New York City — Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan.
This part of the city looked extremely dilapidated. The low buildings were narrow and cramped, the streets desolate and messy, littered with abandoned garbage blowing in the wind.
The 1990s here were no different—poor, backward, and grim.
It wasn't because Hell's Kitchen lacked people. On the contrary, it was one of the most densely populated areas in Manhattan. But it also had the worst public security.
Gangsters thrived here, and all kinds of criminals roamed the streets. If you weren't careful, you'd be threatened, mugged, or worse. At night, the neighborhood completely belonged to the gangs—drug deals, fights, and shootouts were routine.
For ordinary people, this was hell.
For criminals, it was paradise.
On one of these deserted streets, a young Asian man jogged in sweatpants and a thin sports vest. His body was drenched in sweat, but the emptiness around him didn't bother him; he was already used to it. Looking up at the skyline, his eyes lingered on the tallest structure—the gleaming Stark Industries Building.
"Damn it, Tony Stark. Iron Man. Marvel, my ass."
Even after seeing the Stark Tower countless times, Allens couldn't help cursing under his breath. He stopped his workout and turned back toward his tiny rental apartment—barely ten square meters.
It had been three months since he transmigrated into this world, and Allens still struggled to accept the reality—this was the Marvel Universe.
That's right, Allens was a time-traveler. He had been rewatching the American show Heroes when he accidentally fell asleep, only to wake up here—inside the body of an Asian man also named Allens, inheriting all his predecessor's memories.
After he first arrived, Allens quickly realized the year was 2007. He thought about all the money-making schemes he could pull off with his knowledge of the future. But whenever his eyes landed on the Stark Industries Building, his heart sank. Stark Industries? Iron Man? This really was Marvel.
At first, he didn't believe it. But the TV in his shabby apartment confirmed the truth—every channel was filled with news about Tony Stark, the billionaire playboy. That left no doubt.
And worst of all, he was living in Hell's Kitchen—the most chaotic part of New York, ruled by the underground crime lord Wilson Fisk, better known as Kingpin. The first time he heard the name "Hell's Kitchen," his body had gone cold.
Here, your life could end at any moment. Step outside at night, and a stray bullet might blow your brains out. Stay inside, and you still risked being blown up by an RPG in some gang war.
But panic wouldn't help.
Following the "rules" every transmigrator knew, Allens immediately searched for his cheat—his golden finger. After all, this was Marvel, a world where half the universe could vanish with a snap of the Mad Titan's fingers. If he wanted to survive, he needed something extraordinary.
And luck didn't disappoint. One night, after a week of waiting, Allens finally got what he hoped for—his golden finger: the Heroes Rising System.
That's right. Because he had been watching the series Heroes before he fell asleep, his cheat naturally aligned with it.
After exploring its functions, Allens understood its terrifying potential.
Put simply, the system allowed him to extract and acquire the superpowers of characters from Heroes. Occasionally, it would issue tasks. Completing them would reward him with a chance to draw a random power.
The thought made him ecstatic. He had watched Heroes several times and knew how terrifying those abilities were: the cheerleader's immortality, Hiro Nakamura's mastery of time and space, Peter Petrelli's power replication, elemental manipulation—fire, water, electricity—and more. Even in Marvel, such powers were formidable.
With this system, Allens finally had a chance to survive in this dangerous world. Maybe one day, even defeating Thanos would be easy—but for now, just staying alive in Hell's Kitchen was the priority.
Ding-dong. Ding-dong.
The harsh sound of a doorbell pulled him out of his thoughts. A doorbell in a ten-square-meter apartment? Of course not. It was something Allens had cobbled together himself, wired to the iron front door.
Click.
He cracked the door open slightly, peering outside. Standing there was a tall, broad-shouldered man in a suit, leather shoes, and dark sunglasses. His face was cold as he pressed the button again.
"Persuader, I need your help."
Though his tone was flat, his words carried respect. He removed his sunglasses, and in his eyes was something surprising—plea, even reverence.
"Before knocking on my door, you should state your name and purpose," Allens said evenly from behind the gap, his voice calm yet carrying a strange weight. To the man, it sounded like wisdom, compelling obedience.
"You're right, Persuader," he said immediately. "My name is Hood Kane. I lead a small gang. We've had… misunderstandings with the Mexican cartel. I was hoping you could come to the Wilson district and mediate."
He hadn't meant to reveal his intentions so quickly, but Allens's words had loosened his guard.
The Mexican cartel was the second most powerful group in Hell's Kitchen after Fisk's organization. For a small-time gang leader to even negotiate with them meant Kane wasn't as simple as he looked.
"You should know that every mediation I take comes at a steep price."
Allens opened the door fully now, a half-smile on his face. His tone was calm but firm.
"Of course," Kane nodded quickly. "I know your rules, Persuader."
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