Nolan pedaled his bicycle at high speed, weaving through traffic with his newly enhanced reflexes.
The explosive news about Stark Industries continued to dominate every screen and conversation. Window displays facing the street played news reports on loop. Electronic billboards hanging high above the sidewalks cycled through the same headlines. Even pedestrians walking past clutched their phones, their faces illuminated by footage of Tony Stark making his announcement.
None of it mattered to Nolan.
He crossed several familiar streets of Chinatown and arrived at the entrance of a restaurant called "The Evening Hearth." The establishment was small and compact, tucked between a laundromat and a corner store. But what it lacked in size, it made up for in quality. After years of hard work and dedication, his aunt had built a reputation that stretched across Manhattan. People traveled from all five boroughs just to taste her cooking.
Nolan stepped through the door, navigating past neatly arranged tables and chairs toward the counter at the back.
Even though lunch hour had ended, several customers lingered in the corner. A group of rough-looking men were still devouring their meals with gusto, shoveling food into their mouths like they hadn't eaten in days.
His aunt's cooking had that effect on people.
"Good morning, Aunt," Nolan called out as he approached the counter.
His aunt sat perched on a stool behind the register, her fingers flying across a calculator as she worked through the day's accounts. She didn't look up at his greeting.
"It's one o'clock in the afternoon, Mr. Nolan," she said dryly. "You're late. Again."
His aunt wasn't particularly old, only about thirty-five. She kept her hair cut short for practicality and wore the same white chef's coat every day, the fabric spotless despite hours spent in a busy kitchen. Her slightly rounded chin somehow accentuated her no-nonsense demeanor, the crisp efficiency of a woman who'd built a successful business from nothing.
She stopped tapping at the calculator and fixed Nolan with an exasperated look, her eyes rolling skyward even as he flashed his most charming smile.
"Mike has requested a long vacation," she said, gesturing toward a stack of takeout boxes piled near the counter. "One week."
She tapped the boxes with one finger.
"So I'm suspending takeout orders after today. You can come back once you've delivered these."
"Big Mouth Mike?" Nolan blinked as the image surfaced in his memory. A thin but perpetually hungry young Black man who could eat his weight in leftovers. "Didn't he always say he wanted to work overtime to learn cooking? Why the sudden vacation?"
His aunt's expression softened, genuine sympathy flickering across her face. "A few days ago, Mike's seven-year-old brother went missing."
She sighed, and something bitter crept into her eyes.
"You know what the police are like in poor neighborhoods. Rich people like Tony Stark get their full attention and resources. People like Mike? He's on his own. He can only rely on relatives and friends to help search."
Nolan's chest tightened. "If I have time, I'll reach out to Mike. See if there's anything I can do to help."
"I'm sure he'd appreciate that." His aunt's expression warmed slightly.
Nolan grabbed his delivery helmet from the counter and hefted the stack of takeout boxes with one hand. They were heavy, easily thirty or forty pounds combined, but his enhanced strength made them feel like nothing.
"I'll deliver these now, Aunt. Otherwise, you'll criticize me again."
He turned and headed for the door.
Behind the counter, his aunt watched him go, her eyes lingering on his broad, muscular back. A fond smile crossed her face, the kind reserved for watching children grow into capable adults.
Then she blinked, confusion replacing the warmth.
"Is he going through a growth spurt?" she muttered to herself. "Or is he secretly working out somewhere? He looks... bigger."
After years of trial and refinement, his aunt had settled on a business strategy for "The Evening Hearth" that targeted middle and lower-income customers. She kept prices affordable while refusing to compromise on quality or flavor. As a result, most takeout deliveries stayed within a five-kilometer radius of the restaurant.
It took Nolan only twenty minutes to deliver most of the orders. These were regulars, customers who'd tasted his aunt's cooking once and become hopelessly addicted. They greeted him warmly, pressed tips into his hand despite his protests, and sent him off with smiles.
Now he had only one order remaining. A set meal for two.
He pedaled through several crowded streets until he arrived at a recently renovated apartment building. The structure looked modern and sleek, all glass and steel, standing out among the older brick buildings surrounding it.
