The D'Amico Building, Hell's Kitchen
The sun dipped below the horizon, bleeding a bruised crimson across the Manhattan skyline. It was a fitting backdrop for the carnage discovered inside the headquarters of Frank D'Amico.
Eight NYPD cruisers formed a perimeter, their lights flashing rhythmically against the darkening brick. Captain George Stacy ducked under the yellow tape, his face grim.
Smoke billowed from the upper floors, but it wasn't the smell of fire that hit him—it was the metallic tang of blood and the ozone scent of high-explosive residue.
"Captain," a uniformed officer nodded, looking pale. "It's... it's a mess inside."
George adjusted his coat and walked in. He had wanted to take down Frank for years. This building was a cancer in the city, a monument to vice and corruption. But he wanted an arrest, not an abattoir.
The lobby was the first shock. The reinforced glass walls were shattered, not by bullets, but by what looked like a hurricane force. Bodies were scattered everywhere—broken, twisted, and pulped.
"Forensics is confused, sir," the medical examiner said, stepping over a debris pile. "Massive blunt force trauma. Ruptured organs, shattered bones. It looks like they were hit by a bomb, but there's no shrapnel. No burn marks."
George frowned, looking at the floor.
There were spider-web cracks in the marble. But they didn't radiate from an impact point on the ground. They radiated downward from the air, as if a giant invisible hammer had struck the atmosphere itself.
"An airburst?" a young rookie officer speculated, looking at the cracks. "Like... compressed air hitting the floor?"
"Don't let your imagination run wild, son," the examiner scoffed. "Physics doesn't work like that. Unless a monster did this."
George ignored them, continuing his ascent. The stairwells were clear. The fighting had been contained to the floors.
On the fourth floor, the scene shifted. Among the usual thugs were bodies dressed in red gi.
"Ninjas?" George whispered, staring at the strange attire.
This wasn't just a gang war. This was an invasion. Foreign assassins, heavy weaponry, and a force capable of crushing men without touching them. The scope of this case just expanded from a local homicide to something far more dangerous.
Frank D'Amico was found in his penthouse. He hadn't been crushed. He had been executed—a single gunshot to the head. His face was frozen in a mask of utter despair.
"Captain!" A sergeant called out from the hallway. "We have... guests."
George turned. A group of men in sharp black suits were walking through the crime scene with practiced indifference. Leading them was a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a disarming, polite smile.
"Captain Stacy," the man said, flashing a badge. "Agent Coulson, CIA. We'll be taking jurisdiction from here."
George squinted at the man. He recognized him.
"CIA?" George crossed his arms. "Funny. I saw you at the Unity Festival yesterday. You flashed an FBI badge to the perimeter guard then."
The officers around George stiffened, hands drifting toward their holsters. The agents behind Coulson narrowed their eyes.
Coulson didn't flinch. His smile remained perfectly pleasant.
"Multitasking is a requirement of the job, Captain," Coulson said smoothly. "FBI, CIA... the paperwork gets mixed up. But the authority is real."
George held the man's gaze for a long moment. He knew the type. Spooks. Or something worse.
"If you're taking over, you're taking the paperwork too," George said, lowering his guard. "This is a bloodbath. Whoever did this isn't human."
"We've noticed," Coulson said, glancing at the shattered office. "We appreciate your cooperation, Captain. We'll take it from here."
George signaled his men to stand down. As he walked out, leaving the cleanup to the suits, he couldn't shake the feeling that New York was becoming a battlefield for things he couldn't understand.
Coulson watched the police leave. He tapped his earpiece.
"Director, the scene is secured. It matches the energy signature from the carnival. But the physical damage... it suggests a secondary power set. Something kinetic. Massive."
The Loft, Chelsea
Light Inksworth unlocked his door, exhaustion settling into his bones. Destroying a crime empire was surprisingly a tiring work.
He stepped inside, expecting quiet. Instead, he was greeted by the smell of pepperoni and the sound of chewing.
Gali was sprawled on the sofa, surrounded by three empty pizza boxes. She was currently finishing a slice with the intensity of a black hole consuming a star.
Light paused, looking at the carnage on the coffee table.
"I ordered three pizzas," Light said, calculating. "One for you. Two for me. Why are there zero pizzas left?"
Gali swallowed, wiping tomato sauce from her cheek. "I required energy for the task."
"The task?"
"The cameras," Gali said, pointing a greasy finger at the TV. "I infiltrated the surveillance network. I erased your image from the street cameras, the building security, and the traffic feeds. No digital footprint remains."
Light blinked. He had forgotten about the cameras in the heat of the moment. If SHIELD or the police had that footage, they would have linked him to the massacre in hours.
"You scrubbed the footage?" Light asked.
"Completely," Gali said smugly. "I also deleted the backlog of parking tickets for that nice taxi driver."
Light let out a breath, the tension leaving his shoulders. He walked over and sat down on the armchair, resigned to his hunger.
"Good job," Light said. "You earned the pizza."
"I know," Gali rolled her eyes, though she leaned slightly into the praise. "You humans are so inefficient. Leaving trails everywhere."
The Next Morning
The morning sun cast long, golden shadows across the pavement as Edward Vance stepped out of his apartment. He was up earlier than usual, fueled by a nervous energy he hadn't felt in years.
