Under the puzzled gazes of John Wick and Marcus, Alex Ray walked toward the window.
"Alex, this is the fifth floor. You're not really planning to jump, are you?" Marcus asked, shocked.
"The elevator's too slow. Let's take the window. I can't stand watching them damage my place—not even a little." With that, Alex jumped straight out of the fifth-floor window.
As he neared the ground, a soft red glow shimmered around his feet—chaos magic. It slowed his descent until he landed gently and silently.
Technically, Alex could've just leapt down without issue. With his self-healing factor, even a 20-story fall wouldn't have left a scratch. But he chose a softer landing to avoid alarming the neighbors. The last thing he wanted was to disturb other residents.
"Jesus Christ, is that a freaking Superman?" a sniper muttered, peering through his 8x scope.
John and Marcus leaned out the window, stunned to see Alex not only alive but standing as if he'd stepped off a curb.
The two exchanged a look. They were seasoned killers, but this… this was something else entirely.
If Alex had heard them, he would've scoffed and called them sheltered. He'd avoided using his powers for a long time, trying to stay out of trouble.
But ever since meeting Tony Stark, he knew the age of superheroes had already begun.
High-level heroes like Thor and Hulk were reshaping the world—mutants, gods, tech geniuses.
Ordinary people? They were just background noise, like Hawkeye scraping kills off the edge of a battlefield.
Even Black Widow had been sidelined in the later films, reduced to emotional speeches and sacrificial scenes.
Alex had barely landed before five more gunmen rounded the corner and opened fire.
Bullets tore through the air like a metal rainstorm.
Alex instinctively stepped aside but then noticed the restaurant entrance directly behind him.
"Shit," he muttered, and flung his right hand forward—red light surged from his fingers, intercepting the bullets midair.
Each round struck by the red light lost momentum and clattered harmlessly to the ground.
The assassins hesitated for only a split second before resuming fire.
One of them, seeing the bullets fail, pulled out an RPG.
The rocket roared forward with a deafening boom.
Alex countered instantly. He flicked his right hand, scattering red energy lines toward the rocket.
Then with a smooth upward wave of his left, the projectile was caught in a glowing net of chaos magic and redirected into the sky.
While Alex focused on the rocket, a sniper fired a Barrett round from a distance, the bullet slicing toward his skull like a missile.
Alex didn't flinch.
"You're good. Coordinated. I'll give you that," he murmured, eyes glowing red.
In the blink of an eye, the bullet reversed direction and shot back at the sniper.
The RPG exploded harmlessly overhead. Five gunmen and the sniper collapsed seconds later, killed by their own weapons.
"Daddy, look! Fireworks!" a little girl in Hell's Kitchen pointed out the window, eyes wide.
With the assassins down, the street fell silent—except for the residents leaning out of windows, curious about the noise.
Anywhere else, people might've panicked. But this was Hell's Kitchen.
Gunfights were just part of the daily soundtrack. The locals barely flinched.
Just as another wave of killers in tailored suits advanced, one of them accidentally riddled a BMW with bullets.
A heavily tattooed man at a nearby window screamed, "That's the car I just stole, you Armani-wearing pricks!"
A warning shot rang out in his direction, signaling him to keep quiet.
Wrong move.
"You little punks wanna mess with Hell's Kitchen?!" the man roared, hauling an RPG onto his shoulder.
He aimed it directly at the killers, completely unbothered by the fact he was about to fire from inside his apartment.
The assassins panicked. Their suits might be bulletproof, but an RPG? That's a different story.
They scattered.
Even the most cold-blooded professionals weren't prepared for war-level resistance from civilians. The explosion rocked the street, and more chaos followed.
Alex laughed, surveying the mess.
"Now I don't even have to do anything. Why the hell would you provoke them? These people aren't as polite as I am."
The RPG was like a signal flare. All across Hell's Kitchen, residents pulled out firearms—handguns, rifles, even shotguns. Bullets hailed down from open windows. Killer suits might stop bullets, but heads? Not so much.
To make matters worse for the Marquis's men, cars began firing too. Some were tricked out, armored rides, clearly owned by folks with a taste for vigilante justice.
Reinforcements sent by Marquis Vincent de Gramont never even made it to Alex's street—they were gunned down by the locals before getting close.
Upstairs, John Wick watched in awe as the organized killers were overwhelmed by Hell's Kitchen residents.
"Are people around here always this... intense?" he asked Marcus, who stood calmly beside him.
"What do you mean around here? This is our Hell's Kitchen. Always has been. Since you're here now, that means you're part of it, too. You think you can just run off after we help you out?"
Marcus knew what Alex was planning. He wanted John to stay—to make him part of the community, of the plan. Marcus didn't mind.
After years here, he'd grown attached to Hell's Kitchen, and he was curious to see what Alex's ambitions would bring.
John didn't reply right away. He just smiled and continued to watch the mayhem below.
Maybe he was starting to think... this place was exactly where he belonged.
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