East Kolkata
A humid wind, thick with the scent of stagnant water and distant spices, brushed past Andrew as he stood by the rusted railing of an old, forgotten bridge. The water beneath, sluggish and brown, reflected nothing but the bruised, grey skies above, mirroring the somber mood of the city. His burner phone, fresh out of its package and unregistered, buzzed softly in his palm, soon to be discarded, a phantom device.
He glanced at the screen.
Start our plan now, Mr. L.
Andrew stared at the message for a long, quiet moment. Not out of hesitation—no, that phase had long passed, burned away by grim resolve. But as if absorbing the immense weight of what it implied. The true beginning of the operation. The start of something irreversible, something that would tear through lives.
Without a word, a casual, almost dismissive gesture, he casually tossed the phone into the river. The device spun once, twice, through the humid air and disappeared beneath the water's murky surface with barely a splash, swallowed by the indifferent currents.
He turned and walked down a narrow, winding road, his heavy boots clacking softly against the broken pavement, a rhythmic, solitary sound. The path eventually led him to a crumbling house at the very edge of a forgotten, dilapidated neighborhood. The walls were cracked, scarred by time and neglect, the gate hung precariously off its rusted hinges, and the windows, instead of curtains, were covered with makeshift cloths, flapping faintly in the breeze.
Andrew knocked gently, a soft rap that seemed out of place in such a desolate setting.
The door creaked open, revealing a narrow gap. A young Indian man peered through the opening, his eyes narrowing in instant recognition, a silent acknowledgment. Wordlessly, he swung the door open wide, inviting Andrew into the stale, enclosed space.
Inside, the air was thick with the stale scent of sweat and dust, a claustrophobic mix. Two white men were already seated on foldable chairs, their faces grim, quietly checking their gear—cleaning rifles, sharpening knives, preparing for the hunt. Alongside them stood three Indian men, dressed casually, blending into the local landscape, but all their eyes were sharp—hardened, trained, possessing the unmistakable glint of seasoned killers.
"Get ready," Andrew said without preamble, his voice low and firm. "Prepare the equipment. We move at 2 PM sharp."
No one argued. No one questioned his authority. The room shifted into silent, efficient motion, a well-oiled machine preparing for its gruesome task.
The Other Side of Kolkata
Elsewhere, on the far side of Kolkata, in the vibrant, chaotic heart of the city, a rusty old motorcycle rolled to a stop in front of a run-down, nondescript motel. The rider—a middle-aged white man with a dusty, worn coat and scuffed shoes—kicked the stand down with a soft click and climbed off, his movements slow, deliberate.
In a city where foreign tourists were far from rare, a constant flow of faces, he no longer stood out. Perhaps he had lived here long enough, adapting to the rhythm of the bustling streets, or perhaps it was simply the way he blended into the background with such practiced ease, his presence almost fading into the general hum of the city, that no one spared him a second glance.
He entered the motel, pushing open the broken glass door with a soft, mournful chime, the sound a faint echo of better days. The man at the reception—short, round, and perpetually sweaty, his shirt clinging to his skin—looked up from his newspaper and grinned, a wide, welcoming smile.
"Dr. Ron! Today's work already done?"
His English was awkward, thick with a heavy local accent, but his voice was unmistakably friendly. Familiar.
Dr. Ron smiled back, a weary lift of his lips, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. "As usual. Could you arrange some food?"
The receptionist chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound from his belly. "You don't have to ask every day, Dr. Ron. At this point, you are already part of our family."
That simple sentence, spoken with such genuine warmth, brought a flicker of true, unbidden warmth to Dr. Ron's otherwise tired, guarded face. He offered a rare, genuine smile—a sight not seen often these days.
Soon after, he sat on a wobbly plastic chair in the small, open-air dining area, quickly finishing a plate of rice and curry. It was a humble meal, far from fancy, but comforting in its simplicity, a taste of local life. He didn't eat for pleasure anymore—just to keep going, to fuel the endless flight.
After lunch, he climbed the creaky, groaning stairs to his small, spartan room.
It was barely furnished: a narrow bed with a thin, lumpy mattress, a bulky, ancient television set with a flickering screen, and a small wooden wardrobe that looked older than the building itself. But for the past eight months, this unassuming place, this tiny room, had become home to the man once known to the world as Bruce Banner.
The former scientist, the brilliant mind, the tormented fugitive, the monster in hiding.
