At four o'clock in the afternoon, sunset bathed all of New York in golden light.
Nolan stepped out of his apartment building with a stern expression, wearing a black baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. A gray shoulder bag hung across his chest, its weight reassuring against his side.
Minutes earlier, his aunt had finally fallen asleep, though fear still lingered in her trembling breathing. Before drifting off, she'd given Nolan strict instructions to clean up the restaurant and post a closure notice. Nothing more.
Nolan had agreed obediently.
And now he was on his way to the restaurant, just as he'd promised.
Except his shoulder bag contained an additional item: the matte black Catachan Fang, Night Harvester, wrapped in cloth.
Nolan could endure many threats. Thanos gathering power among distant stars. Ultron, not yet created, who would someday try to destroy humanity. He could accept living in a world full of dangers he couldn't immediately control.
But the prerequisite for that acceptance was simple: his aunt remained unharmed.
That line had been crossed.
Fight until death.
Years of experience had taught him enough. He'd learned that the authorities who supposedly maintained order in the city were worthless. The police didn't care about people like him and his aunt.
Justice? Fairness? Those things only existed if you had money or power.
Everything else depended on your own hands.
When Nolan arrived at the restaurant, the forensics officers promised by the Manhattan District Bureau still hadn't appeared.
They probably never would.
After all, this was just another property crime. No deaths. No public outrage. Just another robbery in a low income neighbourhood that would become archive material in some forgotten filing cabinet.
Nolan rolled up his sleeves and began picking through the debris. He sorted salvageable items into one pile to reduce losses. Broken, unusable things went into another pile for the insurance claim.
He'd been working for maybe twenty minutes when he caught sight of a figure lingering outside the restaurant entrance.
A blond homeless man in shabby clothes, his back stooped, pacing back and forth uncertainly.
Nolan stopped cleaning. He walked directly to the door and called out.
"Friend, the restaurant will be closed for a while. You should try the church for food."
The unshaven blond homeless man stopped pacing. He glanced at Nolan timidly, his eyes darting away, then back again.
Then he seemed to gather his courage. He raised his head and stammered.
"I... I didn't come for food. When the robbery happened, I was... I was sleeping on the street nearby. I saw the robbers!"
He swallowed hard, his voice gaining a bit more confidence.
"They all wore red tracksuits. Their accents when they were shouting... they didn't sound like native New Yorkers. They sounded like Slavs!"
Nolan's eyes narrowed. He murmured under his breath.
"Red tracksuits? Slavs... the Tracksuit Mafia?"
The Tracksuit Mafia was a criminal gang operating throughout New York City and the surrounding metropolitan area. Most of their key members were Slavic immigrants, primarily from Russia and Eastern Europe.
Nolan's thoughts raced.
He considered for a moment, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a roll of cash. He peeled off several twenty-dollar bills and stuffed them into the homeless man's jacket pocket.
"Friend, thank you for the information. This is your reward."
But something unexpected happened.
The blond homeless man's face suddenly flushed red. He pulled the money from his pocket with trembling fingers and tried to push it back toward Nolan.
"I'm not here for money!"
His voice cracked with emotion.
"You and your aunt are good people! Being able to eat your food makes me so happy. It makes me feel like I'm still alive, like just living has meaning!"
Tears gathered in the homeless man's eyes. As he gestured, his sleeve rode up, accidentally exposing his inner arm. Inflamed, ulcerated track marks covered the skin.
He was an addict.
Nolan noticed immediately, but he didn't take the money back. Instead, he sighed softly.
"What's your name?"
"Robert Reynolds." The blond man hesitated, then spoke his name quietly.
He stopped trying to return the money, accepting it with obvious reluctance.
Nolan felt like that name should mean something to him. It sounded familiar somehow. But he couldn't place it, and right now, he had more pressing concerns.
Tracksuit Mafia. Slavs.
Dmitri Morozov. Morozov was a typical Slavic surname.
Nolan's eyes narrowed as a clear thread of connection formed in his mind.
After exchanging a few more words with Robert, Nolan sent him on his way. He turned back to the restaurant, locked the door, and retrieved his bicycle.
Then he rode west, toward a specific apartment building.
Dmitri's Apartment
A depressed Dmitri Morozov slumped on his sofa, a plastic neck brace fixed rigidly around his throat. The doctor had repeatedly advised him to abstain from alcohol and smoking during treatment to speed his recovery.
Obviously, Dmitri wasn't the type of patient who followed medical advice.
He sipped his beer cautiously, tilting his head at awkward angles to avoid straining his injured neck. His other hand scrolled through his phone mindlessly, trying to distract himself from both physical pain and psychological humiliation.
He was Dmitri Morozov. A physically intimidating bully who'd dominated his high school for years.
And he'd been beaten unconscious by some nobody delivery boy.
The incident had made him a laughing stock among his friends. The texts and messages mocking him hadn't stopped all day.
"Damn errand rat," Dmitri muttered, his irritation mounting.
He threw his phone onto the couch cushion and closed his eyes, trying to calm the storm of frustration in his chest.
Knock, knock, knock.
A sudden rapping on the door interrupted his brooding.
Dmitri's eyes snapped open. He shouted angrily.
"Who the hell is it?!"
No response came from outside. Only silence.
Then, after a brief pause, the knocking resumed.
Knock, knock, knock.
"Whoever you are, you're dead!" Dmitri snarled.
He pushed himself off the sofa stiffly, one hand supporting his braced neck. He shuffled toward the door, cursing under his breath with every step.
He grabbed the door handle and turned it.
CRASH.
The wooden door exploded inward with tremendous force, slamming directly into Dmitri's chest.
A scream tore from his throat as his tall body crashed backward onto the floor.
Footsteps approached slowly, deliberately.
Nolan appeared in the doorway, his baseball cap shadowing his face. A pleasant smile played across his lips.
Dmitri tried to push himself up, gasping through the pain, desperate to see who'd attacked him.
When he finally focused on the figure standing above him, his eyes went wide with terror.
Panicked shouts erupted from his throat, high-pitched and desperate.
"Don't come any closer!"
Nolan said nothing. He simply continued forward, each step measured and calm.
Dmitri, muscular and intimidating to most people, squirmed backward across the floor like a caterpillar. His injured neck prevented him from moving properly. Every motion sent fresh waves of agony through his body.
After a few minutes, Dmitri couldn't endure it anymore. He collapsed completely, his expression twisted with pain, all resistance abandoned.
Tears blurred his vision. His entire body seemed to collapse in on itself.
"Nolan, please... spare me. In New York, murder is a first-degree felony..."
His voice broke into sobs.
"I was wrong. I was really wrong. I shouldn't have bullied you. I shouldn't have hurt people..."
"I was wrong about everything."
Nolan, still wearing that pleasant smile, crouched down in front of Dmitri. He looked down at the crying man with cold, emotionless eyes.
"I ask questions. You answer them."
Dmitri nodded frantically, tears streaming down his face.
"Did you fire shots during a robbery at a restaurant around three o'clock this afternoon?"
"Huh?" Dmitri's expression went blank with confusion. "Robbery? Shooting?"
Nolan's eyes narrowed dangerously.
Dmitri, still capable of reading social cues despite his terror, immediately began swearing.
"I swear to God! I, Dmitri, never use guns to hurt people! And this afternoon, I was still at the hospital receiving treatment!"
Nolan's frown deepened.
Had he found the wrong person?