Jessica Jones stretched, her body aching in unfamiliar ways, realizing she was in a strange bed.
Then, the memories hit her like a freight train.
She sat up, clutching the duvet to her chest, her face flushing as flashes of the previous night replayed in high definition. It was Vincent's penthouse.
Jessica let out a dry, self-deprecating laugh. "Damn. The kid has stamina."
She wasn't exactly a novice. Since escaping the Purple Man's control, she had used alcohol and casual encounters to numb the trauma. Waking up in a stranger's bed wasn't new. But waking up in Vincent's bed? That was a plot twist she hadn't seen coming.
She gathered her clothes scattered across the floor and headed to the bathroom. A hot shower later, she walked into the kitchen and found a note on the fridge:
"Prepared a hangover cure for you. It's in the fridge. Breakfast is on the table. Take your time, Jessica."
Inside the fridge sat a large glass of deep purple juice. She took a swig. It was cold, tart, and sweet—Sour Plum Juice. Her eyes lit up. It was surprisingly refreshing.
She turned to the dining table and winced.
That table... had seen some action last night. They hadn't even made it to the bedroom initially.
But now, it was set with a wholesome spread: congee with preserved vegetables, eggs, and a club sandwich.
Jessica stared at the food, feeling a mix of guilt and warmth.
"Shit. He's still in high school."
And she had jumped him.
Thankfully, he was eighteen. Otherwise, her reputation as a vigilante would be replaced by something far less flattering. She wasn't into robbing cradles, but Vincent... last night, he hadn't felt like a boy.
Meanwhile, Vincent Hall steered his black Lincoln Navigator toward Midtown High, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.
The perks of a superhuman body were undeniable. The Ice-Ice Fruit had enhanced his constitution to the point where he could go toe-to-toe with a super-soldier like Jessica.
Her legs had nearly snapped his waist in half, but a quick toggle of elementalization had erased the fatigue and bruising. Without that hack, he'd be in a wheelchair today.
His original plan had been to move into the new apartment and then politely introduce himself to his new neighbors—the Stacys. But with Jessica there... plans changed.
He mentally checked off an item on his bucket list.
And more importantly, the System chimed in.
[Mission Complete: A Whiff of Fragrance.]
[Objective: Establish intimate relations with a special female hero.]
[Reward: Blue Blind Box.]
This mission had been pending for two years.
"System, open the Blue Blind Box."
[Congratulations. You have obtained Passive Skill: Psychic Immunity.]
[Effect: Complete immunity to all forms of mental attack, mind control, telepathic intrusion, and possession.]
Vincent gripped the steering wheel, his heart racing.
This was huge.
In a world with Charles Xavier, Emma Frost, and the Ancient One, his mind was his biggest vulnerability. If Professor X decided to peek into his head and saw his memories of Earth, the System, and the future... he'd be lobotomized or imprisoned instantly.
Or worse—Apocalypse trying to body-swap with him.
Now, that door was welded shut.
"Physical immunity via Ice. Mental immunity via Passive Skill," Vincent analyzed. "My only weaknesses left are magic and reality warping."
The Scarlet Witch? Doctor Strange? The Phoenix Force?
"So, my only natural predators are women with cosmic powers?" Vincent chuckled darkly. "Figures."
Midtown School of Science and Technology.
Vincent walked to his locker.
Someone had spray-painted a crude drawing of a monkey on the metal door.
Vincent stared at it. He initially thought it was Flash seeking revenge, but the style was off. It was sloppy. Cowardly.
The students around him whispered and pointed, waiting for a reaction.
Vincent opened the locker calmly, took out his textbooks, and closed it.
Anger was a waste of energy. It was a sign of impotence. He preferred the method of a viper—wait, strike once, and deliver lethal poison.
"Vincent, are you okay?"
Hannah appeared at his side, her brow furrowed in worry.
"Do you think I should scream and shout, Hannah? Give them a show?" Vincent asked, his voice level.
"No, but... this is hate speech. It's discrimination," Hannah whispered. "You should report it to the principal."
Vincent shook his head. "Someone will clean it for me."
Snitching? Not his style.
He walked to the boys' restroom. He knew Flash Thompson would be there, hiding out to smoke before class.
Flash was at the urinal when Vincent walked in. The football captain froze mid-stream.
"Flash."
Vincent leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
Flash jumped, ziping up frantically. He backed away, hands raised.
"Vincent! No! It wasn't me! I swear!"
"I know," Vincent said, his smile disappearing. His eyes went cold. "You don't have the balls anymore."
"But this school is your territory, Flash. I don't care who did it. You find them. You make them scrub my locker clean. And then..."
Vincent took a step forward. The temperature in the bathroom dropped ten degrees.
"...you show them what toilet water tastes like. Use your own recipe."
"Tomorrow. I want results," Vincent warned. "Or you can transfer schools. Because next time, the water won't be clean."
He turned and walked out.
"FUCK!"
Behind him, Flash screamed in rage. Not at Vincent, but at the idiot who had framed him. Flash was terrified of Vincent now. The memory of drowning in the bowl was fresh. He wasn't going to take the fall for some anonymous coward.
As Vincent stepped into the hallway, he found his path blocked.
"Vincent Hall. That wasn't gratitude yesterday. You had the power to stop the bullying all along, but now you're just acting like another bully."
Gwen Stacy stood there, her arms crossed, her expression stern.
Vincent looked at her.
Youthful invincibility, he thought. She really is the protagonist type.
"Gwen," Vincent replied coolly. "Do you think I did something wrong?"
"You should reject bullying, not become the perpetrator," Gwen argued, her moral compass pointing true north.
"Do you know me, Gwen?"
"I know you. Class rank one. Vincent Hall."
"Is that it?"
"..." Gwen hesitated.
"No. You don't know me," Vincent stepped closer, his voice low but intense. "You know a name and a grade. You know I sit behind you. You don't know my life, my history, or my choices. Don't project your worldview onto me. I do what I do. If I break the law, let the police handle it. I don't need a lecture from Miss Second Place on how to survive."
"That's called cognitive bias, Gwen."
Vincent walked past her, hands in his pockets.
Gwen stood there, stunned, watching his retreating back.
"Then... who are you, really?" she whispered to herself.
Vincent didn't look back. He didn't need to answer.