A giant and a child walked Hell's Kitchen's streets. It was daytime, so nothing too unsightly occurred, leaving Bulkathos relatively cheerful.
"Jill, is this place always like this?"
Bulkathos eyed the lively scene, puzzled.
Police cars cruised by, but the thugs lining the streets ignored them.
Elderly locals greeted the officers, and without the cash slipped into the cars, Bulkathos might've believed their rapport was genuine.
"Yeah, always."
Jill's tone grew heavy.
Growing up safely here was a tormenting challenge.
"In Sanctuary, those street punks would have their legs broken and be strung up on poles!"
Bulkathos's voice boomed, drawing most of the street's attention.
His unfiltered disdain spurred the thugs to defend their pitiful pride.
"Old man, still playing that online game? I told you, it's not for us old-timers!"
An aged voice cut through, halting the onlookers.
The barbershop old man from days ago hobbled over, waving at Bulkathos, his eyes urgent.
Bulkathos knew the old man meant to spare him trouble, pure kindness.
So, with a mental scoff at the thugs, he led Jill toward the old man—dust couldn't harm him, only annoy.
"Hey, how you holding up?"
Bulkathos clapped the old man's shoulder, speaking slowly, eyes locked.
"Not bad. I offered you a free haircut last time—since we're here, let's do it."
The old man wasn't frail, but next to Bulkathos's towering two-meter frame, anyone looked less sturdy.
Bulkathos's body, forged in battle, boasted robust muscles and just enough fat for a burly build.
No striking, chiseled lines, though.
Warriors stored fat for survival—fat protected better than muscle.
Monks and demon hunters chased agility and evasion, their goals unlike barbarians'.
Even the frailest casters—witch doctors, mages—had superhuman physiques.
Except necromancers, whom Bulkathos rarely saw. They fought for hope and justice, but their corpse explosions and spectral dances were unsettling.
"Who's this kid? Your grandson?"
The old black man eyed Jill curiously.
In his mind, superhumans were often loners, rarely with family.
Like that tights-wearing freak active in Hell's Kitchen.
They called him Daredevil, but who cared?
He stirred up trouble for gangs, sparking explosions left and right.
"Sure, you can think that."
Bulkathos ruffled Jill's hair, grinning.
"My hair doesn't need much, but this kid could use a sharp cut to brighten him up."
He ushered Jill into the barbershop from days prior—a cramped space with two aged chairs.
"Buddy, I'm Bulkathos. What's your name?"
He glanced at Luke Cage behind the counter's narrow space, addressing the old man.
"Oh, forgot to introduce myself. I'm Zack, Zack Strand."
Zack pointed at Luke Cage, who was watching Bulkathos, about to introduce him.
"I remember him. Luke, right?"
Bulkathos plopped Jill into a barber chair.
"Over to you, Zack. Give this kid the sharpest cut!"
He burst into laughter.
Luke seemed to want to speak but stayed silent.
"Everyone knows my shop's the best in the block. Leave it to me."
Zack grabbed a clipper and approached.
…
"Uncle, you really think this cut's sharp?"
Jill, sporting a fuzzy layer of golden hair, stared at Bulkathos, searching for guilt in his eyes but finding none.
To Bulkathos, his long hair was just low-maintenance; any style that didn't hinder fighting was "sharp."
Expecting a barbarian's aesthetic sense—Jill was too young.
True, Zack's shop was the best in the block, even among nearby streets.
But neither Bulkathos nor Jill noticed only black customers came to Zack's, so his cuts didn't suit a blond kid like Jill.
"Alright, Luke, spit it out. Stop trailing us all sneaky-like."
Bulkathos turned to Luke Cage, clad in a cheap t-shirt.
He felt a fondness for this born warrior and didn't mind hearing him out.
"You'd better not come to Hell's Kitchen often. Your look and attitude stand out too much."
Luke's face showed an awkward grimace.
He was exceptional—born with immense strength and bulletproof skin. Without his strong sense of justice, he'd be Kingpin's prized guest.
Even Bullseye, the top assassin, couldn't touch him.
A killer with throwing weapons and guns couldn't pierce his defenses.
But Luke was overconfident.
That night, he'd only meant to teach Hit a lesson, not going all out. A black man without formal combat training, relying on street brawl experience—how skilled could he be?
"This place is dangerous?"
Bulkathos was curious. New to New York, he found it chaotic but hadn't grasped its true dangers.
"Yeah, mixed with gangs and that tights-wearing freak with two D's on his chest."
Two D's?
Brother Hero?
(End of Chapter)