Lucius sat on the driver's seat with a smile frozen on his face while his Tahoe got dragged onto the flatbed like a dead whale.
The tow truck's winch whined. The chain rattled. The driver moved with the bored confidence of a man who had heard every excuse in New York.
Lucius felt the rear wheels lift.
He had returned to his car after what qualified as a minor murder case in his new life. He had removed a lowlife from the streets. He had improved the local crime statistics by one whole unit. He had even done it without blowing up a building or punching a journalist.
Apparently, the universe did not reward civic service.
He kept smiling because the driver kept looking at him like he was a problem waiting to happen.
"Sir," the driver muttered, not turning fully, "you can argue with the city. I do not own the law."
Lucius breathed in slowly.
The street smelled like exhaust and winter slush. A bus hissed at the corner. People walked past without looking, because New York was allergic to other people's disasters.
"I am law-abiding," Lucius replied. "Upstanding and a model citizen. I returned to my vehicle after doing nothing wrong besides improving society."
The driver's shoulders rose and fell.
"Your car was parked in a no-standing zone," he replied. "And somebody called it in."
Lucius stared at the sign.
He clearly remembered there was no sign while he was parking. He glanced across the street. A woman in a dark coat stood near a storefront window. Her posture stayed too still. Her gaze stayed too interested. Lucius's smile did not reach his eyes. So that was the game. He got out of his car and sighed.
Their time will come. One by one, he will deal with these people. He did not forgive, he will not forget. He will make them pay in the most petty way possible.
"Can we settle this like adults?" He asked while leaning towards the driver. "I give you money, you pretend you never saw me, and we all have a better day."
The tow driver snorted.
"Not worth my license," he replied. "Not worth the paperwork."
Lucius's tongue pressed against his teeth.
"Of course," he muttered. "Morals. In towing. This is where the city draws its line."
The driver climbed into the truck.
The engine turned over.
Lucius watched his Tahoe roll away like it was being kidnapped by a very lazy criminal.
He stood there for a moment, then the smile cracked.
Profanity poured out, low and ugly, meant for the air and the watchers and the cosmic thing that thought this was funny.
"What is wrong with this world," he hissed. "Can a man not return to his car after one tiny homicide?"
The woman across the street turned her head slightly as if she had heard.
Lucius smiled at her and waved. Then he walked the other direction. He took a cab to the impound lot and waited in a line that smelled like cold coffee and despair.
A clerk behind thick glass moved at the pace of someone paid to waste your day.
Lucius slid his paperwork under the slot.
The clerk glanced at it.
He glanced at Lucius.
He glanced at it again.
"That will be one hundred fifty for the tow," the clerk replied, then added the fees like he enjoyed them. "And storage. And processing."
Lucius listened until the number stopped climbing.
A couple of benjamins later, his hand cramped from signing forms that all said the same thing in different fonts.
He drove out of the lot, gripping the steering wheel like it had betrayed him personally.
Dark murmurs followed him down the road. He did not like being toyed with. He liked to be the one doing it. The only thing that lifted his devastated morale was the regular queue in front of his house.
Cars lined the curb. A couple of limos. Men in coats. Women with expensive scarves. A few drivers were standing near doors like they were guarding kings.
Then he noticed the detail that made his mouth twitch.
Three houses on his left and right had moving trucks outside. Boxes. Tape. Furniture wrapped in plastic. People loading their lives into cardboard with rushed, nervous hands.
Lucius parked and watched for a second. He could almost hear the conversation. A polite offer. A number too high to refuse.
He was sure that the new owners were private citizens who loved the neighbourhood and paid extra for real estate because they believed in community.
Not agents or spies. He almost respected the effort. Almost. Lucius walked past the queue and unlocked his door.
The sitting room looked the same at first glance. At second glance, it screamed.
The throw pillow on the couch sat at the wrong angle. The curtain edge on the window had a new crease. A book on the shelf leaned differently than it had. Someone had searched again.
They had tried to be careful. Lucius shut the door and walked straight to the bedroom. He pulled the curtains closed. Queens outside vanished.
The room turned pitch black, no streetlight sneaking in, no glow from the neighbourhood. Just darkness.
He breathed once. Put on a hoodie, then he focused on the new ability he had stol.. earned with remarkable, respectable effort.
Houston.
A dark alley and the smell of garbage. He pictured it hard, and the world snapped.
Next time, he would find another place to jump. That was sure. The smell was horrible here in the damned alley.
The city noise changed. Different rhythm. Different sirens. Different distances between buildings.
Lucius stood in a narrow alley behind a row of closed shops, trash bags stacked against a wall, a cat watching him like it had seen worse.
He tugged the hood forward, glanced around. A grin stretched across his face.
He let out a short cackle.
"Let them find me now," he muttered. "Fuckers."
The first thing he did was buy apples, spinach, bananas, oats and honey in bulk.
Not from one store, he bought from multiple stores. Paranoia was a healthy habit in Marvel.
A grocery store with bright lights and bored cashiers.
A smaller produce place with a man behind the counter who did not ask questions.
Another store on the other side of the road, just to make the pattern messy.
He paid in cash.
