Northern New York City, The Bronx. A Forgotten Park.
The park was a skeleton of what it once was, filled with weeds and broken benches. Here, two young men in faded hoodies cornered a middle-aged woman. They were shoving her, their voices sharp and cruel.
"We told you to give us the purse, you stupid old woman!" one of them snarled, his face twisted with anger. "Now you'll learn a lesson for disrespecting us."
His fist was already moving when a sound cut through the air. It was a sharp, high-pitched whistle, coming from far away but growing louder with impossible speed. Both men froze, their heads snapping up to scan the sky.
"What in the world is that?" one whispered.
At first, it was just a black dot against the grey clouds. But it grew larger every second. Soon, they could see it clearly: it was the trunk of a massive tree, a meter thick, spinning end over end as if thrown by a giant.
And standing on top of it, perfectly balanced, was a man.
The attackers blinked, rubbing their eyes. This had to be a dream or a hallucination. It couldn't be real.
Then, with a sound like thunder, the tree trunk slammed into the ground. CRASH! The earth shook, and a wave of dirt and grass exploded outwards, spraying their faces and clothes.
Just before impact, the figure on the log leaped. He twisted in the air like a world-class acrobat, landing lightly on his feet as dirt rained down around him. The shaking ground and the grit in their teeth was proof enough: this was happening.
"Trajectory confirmed," the man said to himself, his voice calm. "Landing error is less than five meters. Perfect."
Mark looked around with a satisfied nod. He had chosen this abandoned park months ago. It was the perfect entry point into the Bronx: isolated, overgrown, and ignored. No witnesses meant no difficult questions.
He knew New York's five famous districts. Manhattan was the rich, shining heart of the city. Queens was huge and crowded, and Brooklyn was the home of legends.
But the Bronx was different. This was the northern edge of the city. Some people called Hell's Kitchen the most dangerous part of New York, but Mark knew the truth. The crime here was worse. Life was cheap. It was the perfect place for his mission. A place full of crime was a place full of opportunities to earn what he called "Justice Points."
"Looks like I'm off to a good start," he murmured, spotting the two men and the frightened woman on the ground. Her purse was still in their hands.
Mark walked toward them. His steps were slow and deliberate, the walk of a man who feared nothing.
"I suggest you return the purse to the lady," he said, his voice even and cool.
"Go to hell," one of the men spat back.
They shared a look, then both pulled out small, gleaming pocket knives. One lunged, aiming the blade for Mark's stomach. His friend swung a moment later, the knife slicing through the air. They thought he was an easy target one unarmed man against two with blades. They didn't understand what they were facing.
"Very well," Mark said softly. "You were warned."
Then, he moved.
One moment he was standing still, the next he was in front of them. There was no wasted motion, just terrifying speed.
He caught both of their wrists in mid-air. His grip was like steel. With a single, sharp upward twist, he dislocated both of their joints. The sound was dry and sickening, like two sticks snapping at once.
SNAP!
The knives clattered to the ground. The men screamed, a raw sound of pain and shock.
"People like you only listen when something breaks," Mark said, letting them go. They stumbled back, clutching their now useless arms, their eyes wide with disbelief.
He gave them no time to think. A single, powerful kick struck the first man in the center of his chest, sending him flying backward to sprawl in the dirt. Mark pivoted, his heel driving into the second man's chest. The impact lifted him completely off his feet and slammed him against a tree with a heavy, wet thud. He slid to the ground, unconscious.
Mark bent down, picked up the purse, and tossed it to the woman. She had struggled to her feet, holding her side.
"Thank you," she gasped. She clutched her bag and ran away without looking back.
Mark didn't mind. He hadn't done it for her thanks. He did it for the Justice Points.
He quickly checked the men's pockets and found less than twenty dollars. "Penniless," he muttered, but put the money in his own pocket. He needed it more than they did.
Then, Mark bent his knees and leaped. He flew through the air, bounding from one rooftop to the next until he landed silently on top of a six-story building overlooking the neighborhood.
"Flavido" he whispered.
At the command, his simple tracksuit began to shimmer. Lines of golden light spread across the grey fabric. The light flowed like liquid metal, hardening and shaping itself until he was covered in a suit of gleaming golden armor. A single dry leaf drifted past his face. He caught it between his fingers. As he held it, the leaf transformed, its brown, brittle texture becoming smooth, solid gold. He raised it to his head, and it expanded into a perfectly fitted helmet.
He stood there, a golden figure against the dark city. He needed a look that was powerful and unforgettable.
Sorry for the short chapter
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