doctor G. I'm… fine."
Doctor G didn't believe him, but he didn't press. With a quiet nod, he stepped out, leaving Watson alone in the sterile, silent room.
---
A City That Doesn't Wait
The days following his discharge blurred into routine. Watson returned to his uncle's auto shop, the place that had once felt like home. Polk and Aunt Liya were there, their concern obvious in the way they hovered. Polk, ever gruff but caring in his own way, pressed a Glock 19 into his palm. "For protection."
The shop was the same—tools scattered across the workbench, the scent of motor oil lingering in the air—yet everything felt different. Rocco wasn't there. His absence loomed like a shadow in every corner.
But the city didn't pause for grief.
A week later, on a cold night, Watson made his way home from the corner store when he saw them. A group of men loitered against a graffiti-covered wall, their leather jackets bearing the unmistakable insignia of the Dark Python Gang.
Their leader, a lanky man with garish purple hair, stepped forward, a sneer twisting his lips. "Well, well. If it ain't the cripple," he taunted. His gang circled Watson like vultures. "This block's ours now. If you're smart, you'll limp back to mommy, boy."
Watson's stomach churned. He knew their reputation—ruthless, violent, relentless. The Dark Pythons had been circling the West Block like sharks, waiting for their chance.
And now, with Rocco gone, they saw their opening.
Watson clenched his jaw but kept his head down. Stay calm. Don't provoke them. He turned to leave, catching the greedy glint in the leader's eyes as he walked away.
That night, he didn't sleep. Instead, he fortified the shop, his military training kicking in like second nature. Barricades. Reinforced doors. Weapons loaded and within reach. Rocco's old shotgun hung on the wall, polished and ready. His heart ached every time he looked at it.
But grief would have to wait.
"This is my home now," he muttered. "And they're not taking it from me."
---
A Storm Brewing
Across the city, the Dark Python Gang's headquarters pulsed with activity. A dimly lit, smoke-filled hideout, alive with the scent of gunpowder, sweat, and ambition.
At the head of a grimy table sat Cohen 'Dark Python' Little, his fingers steepled as he studied a worn city map. His presence was a coiled threat, a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
"Tonight," he hissed, his voice dripping with menace. "The kid's alone. Weak. We crush him, take the shop, send a message."
Leaning against the wall, a woman in a skintight silver suit smirked. Silver Snake, the gang's enforcer. Lethal. Precise. She ran a finger along the map, tapping the West Block. "Leave it to me," she purred. "I'll make it quick."
The city was shifting, a storm brewing beneath its neon lights.
---
The Eyes of Titans
Watson sat in the darkened shop, his pulse steady despite the tension coiling in his gut. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of wind against the boarded windows set his nerves on edge. They were coming. He could feel it.
But what he didn't know—what he couldn't possibly know—was that the world was already watching.
Above the city, a streak of red and gold shot across the sky—Iron Man, his repulsor beams illuminating the skyline.
In Harlem, a deep, guttural roar shook the streets as the Hulk reduced a derelict building to rubble, his rage echoing through the night.
In the shadows, unnoticed, Ant-Man slipped through cracks, uncovering threats that few even knew existed.
And then there was him—a boy standing alone against the storm, unaware of the giants that walked above him.
His fight with the Dark Python Gang was just the beginning.
Because in a world of gods, monsters, and legends, second chances were never given lightly.
And the Avengers were watching.