The night hung low over New York City, a blanket of darkness pierced only by the occasional glare of neon lights and the distant wail of sirens. From the rooftops, the city looked serene, almost ordinary—but the air crackled with something unseen, something bending just beyond the comprehension of normal men. And tonight, that unseen force had a master.
King Toxic stepped lightly across the ledges of an abandoned skyscraper, his long red dreadlocks trailing like burning comets behind him. His sharp teeth gleamed faintly when he smirked, and his black coat billowed as if caught in an invisible wind. To anyone who saw him from below, he would have seemed like just another shadow—but King Toxic was far from ordinary.
With a thought, the air around him warped. Buildings seemed to bend slightly, space itself folding around the tips of his fingers. He crouched near the edge, reaching out to a nearby streetlight. With a subtle pulse of energy, the lamp bent, twisted, and vanished entirely into a pocket of folded space that only he could access. The act wasn't just destruction—it was reclamation. Objects, energy, matter, and even wounds could be manipulated with the same principle.
"Not bad," he muttered to himself, scanning the streets below. "But they're growing bolder."
His latest mission had brought him to the fringes of the city's criminal underworld. Gangs had begun using strange, otherworldly tech—devices that shouldn't exist, yet pulsed with energy that reminded him of…space energy. Not the pure, refined energy he wielded, but a corrupted echo of it. Whoever was behind it was dangerous, and King Toxic didn't take danger lightly.
He crouched lower, summoning a small black duffel bag and pressing it to the ground. Space energy pulsed from his palms, flowing into the fibers of the bag. Within moments, the bag shimmered, its interior stretching impossibly beyond its physical dimensions. It could hold anything—a small army's worth of weapons, or even a human-sized figure—without ever appearing heavy or full. He tapped it lightly. "Space bag ready."
Below, two armed men approached a corner store. They didn't see the shadow above them, or the faint ripple of space energy surrounding the roofline. But King Toxic did. With another thought, a segment of the rooftop warped inward. When the men passed, their path twisted slightly—they stumbled as the street beneath them bent into a shallow fold. Confused, they scrambled, unable to comprehend why the pavement had suddenly betrayed them.
King Toxic let them flail for a moment, then jumped down silently. Landing in the shadows, he tilted his head, sharp teeth glinting. With a flick of his wrist, a jagged beam of compressed space energy struck the nearest thug. The man disappeared—not killed, but suspended in a folded pocket of dimension, completely immobilized. The second man raised his gun, but King Toxic was faster, folding the space in front of him and passing behind the target as if teleporting. One hand to the man's shoulder, a subtle pulse of energy, and the thug collapsed in a heap, clutching his head as if his brain itself had been scrambled.
"You really shouldn't be out here," King Toxic murmured.
His attention shifted as a pulse of energy brushed against him from the north. It was faint, but he recognized it immediately: another manipulator of space. Someone, somewhere in Manhattan, was using the same principles he did, but differently. More reckless. Dangerous.
King Toxic grinned. "Ah, this is getting interesting."
He leaped into the air, and his coat flared around him. With a thought, the space beneath his boots folded, propelling him upward like a human cannon. He vanished from sight, leaving only a ripple in the night sky. Seconds later, he materialized on the roof of a high-rise facing the source of the disturbance.
A woman hovered there, encased in a glowing sphere of twisted space. Fractured reality swirled around her, fragments of the city floating in impossible configurations—cars, benches, streetlamps spinning around her in miniature orbits. Her eyes widened as she saw him step forward, dreadlocks catching the faint light of the city.
"You're not supposed to be here," she said, her voice both fierce and uncertain.
"I could say the same to you," King Toxic replied. "But it looks like you've been having fun."
The sphere around her shuddered violently. Space itself resisted her, as if it recognized him as its master. But she didn't stop—she lashed out with a wave of fractured energy. King Toxic smiled and stepped into it. Space folded around him, absorbing the impact, and he emerged unscathed, brushing a lock of red dreadlocks from his face.
"You need control," he said, voice calm, almost soothing. "Space is not a weapon to throw recklessly. It's a tool. A gift."
Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, they studied each other—the predator and the fledgling manipulator, both bound by forces beyond normal human comprehension. Then, before she could respond, a tremor ran through the city. Buildings shivered. A sound like metal groaning on fire tore through the streets.
King Toxic's grin faltered. "This isn't you," he said, glancing down at the city below. "Something bigger…is coming."
And then, from the shadows of the skyline, a figure emerged. Towering, mechanical, and impossibly massive a prototype Stark Industries mech, armed and pulsing with corrupted energy. Its movements were deliberate, almost predatory, and behind its glowing visor, King Toxic felt a presence: intelligence, malice, and power.
The air vibrated as the mech advanced. The woman's sphere flickered, unstable now. King Toxic's hand brushed against his space bag. He could fight—but would that be enough?
"No," he whispered, eyes narrowing. "This…this is something else entirely."
He leaped into the night, dreadlocks streaming like flames, space rippling in his wake. Somewhere in the city, the battle for Manhattan's fate was about to begin.
And King Toxic was ready.