"Yes. So that case definitely wasn't his first kill," Natasha Romanoff said firmly.
"It also looks like Captain George and his team are holding back with us," Phil Coulson chuckled. "Anything we can infer, their task force can infer too."
This task force was built for a major serial murder investigation. Every member was a seasoned detective with big cases under their belt. None of them were fools.
So yes, NYPD was keeping some cards close to the vest. Coulson didn't mind. He had one goal: find the killer and make contact.
Credit for closing the case didn't matter to him.
Different missions, different metrics—no need to get annoyed.
"Queens is his hunting ground. Given that, we're looking at a very large search," Coulson said.
"Seven to eight million people across Queens and nearby—finding him won't be easy," he added, then looked to Natasha. "Which is why we need you to think sideways here, Natasha."
"Sounds like I'll be working solo," she said, arching a brow. Even in the downpour, her poised, elegant edge was unmistakable.
"I'll pull first-hand updates from the task force," she added. "If I get anything new, you'll know immediately."
"By the way—what will you do if you find him?" Coulson asked.
"What else? Observe," Natasha said with a half-smile, then turned away.
...
Boom!!
The rain hammered down. Back in Ben Shaw's cramped house, he tugged off his hood and cap, stripped, and tossed everything into the new washing machine. He hit the start button and walked naked to the shower.
His clothes and skin reeked of gunpowder—a side effect of sustained firefights. The storm had soaked him to the bone on the way home.
As he scrubbed, he felt it: change.
The familiar warmth—the hot-spring sensation—rolled through him. Cells, bones, skin, organs, even his thoughts seemed to hum with joy as they rose to a new level.
It was a life-level shift—gentle, powerful, undeniable.
Water streamed over pale, clean lines of muscle and skin.
"Clearer… this feeling is—"
He lifted his hand and stared at his fingertips. A soft gold glow bloomed there—an energy that had first flickered to life after the last gang purge.
At first, it was feeble—good for nothing but light. A fingertip flashlight.
But after wiping out Herman Odea's crew, his physique had jumped—and this energy surged with it. He could sense it fully now, call it up instinctively.
If he wanted, he could fire it from his fingertips like a laser—something like a Glint-Glint Fruit beam.
How strong? Hard to say. But he had a feeling: this "original ability" was a kind of information control.
If he emptied all this energy at once, he felt he could vaporize a small, hundred-square-meter house.
Ben grinned. Another step away from ordinary humanity.
He almost felt grateful to the monsters who'd fueled his growth.
He hoped their souls lingered in Hell—so that someday he could harvest them again. Whether he'd ever see them was another matter.
For now, he gave this inner energy a name: mana.
Like in Fate. Shame he didn't have a Noble Phantasm to match.
Still, the sudden rise of mana opened a wider path.
He'd thought his road would be pure physical ascension—like a certain Kryptonian.
But mana changed the equation.
The road widened.
Superman's strength was strength—and unless you were golden or silver-age absurd, magic could ruin you.
Ben didn't want exploitable weaknesses.
Maybe he should approach Kamar-Taj—or at least learn enough to understand magic.
Knowledge never betrays you.
When the glow faded, Ben finished scrubbing away the powder stink, dried off, and dressed in fresh clothes: jeans, a tee, a shirt, sneakers.
Simple 2000s casual—youthful and sharp. With his upgraded physique, he looked good in anything.
He hit the kitchen, pulled a pile of ingredients from the fridge, and started cooking as usual.
A feast after each purge—a ritual like Hannibal's post-kill plates.
Only Hannibal ate people. Ben killed and stole life essence—feeding himself, not his palate alone.
He set out a full spread, then ate by the rain-dimmed light, hunger turning every bite into relief. It was wonderful.
Between mouthfuls, he thought things through.
Four months of tearing through Queens' gangs had caused serious waves. He prepared meticulously before every strike—especially with firearms.
His reinforced bones and muscles shrugged off recoil. Hyperfast nerves and enhanced dynamic vision gave him confidence at the trigger. It felt like a trained marksman shooting fixed targets on a range.
In truth, he was a natural—a genius evolving daily.
How did he train? Which guns? After each scene, he deliberately fired extra rounds with whatever weapons the gang had, recording the exact feel in his memory and muscle memory.
He grew from barehanded mauls and close-quarters skirmishes into heavy, precise gunplay.
He'd mastered combat shooting in the field—enough to sell NYPD on the idea that the killer was a veteran sharpshooter. No one would suspect a young Asian kid had built that kind of skill purely through live-fire experience.
The only recurring concerns were smoke residue—and making sure plastic shoe covers didn't tear.