Nights in the Queens slums aren't lively. In fact, the later it gets, the quieter it becomes.
Beyond wanting to sleep, the bigger reason is fear.
Ordinary families know what happens if you go out after midnight. Odds are you'll get jumped. There are too many homeless drifters, thugs, and gang members here.
To them, regular people are just prey.
In a place like this, you can vanish without a trace.
There is nightlife—bars and such—but only in certain pockets.
Each spot has a gang behind it to keep order. Small-time punks don't make trouble there.
On a dark, chaotic street, the lamps cast a weak glow. Parked cars sat silent. Most windows were blacked out.
Here and there, a few shapes slept on the sidewalks—homeless people.
In the shadowed mouth of an alley, several figures huddled, smoking greedily, waiting for prey.
"Damn, this stuff's getting weaker, and Sani the bloodsucker keeps hiking the price."
A tattooed man in a T-shirt took a hard drag, complaining about how the product had been cut.
Beside him, another guy in a baseball cap smoked in silence.
Two more nodded along.
"If that guy wasn't just a middleman, we'd have put him down for jacking prices like that."
"We don't know who's backing him. A small crew tried to muscle in, and the next night they all turned up dead."
"Let's just do the job and grab more cash. Can't even afford smokes otherwise."
They muttered and scanned the street, patient for the next victim.
They didn't notice Death slipping in. A figure stood deep in the alley's darkness.
He moved in on silent feet, a hunter closing on prey.
A car rolled past at the far end, headlights washing faint light across the alley.
As the gangsters' attention flicked toward the street, a hand slid up behind the last man.
One hand clamped over his mouth and nose; the other snapped around his neck.
Cartilage cracked. His trachea collapsed. He went limp without a sound.
The figure lowered the body gently.
Then he flowed forward, seized the next man's neck with both hands, and twisted. Another silent collapse.
The shift in weight drew the remaining three's attention.
They spun. Pupils shrank. Fear flashed.
The dark figure surged at them like a tiger.
Before they could react, two brutal punches slammed into the throats of the men on the left and right.
Two dull thuds. Both dropped instantly, eyes bulging, hands clutching at crushed windpipes, bodies twitching.
The last one gaped, turned to run on instinct.
But the attacker's speed and reflexes weren't human.
He closed the distance in two strides.
The man barely got a breath to shout before a fist caved in his throat. He staggered back two steps, then crumpled, despair and confusion frozen on his face.
From the first kill to the fifth, it took no more than ten seconds—smooth, clinical, professional.
A car passed on the street beyond the alley. The driver never noticed the five bodies cooling in the shadows.
The killer stood among them, watching the taillights fade.
Dim streetlight skimmed across him.
He wore plain sweatpants and a sweatshirt, plastic shoe covers over white sneakers, white gloves, a cap with a hood pulled up, and a mask over his face.
In the gloom, only a pair of cold eyes showed beneath the brim.
He stood still, feeling.
After two seconds, he knelt and searched the bodies.
He pulled wallets, stripped the cash.
He ignored gold chains and watches.
He left the pistols where they lay.
He stuffed the cash into his pocket, then turned and walked deeper into the alley. The darkness swallowed him. His light footfalls faded. Silence returned.
Back in his apartment, Ben Shaw sat on the sofa. Cash and loose change were spread across the low table.
Pennies to half-dollars, dollar coins, and bills from ones to hundreds.
Ben totaled it up: $2,130 in bills and about $50 in coins.
Not bad at all.
It was the year 2000.
Even in New York, an ordinary family's monthly income was around $3,000.
For a family of four or five, basic expenses—food, transport, utilities—ran roughly a thousand dollars.
Food prices were lower: chicken breast at $1.50 a pound, lean beef at $3.50. A big weekly shop for a large family might total about $150–$160.
Prices weren't that high in this era—especially not by New York standards.
Someone like Ben, who owned his place, paid no rent. Living alone, monthly costs could be minimal. Now, though, things were different. He needed far more nutrition than before.
Especially after hunting those five gangsters—his physical stats had spiked again.
And the increase was astonishing.
By his rough estimate, the life essence from those five was about ten times what he'd harvested from a dozen roaches.
But the gains weren't linear.
Killing the thugs who'd bullied and robbed him boosted his overall fitness by roughly one to one and a half times.
It also confirmed his earlier theory: vitality varies by individual and by overall life level.
The higher the life level of the target, the more essence he absorbs—and the greater the boost.
Grrr—
His stomach growled. He was starving.
The "aftereffects" of absorbing life essence: the body demanded fuel to stabilize the upgrades.
He'd be spending a lot more on food going forward.
Ben rubbed his stomach, stood, and opened the old secondhand fridge. Inside were groceries he'd spent over a hundred bucks on—lean beef, lamb, chicken breast, vegetables.
An investment—with shocking returns.