He carried the bags like an ordinary man with a weird diet.
Next came camping stoves. He bought ten of them. Nine backups, his relationship with luck was 'complicated'.
He bought pots too. Cheap metal, good enough to boil, easy to ditch if needed. He grabbed bottled water because he did not trust the park taps. By the time he was done, his inventory felt like a moving truck.
He walked toward the nearest park. It was the Cullinan Park.
The entrance sign looked innocent. Trees, paths, a few benches. The kind of place where people brought dogs to walk or run in the morning.
Lucius picked a spot away from the main path, near thicker trees, where the sound of traffic softened.
He unfolded the stove on a flat patch of dirt, shielded from view by bushes.
The metal clicked. The canister hissed, and a small blue flame appeared.
He set the pot down and poured water. He started chopping apples with a pocketknife.
Spinach leaves followed. Honey drizzled in slow lines. He watched the pot.
Ten minutes passed in silence. Four vials appeared in the pot. Blessed Brewing was either a miracle that made him smile every time. Pay half, get double. How glorious.
Again, another ten minutes, another four vials. He kept the rhythm.
He brewed both LHP and LSP, alternating, singing God Bless the USA by Lee Greenwood. It made the minutes pass without boredom.
Five hours later, the sun had shifted, and his hands smelled like fruit and honey.
His inventory swallowed every vial.
He wiped the pot, packed the stove, and checked the ground for anything suspicious. He collected the trash and walked toward a bin to drop it.
A jogger passed on the path. Lucius stayed still behind the bushes until the footsteps faded.
He moved behind a tree and pictured his bedroom.
Pitch black, curtains closed, the familiar weight of his mattress.
The world snapped again.
Lucius landed on his bed and exhaled.
He lay there for a second and enjoyed the quiet.
Scarcity, privacy, and distance.
--
At the Triskelion, an eye-patched bastard sat behind a desk with a folder open and annoyance in his posture.
Nick Fury moved his gaze from photo to report to photo again, like repetition might reveal a secret.
Maria Hill stood across from him with her hands clasped behind her back, posture perfect, face controlled.
Fury tapped the folder once.
"How come you did not find anything at his home," Fury asked, voice low. "Not even an empty vial."
Hill held his gaze.
She looked like she had repeated this story in her head until it tasted bitter.
"We searched every corner," Hill replied. "Multiple teams. Different entry times. Different methods. Nothing. No empty vials. No ingredients. No residue. Not even an apple core."
Fury's jaw tightened.
"That makes no sense," Fury replied.
Hill tilted her head slightly.
"It makes one kind of sense," she replied. "If he is not making them there."
Fury's gaze sharpened.
Hill continued.
"Yesterday he drove into downtown," she replied. "Agent Rios tailed him. Lost him near a crowded block. Thought he went inside and disappeared on foot. Later, we towed his car to force a reaction and pull him back into the open."
Fury stared.
Hill's mouth tightened.
"He was sleeping in the car," she added. "The whole time. Rios thought she lost him. She confirmed seeing him leave the car and walk towards the crowd."
Fury leaned back slightly.
"Strange," Fury muttered.
Hill nodded.
"Yes, sir," she replied.
Fury flipped to another page.
A lab report.
Fury's finger rested on a line.
Apple.
Spinach.
Honey.
Fury looked up.
"We tested four samples," he replied. "Same answer every time. Juice. And it heals."
Hill's eyes stayed steady.
"There is a possibility he is a mutant," she offered.
Fury's eye narrowed.
"There is a possibility he is something else," Fury replied. "Or he is clever enough to make everyone chase the wrong part."
Hill stayed silent.
Fury continued.
"You seen the line outside his house," Fury asked.
Hill nodded.
"Yes, sir," she replied.
"He is selling each vial for two hundred fifty thousand," Fury replied. "And people still run to buy it like the world is ending."
Hill did not react.
Fury reached into another folder and pulled out a photo.
A yellow vial.
"The new variant," Fury added. "Stamina, full battery for three hours. Turns an old man into a Duracell bunny."
Hill's eyes flicked to it.
"That is useful," she replied.
"Useful," Fury repeated, and the word carried weight. "It is useful for my operators. It is useful for everyone. That is not what disturbs me. Yet it is advertised by that old creep to his friends for different reasons."
Hill waited.
Fury tapped the lab report again.
"What disturbs me," Fury continued, "is the simplicity. If a chemical engineering graduate can turn fruit and honey into a healing vial, he can turn other things into worse ones."
Hill's gaze stayed on him.
Fury's voice hardened.
"We have chased the super soldier serum for decades," Fury added. "If this bastard can cheat biology with juice, he can cheat it with something other to make soldiers. Or something that makes monsters."
Hill's posture stayed perfect.
"What are your orders?" She asked.
Fury closed the folder.
"Find out where he brews," Fury replied. "Find out how he moves. Find out what he is. And do not spook him into disappearing."
Hill nodded.
"Yes, sir," she replied.
Fury leaned back and stared at the ceiling for a beat. He did not like mysteries. He disliked uncontrollable ones even more, and Fury hated people who cheated without paying him a cut.