Today was the release of the second issue of Weekly Shonen Jump.
He grabbed a coffee and a bagel from a bodega and hurried toward Heroes Haven. He expected a few early birds, maybe the usual hardcore collectors.
What he found was a mob.
"Miller! Open the damn door!"
"I need three copies! My brother will kill me if I don't get one!"
"Stop pushing, man!"
The sidewalk was packed. It wasn't just the usual comic crowd; there were college students, businessmen in suits checking their watches, and teenagers skipping first period. They were clamoring for a black-and-white book printed on cheap paper.
"It's a golden age," Edward whispered, his eyes misting slightly. As a critic, he had watched the industry slowly suffocate under the weight of endless crossovers and reboots. He had prayed for a revolution.
He didn't expect it to come from a single indie publisher.
Miller, the shop owner, looked harried as he finally unlocked the door. He had clearly underestimated the demand again, despite Light's warnings.
"One at a time! One at a time!" Miller shouted, trying to prevent a stampede.
The stack of thick magazines by the counter began to vanish instantly.
Edward didn't panic. He had a standing reservation. He weaved through the disappointed latecomers who were being turned away and leaned on the counter.
"Miller," Edward said, grinning.
"Here," Miller slid a copy from under the counter, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Take it and go. It's a zoo in here."
Edward grabbed the magazine. It felt heavier than the first issue. Thicker.
He stepped outside, finding a quiet bench in a nearby park. He looked at the cover.
Saitama was front and center, looking as blank as ever. But the side panels teased something new.
On the left, a grotesque, skinless giant peered over a massive stone wall, looking down at tiny, terrified humans.
On the right, a young man with an eyepatch sat in a white void, a woman with purple hair and glasses whispering into his ear.
"New titles?" Edward muttered. "Two of them?"
He opened the magazine, skipping the table of contents. He needed to know how the fight with the Subterranean King ended.
He turned to the first chapter of One Punch Man.
Page 1: Saitama wakes up.
"It was a dream?" Edward blinked. "You have to be kidding me."
The epic battle, the blood, the struggle—it was all a dream born of Saitama's boredom. In reality, the Subterraneans were weaklings who surrendered the moment they saw him.
"One Punch Man," Edward chuckled, shaking his head. "Of course."
It was the perfect punchline. The subversion of the trope was masterful. And then, the introduction of Genos—a cyborg looking for a master. The comedy was still there. The art was still god-tier.
"He held the landing," Edward noted with relief. "It wasn't a one-hit wonder."
He turned the page.
A black title page stared back at him. The font was jagged, heavy.
ATTACK ON TITAN
Edward adjusted his glasses. "Let's see what else you've got, Inksworth."
Chapter 1: To You, in 2000 Years.
The story opened not with a hero, but with fear.
Humanity was penned in like cattle behind three massive walls: Maria, Rose, and Sina. They lived in fear of the Titans—mindless, man-eating giants that roamed the world outside.
"Grim," Edward murmured. "This isn't a superhero story. This is survival horror."
He read on, captivated by the pacing. The protagonist, Eren Yeager, was angry, driven, and desperate to see the outside world.
Then, lightning struck.
A massive hand, stripped of skin, gripped the top of the fifty-meter wall. The Colossal Titan kick-started the apocalypse.
The art shifted from atmospheric to visceral. The Titans didn't fight villains; they ate people. They tore them apart with smiling, mindless faces.
Then came the scene with Eren's mother.
Edward's breath hitched. He watched as the Smiling Titan picked up the woman, snapped her spine, and consumed her while her son watched, helpless.
"Jesus..." Edward whispered. This was heavy. This was dark.
He kept reading. The magazine contained the first five chapters. He saw the training arc, the hope of the cadets, and then the Battle of Trost.
And then, the impossible happened.
Eren Yeager, the protagonist, the boy who swore to kill all the Titans... jumped into a Titan's mouth to save his friend Armin.
CHOMP.
A severed arm flew through the air. The Titan swallowed.
Edward stared at the panel. He flipped the page. Nothing. That was the end of the chapter.
"He... he killed the main character?" Edward said aloud, stunned. "In the fifth chapter? Who does that?"
His mind was reeling. In American comics, heroes didn't die. If they did, it was a massive event issue with six variant covers. They didn't just get eaten unceremoniously in the first arc.
"This is madness," Edward said, his hands shaking slightly. "It's brilliant."
He needed a break. But there was one more title.
He turned to the next section.
TOKYO GHOUL
The art style shifted again. It was sleek, modern, almost fragile.
Edward looked at the author credit on the title page.
Story & Art: Light Inksworth.
He flipped back to Attack on Titan.
Story & Art: Light Inksworth.
He flipped back to One Punch Man.
Story & Art: Light Inksworth.
Edward sat back on the park bench, the magazine resting on his knees.
"Three?" Edward whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of horror and awe. "He's drawing three weekly serializations simultaneously?"
A single monthly issue took a team of pencilers, inkers, and colorists four weeks to produce at Marvel or DC.
Light Inksworth was producing three distinct art styles, three distinct stories, and hundreds of pages of high-quality art... every week. By himself.
"He's not a human," Edward concluded, staring at the sky. "Dude is him..."
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Word count: 1924
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