Silence crashed over the corridor as the survivors stared, stunned.
"What… what is that?"
"Can a mutant do that?"
"He's a devil!"
The nearest thug tore a shredded sleeve from his face and bolted, screaming—only to have the gang leader shoot him in the back of the head.
"What are you panicking for?" the leader barked. "He can't keep firing off attacks like that. We light him up together and wear him down. Jero—bring the launcher! And remember, we finish this or Kingpin finishes us."
At the mention of Kingpin, the room steadied. Fear of that name outweighed what they'd just seen. They gritted their teeth, raised their guns, and opened fire on Sam Moore.
Sam didn't dodge.
Infinity's drain was about uptime, not impact. Bullets wafted like dust in a breeze as he advanced, a cruel smile playing at his lips.
Power reinforced his frame; Gojo Satoru's calm, clinical instincts slid into his muscles and mind. He'd never been in a firefight before, but there was no fear now—only focus.
He set his right foot, converted energy into cursed energy, and refined it under the Six Eyes' precise control.
Boom.
He launched, flesh and bone hitting concrete like a piston. Hands, feet, joints—every angle was a weapon, guided by perfect timing and spatial sense. Gunfire blurred uselessly around him, Infinity turning stray hits aside as if the distance between muzzle and skin were a thousand miles.
Thug after thug dropped and did not rise.
Sam reached the leader at a leisurely pace, hands sliding into his pockets as he smiled.
The leader stared as if the sight could rewrite the rules. Mutants weren't supposed to be like this—were they? If mutants were this strong, how were they ever hunted like rats?
"I don't buy it!" he shouted, trying to talk his fear down. "Your power's got a flaw!"
A man skidded in beside him and thrust over a launcher. The leader's eyes lit. Fear evaporated. He yanked it away and roared, "Go to hell!"
The rocket screamed down the corridor and detonated at Sam's feet.
The leader threw his head back. "Die, you mutant!"
When the thunder faded, slow, steady footsteps came out of the dust. An arm shot from the smoke and clamped around the leader's throat.
He choked. A deep ocean-blue gleam appeared first, then short, striking white hair, then the dirty, torn clothes and the web of cuts crisscrossing a body that should not have survived.
Under a dozen horrified gazes, Sam smiled without warmth. "Technique Shift—Blue."
The azure vortex spun to life in his palm. The leader's scream cut off as he vanished into it. The orb tore forward, dragging matter into itself as it bored a jagged wound through the prison wall.
Sam didn't look back. He flooded his limbs with converted energy and blurred through the breach, leaving behind wrecked gunmen and rows of open cells.
For a heartbeat, the place was dead still. Then cheers erupted, rolling through the corridor as prisoners surged toward the ragged hole and the promise of daylight.
…
Hours later, in a lavish Hell's Kitchen penthouse, crystal chandeliers drenched the room in cold light. The man in the chair seemed carved from shadow—massive, two meters tall and thick as a wall.
"Bullseye," Kingpin said, voice flat. "You're telling me the deal failed?"
Most people trembled in this room. Bullseye didn't. Wrapped in his strange battlesuit, he spoke like a metronome. "Yes. Almost everyone's dead. In many cases, there aren't even bodies. A mutant in the lot did it. One person."
Silence stretched. Then Kingpin opened his eyes. "Can you kill him?"
"I can kill anyone."
"I want the body within a week."
"As you wish."
…
Elsewhere in Hell's Kitchen, an underground prison lay in ruins. A mild-looking, balding man stepped into the wreckage, flanked by a few shaken survivors and the last of the gang's living muscle.
Phil Coulson's pleasant expression faded as he took in the scene: twisted cages, gouged concrete, and a cavernous bite torn out of the wall. "You're saying a mutant did all this?"
Nods all around. A young woman stepped forward, eyes shining. "Yes. He was… he was very handsome. Silver hair you can't forget, eyes like a deep lake, calm and elegant—and incredibly strong. Not like those angry types. A real gentleman."
Infatuation aside, Coulson had enough to sketch a profile. He studied the fractured wall and the pitted floor, lips thinning. "Azure vortex… A powerful unknown. At least Level 3. Maybe Level 4. Level 5 isn't impossible."
His earpiece crackled. "Agent Coulson, report."
"Director Fury, this one's strong," Coulson said. "He fits the initiative."
"Good," Nick Fury's voice replied. "Find him. Recruit him if possible. We'll make room in the plan."