Nolan approached the entrance and found the door locked. Only residents with key cards could enter.
He pressed the call button for the intercom and waited.
"Excuse me, Mr. Dmitri?" Nolan said in his practiced customer service voice. "Your takeout has arrived. Could you please come downstairs to pick it up?"
A slurred voice crackled through the speaker. "Damn it! 403! Bring it to the door!"
The door buzzed and clicked open.
"Oh man…," Nolan muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
Based on past experience, he could easily guess the customer was drunk. But people in the service industry didn't get to choose their customers.
He shrugged helplessly and stepped inside, balancing the takeout box as he climbed the stairs.
Minutes later, he stood in front of apartment 403 and knocked.
Footsteps shuffled toward the door. It swung open with a bang.
An overwhelming stench of alcohol and marijuana smoke rolled out like a physical wave, making Nolan's eyes water. Even with all his experience delivering food to questionable locations, he couldn't help but wrinkle his nose in disgust.
"Your takeout, sir," Nolan said, forcing a professional smile as he pulled the containers from his box.
"Hurry... thanks," mumbled a drunk blond man standing behind the door. He reached out to grab the food, already moving to close the door.
Nolan's palm shot out and caught the door, stopping it cold.
"Sir," he said politely, smile still in place. "This is a cash-on-delivery order. You haven't paid yet."
The blond man blinked slowly, visibly struggling to process the words. He shook his head as if trying to clear fog from his brain.
Then he turned and shouted into the apartment. "Hey, Dmitri! Come pay!"
"Pay?" A voice boomed from deeper inside. "What do I need to pay for? Since when do I pay for takeout?"
Heavy footsteps approached. A tall, muscular figure appeared in the doorway, roughly shoving the drunk blond man aside.
The newcomer's eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. He glared at Nolan with open hostility, his face twisted into an aggressive sneer.
"Hey, kid," he growled. "You better get out of here."
Nolan's eyes narrowed slightly, but his expression remained calm. He pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped the screen a few times, and turned it toward the bald man.
"Dmitri Morozov," Nolan said evenly. "If you refuse to pay, I'll call the police to resolve this."
"How do you know my name?" Dmitri's eyes widened, paranoia flashing across his face. "Who sent you here?!"
Clearly the combination of alcohol and drugs had scrambled his thoughts completely.
"You look familiar, kid," Dmitri said after a moment, squinting as he studied Nolan's face more carefully.
Nolan kept his expression neutral. Dmitri Morozov. The former bully from his high school. Former, because he'd been expelled months ago for dealing drugs on school grounds.
"The set meal for two is fifty dollars," Nolan said, refusing to engage with Dmitri's confusion. There was no friendship between them. No reason to have this conversation. "Plus ten dollars for delivery. Sixty dollars total. Thank you for your patronage."
Dmitri's face cycled through several expressions. Confusion. Recognition. Then something darker and meaner.
"Your takeout is late!" he declared suddenly, his voice rising. "I've been waiting over an hour!"
Nolan sighed, genuine sympathy flickering across his face despite himself.
"This is just takeout," he said quietly. "If you're genuinely struggling, I can pay for it myself and treat you to the meal."
He paused, his eyes meeting Dmitri's bloodshot gaze.
"But you're not struggling. You're just getting high and having fun, aren't you?"
Nolan's eyes narrowed. His neck rolled slowly from side to side, joints popping. His hands, hanging loose at his sides, clenched slightly. His fingertips flexed in a subtle rhythm.
It was the opening stance of Catachan fighting techniques. Hidden. Deadly. Ready.
"I just don't plan to pay," Dmitri said with a vicious grin spreading across his face. His muscular shoulders shifted, his weight settling into a ready stance. "What are you going to do about it? Call the police, little man?"
He was still a bully. Still the same piece of trash who'd terrorized smaller, weaker students. Nothing had changed.
A minute ago, when Dmitri had recognized Nolan as someone from his old high school, any intention of letting this interaction end peacefully had evaporated.
He hated that school. Hated the teachers who'd expelled him. Hated the students who'd looked down on him.
And right in front of him stood the perfect target for all that rage. A convenient human punching bag.