The scalding water was a welcome punishment, sluicing away the grime and sweat while doing little to soothe the profound, bone-deep ache in Hawk's muscles. He stood under the spray in the small, tiled cubicle of the gym's changing room, the steam coiling around him like a shroud. This was the ritual that followed the ritual: the ten thousand punches, then the cleansing fire of the shower that marked the true end of the day's labor.
He worked a bar of cheap, unscented soap over his arms and chest, his thoughts drifting. A thousand days. Two years, nine months, and five days since he had started this insane, all-consuming quest. With a conscious effort, he summoned the system interface, its cool blue text a stark contrast to the grimy, humid reality of the shower.
[Activation Progress: 999 / 1,000]
The numbers glowed with an almost holy light. For nearly three years, that progress bar had been his only companion, the only proof that his suffering had a purpose. Seeing it so close to completion still felt unreal, like a dream he was afraid to wake from. It sounded so simple on paper: punch ten thousand times a day. But the reality was a monotonous, soul-crushing grind. There were days his muscles had screamed in protest, days he was sick with a fever but dragged himself to the gym anyway, days where the sheer, mind-numbing repetition nearly broke his spirit. He still wasn't sure how he'd managed to persist.
Was it some innate stubbornness, a refusal to admit defeat that was buried in the core of his soul? Or was it the constant, low-grade terror that came with living in the Marvel Universe? He didn't have a clear answer. It was likely both.
"One day," he murmured, his voice a low rumble lost in the hiss of the water. "Just one more day."
Tomorrow. After today's workout, tomorrow was the day. The system would finally activate.
"Cosmo Awakening…" he thought, the name itself a universe of possibilities. "I wonder if it's the one I'm thinking of."
In the vast, fragmented library of his past life's memories, only one concept truly resonated with that name. If this system was what he suspected, then his future was not just promising; it was limitless. He recalled the philosophical underpinnings he'd once read about. All things are composed of atoms, and within the human body exists a miniature universe. The Cosmo. The source of all life.
To awaken one's Cosmo was to ignite that inner universe, to burn the original energy of life itself and gain power that shattered the laws of physics. His mind dredged up flickering, epic images from an old anime, a story of warriors who wore sacred armor and fought for a goddess.
Saint Seiya.
He could almost see it: Bronze Saints, masters of their five senses, reaching for the Sixth Sense to unleash fists that could break the sound barrier. Silver Saints, who had mastered that Sixth Sense and were touching the very essence of Cosmo, the Seventh Sense, allowing them to move at near-lightspeed. And above them all, the god-like Gold Saints, the twelve paragons of power who had completely mastered the Seventh Sense, their attacks capable of shattering stars and warping dimensions. Beyond that, legends spoke of an even higher plane—an Eighth Sense to conquer death itself, and perhaps even a Ninth that touched divinity.
The water suddenly felt cold. A shiver, not from the temperature, ran down his spine. He shook his head, a wry smile touching his lips as he shut off the spray. He was getting ahead of himself. He wasn't even sure if his system's "Cosmo" was the same one, and here he was dreaming of kicking Odin and punching Zeus.
Besides, he had no such grand ambitions. His goal was simpler, more primal: survival. For seventeen years he had navigated this world, and for the first fifteen, before the system ever appeared, he had already steeled himself to face its dangers with nothing but his own two hands and his wits.
Mindset is everything, he reminded himself, the thought a familiar mantra. The greater the expectation, the greater the potential disappointment.
He methodically wrung out his washed T-shirt and shorts, placing them in a plastic bag. Wrapping a towel around his waist and using another to dry his hair, he pushed open the cubicle door, stepping back into the main changing room.
BAM!
The main door to the locker room was thrown open with violent force. A split second later, a thin, frantic figure was shoved through, stumbling forward several steps before losing his balance and landing hard on his backside on the wet, tiled floor.
Hawk's eyes narrowed slightly. "Peter?"
The boy on the floor, Peter Parker, looked up, his expression a painful mix of humiliation and shock. He saw Hawk, standing there with a towel around his waist, and his face flushed an even deeper shade of red. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, a chorus of derisive laughter erupted from the doorway.
Flash Thompson, the six-foot-two captain of the Midtown football team and the school's apex predator, swaggered in. He was flanked by three of his usual cronies, their expressions mirroring his own smug cruelty.
The laughter died the instant they saw Hawk.
It was as if someone had hit a mute button. The air, which had been filled with arrogant mirth, suddenly grew heavy and still. Hawk paused his hair-drying, his gaze, calm and utterly devoid of emotion, locking with Flash's.
Flash Thompson was big, built with the heavy muscle of a football player. But Hawk was different. His nine hundred and ninety-nine days of relentless, brutal training had stripped away every ounce of softness, leaving a physique that was lean, dense, and humming with latent power. His muscles weren't the puffed-up, aesthetic kind from a gym. They were the hardened, functional sinews of a fighter, every line and contour speaking of explosive force. The towel was tied low on his waist, revealing the sharp V-cut of his hips and a perfectly sculpted eight-pack that looked less like muscle and more like armor plating.
Their eyes met across the steam-filled room.
It was a known fact that American high schools had a clear food chain. From a background perspective, Hawk—an orphan with no family and no money—should have been at the absolute bottom, prime prey for bullies like Flash.
But he wasn't. He never had been.
It wasn't because he'd ever fought them. He never needed to. The reason was simple: one look at Hawk and the word "victim" simply didn't compute. It was in the coiled tension of his body and, more importantly, in the unnerving stillness of his eyes. Bullies fed on fear, on reaction, on weakness. Hawk offered them nothing. He was a void, an anomaly they instinctively knew not to provoke.
He had no intention of changing that now. He'd seen Peter get harassed by Flash dozens of times. He felt a detached sort of pity for the nerdy kid, but he had no plans to intervene. No one is anyone's savior. His own survival was paramount. Drawing the attention of idiots like Flash was a distraction he couldn't afford.
Breaking the stare, Hawk walked silently to his backpack on a bench. He pulled out a clean T-shirt and jeans and dressed with unhurried, efficient movements. Then, he slung the backpack over one shoulder and walked directly toward the exit, which was still blocked by Flash and his crew.
Flash frowned, his bravado visibly faltering as Hawk stopped directly in front of him, invading his personal space. He was used to people shrinking away from him, not walking right up to him.
"Haw—" he started, his voice uncertain.
"Excuse me," Hawk said. His tone was perfectly level, carrying no heat, no challenge, no emotion at all. It was a simple statement of fact: you are in my way.
The simplicity of it was more intimidating than any threat. Flash's instincts, honed on the football field, screamed that the person in front of him was dangerous in a way he didn't understand. He looked into Hawk's calm, blue eyes and saw an indifference that was more chilling than hatred. His mouth went dry.
Subconsciously, he took a step back. His followers, sensing the shift in their leader, shuffled aside as well.
"Thank you," Hawk said, the words as neutral as the request. He walked past them without a second glance and out the door, his footsteps echoing down the empty hall.
Flash stood there for a second, a strange mix of confusion and residual fear churning in his gut. He had just been silently dominated, and he wasn't even sure how it happened.
"Holy shit," one of his followers whispered. "Boss, Parker's gone!"
"What?" Flash snapped back to reality, whirling around. The spot where Peter had been sitting was empty. He'd used the standoff as a cover to scramble out the door. The humiliation of being outmaneuvered by Hawk instantly morphed into rage, which he redirected at the easier target.
"CHASE HIM!" Flash roared, his voice booming in the locker room. "NERD PARKER, YOU GET BACK HERE!"