"Dad, I…" Gil sat with Frank in a diner, struggling for words. Meeting his father was a dream, but now, face-to-face, he was at a loss.
"Gil, I'm sorry," Frank said, tears welling in the tough man's eyes. After losing his wife and daughter in an "accident," only his son remained. Consumed by vengeance, he broke seeing Gil.
Frank reached to ruffle Gil's hair but froze, hand trembling.
"Dad, I'm so glad to see you!" Gil grabbed his father's hand, feeling its calloused warmth. He held no resentment—only an "accident," right?
Having faced death himself, Gil wanted to sob in his father's arms but held back. Frank's grief matched his own, and Gil was his only comfort.
Seeing Gil's red eyes, Frank couldn't stay lost in sorrow. His son was consoling him. "Gil, what do you want to eat? Anything you want," he said, his stern face softening, hiding their shared pain behind reddened eyes.
…
Rumlow, in a sharp suit, entered the Continental Hotel, a killers' haven. Every face here was an assassin. Unwary tourists were turned away with excuses like "no vacancies." The hotel served killers, and Rumlow, per Dugan's orders, came to post a task to find Hit-Monkey.
"Sir, how can I assist?" the receptionist asked, sizing up Rumlow. His polished look marked him as no tourist.
"I need to post a job. Where do I start?" Rumlow spun a Continental coin between his fingers, a gift from Dugan. Without it, he couldn't post anything. Dugan insisted he come in person to avoid HYDRA's spies in S.H.I.E.L.D.
"Take that elevator," the receptionist said, pointing, then went silent. The coin proved Rumlow's legitimacy; entry to the task area required one as a tip.
Rumlow strode toward the elevator, unconcerned about his concealed weapons—normal here. Passing a bruised, long-haired man, he felt a fleeting threat. A glance, then he moved on. "John Wick. Interesting," he thought, but his mission outweighed curiosity.
…
Task posted, Rumlow left the Continental as dusk fell, feeling a twinge of sentiment. Time to return to the bar and plan with Dugan.
Meanwhile, Luke Cage and Matt Murdock rested in a stone hut on Harrogath. Luke's tattered coat showed its defensive value; Matt bore scratches and singed curls. They'd passed their trials' first stage, feeling subtle changes. For native barbarians, trials awakened Nephalem blood; for these humans, it granted a faint trace of it—less than one percent of a barbarian's gain.
Luke gained vital combat experience, unscathed; zombies couldn't pierce his skin. Facing non-humans, he wielded his strength freely, unburdened by killing. Pinned by three zombies, their scratches were nothing compared to Madoc's rod. A roll, a swing of Warblade, and they were cleaved.
Matt's trial was harsher. Chased by Fallen demons, he used crude traps to down them, only to be scorched by a Fallen shaman's fireball. As he chased the shaman, slain Fallen rose again. Stepping on a loose tile, he found a worn glove. It felt powerful, inexplicably dear. Wearing it, he shrugged off lesser Fallen attacks, driving his baton into the shaman's eye to win. His strength grew by half; now, he could dispatch ninjas in moments, their katanas useless.
"Didn't expect that old man to send us to this crazy place. I'm way stronger now!" Luke said, swinging Warblade one-handed with ease.
"Why's he helping us?" Matt asked, touching the glove, uneasy.
(End of Chapter)
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