After eating, he was about to lie down to rest his eyes—just for a moment, to steal a few minutes of peace—when a quiet ping broke the heavy silence of the room.
A message.
He sat up quickly, a jolt of alarm going through him, and moved to the wardrobe. With cautious fingers, he opened it—not to find clothes, but something far more unusual. Inside, packed carefully into the shelves and boxes, was a bewildering array of high-tech machinery, some of which looked completely out of place in a rundown motel room in Kolkata. These were devices likely worth more than the entire block combined.
Bruce pulled out a heavily modified laptop, its casing scarred but functional. He attached a peculiar device that almost looked like a pendrive, but with two small antennae sticking out like ears, twitching almost imperceptibly, indicating its active connection to a hidden network. He booted it up.
He opened the message with great expectation. And to his happiness, there was indeed a message from Betty Ross.
Yes, after the monumental fight with the Abomination, he had left America and sought refuge in India, seeking some semblance of peace and quiet, but mainly to avoid the relentless military hunt by the U.S. forces. Specifically, here in India, amidst its vast and dense population, it was incredibly hard to find someone quickly, a perfect anonymity. And it offered all the modern facilities he use to, yet wasn't so technologically advanced that it might inadvertently leak his location—making it perfect for hiding. So, he naturally hadn't told anyone about coming here, and that included his previous girlfriend, Betty Ross.
But he had told her, during their desperate flight together, that he was considering India as a hiding place. She also knew the IP address of this custom device, a digital lifeline. So he was not very surprised when the message came, but more was conflicted. He wanted Betty to have a normal life, free from his dangerous existence, but he also didn't want to leave her, a deep-seated longing for connection. So, in its own way, the message made him quite happy, a bittersweet joy.
It was naturally Aline's doing, orchestrating this communication, but it couldn't all be fake. Because she was also sending Betty Ross messages as Bruce Banner, maintaining the illusion from both sides. In Elric's meticulously crafted plan, he absolutely could not let Bruce find out it was all a sophisticated deception.
Their digital conversations had largely been normal, a series of casual updates, like old times, a fragile thread of connection. But three days ago, everything had suddenly changed. She'd told him something that chilled him to the bone: her father was planning to kill him.
He was truly tired of running away. How many years had it been since he had known a peaceful, undisturbed sleep? He was so weary, too tired to deal with this constant bullshit, this endless cycle of pursuit and escape. He didn't particularly hate General Ross too much anymore, but after several years of being relentlessly chased by him, it wasn't that he harbored no anger toward him. With the experiment, he had lost everything: his job, his life, his identity, his peace. For a long time, after coming here, he had at least found a semblance of a normal life, a quiet existence. Now, here again, General Ross had come to ruin everything.
Today, she was supposed to reveal the details of the plan after investigating it. He opened the message, but everything he read made his blood run cold.
Bruce… you have to leave. He already knows where you are and has hired mercenaries to kill you. You should go toward the east, and through Tibet, enter China, and lay low in some rural village for sometime. It should be fine after some time.
Bruce tried to calm himself down, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He really didn't care if he died or not; he had even tried many times to end his own life, a desperate bid for peace. But to his despair, he had found out that humanity would not let him live in peace, and the Hulk, in his terrifying might, wouldn't go out without a war. Now, he was just trying to survive in this world, protecting it from the Hulk, and protecting the Hulk from the world. So if something happened to him here, in this crowded city, he couldn't even imagine the devastation that would follow once the Hulk came out. So he hurriedly got up, a sudden burst of frantic energy, and was about to pack up his meager belongings.
But just as he reached for the bag under his bed—
BOOM!
A sudden, deafening explosion rocked the room. The force knocked him backward, sending him sprawling, and a sharp, searing pain shot through his arm. His vision blurred for a second, his ears ringing with a high-pitched whine. Smoke filled the small room, acrid and choking, as splinters of wood rained down from the cracked, groaning ceiling.
Pain radiated from his upper bicep—a deep, burning agony. Blood already soaked into the fabric of his shirt, blooming like a dark, sinister flower.
They were already here.
Bruce grit his teeth, clutching his arm, his fingers digging into the wound, as he stumbled toward the far corner, seeking any meager cover. His thoughts raced, a desperate scramble for control. He had to stay calm. If he lost control now—
If he turned into the Hulk here—
There would be nothing left of this neighborhood. Nothing left of the kind people who had shown him warmth, who had offered him a glimpse of peace.