Class was a battlefield of its own. Mrs. Warren had spent five minutes squinting at my homework, her eyes darting between my sheet and Peter's with the suspicion of a seasoned detective. She clearly suspected I had copied Parker's work—which was technically true—but she didn't account for one thing: in my past life, I was a master of the "shortcut."
I had forged my own doctor's notes for years. Mimicking Peter's logic while using my own hand to slightly alter the loops of the 'g's and 'y's was child's play. I dodged that stray bullet with a grin, but the thrill of academic fraud was short-lived. I had bigger fish to fry. Or rather, a bigger Kingpin to de-throne.
I need info, I thought, tapping my pencil against the desk. I can't just walk up to Matt Murdock and ask for his client list. He'd hear my heartbeat skip and know I'm up to something.
The second the final bell rang, I turned to the duo. "Hey, Harry, Pete. Look at us. We're the top of the class, but we look like we'd fold in a stiff breeze. We need to hit the gym. Properly."
It took some convincing, but I played them like a fiddle. I told Harry that a "future CEO" needed a commanding physical presence, and I told Peter that if he didn't want to rely on me to save him from Flash next time, he needed some muscle.
Harry, being Harry, didn't just agree—he insisted on paying for the most elite gym membership in Midtown. "If we're doing this, we're doing it with high-end equipment and eucalyptus towels," he muttered as he swiped his black card for the trio.
The grind was brutal. For Harry and Peter, two hours of basic lifting and cardio was enough to leave them trembling. They headed for the showers, gasping for air and complaining about "lactic acid," but I stayed. I wasn't there for a "summer body." I was there to trigger an evolution.
I spent the next six hours testing every machine in the building. I maxed out the leg press, did sets of pull-ups until my palms bled, and ran on the treadmill until the motor smelled like it was melting. By the time I finished, I was drenched in sweat and my muscles were screaming—but when I looked in the mirror, there were no "Hulk" gains yet. Just a massive, void-like appetite and a bone-deep weariness.
Tch. Nerfed indeed, I thought, dragging my heavy limbs toward a nearby all-you-can-eat steakhouse. I used a chunk of my ROB allowance to eat until the manager started looking at me with the same fear Harry had shown.
With a full stomach and a slightly clearer head, I hit the streets of Queens. I needed a disguise. I wasn't going out tonight—I was too exhausted—but tomorrow? Tomorrow was game day. I bought some tactical black gear: a reinforced hoodie, combat trousers, and a sleek nose mask. I wanted the full Kakashi look, but my budget screamed "low-tier ninja," so I settled for a high-quality filter mask that hid my face but kept my vision clear.
Then, I took a detour into the shady side of the borough—Quinn's Black Market. The air was thick with the smell of gun oil and illicit deals. I spent my remaining stipend on a pair of sleek semi-automatic pistols and two beautiful dual katanas. The blades had cool markings etched into the steel and an edge that looked sharp enough to slice through a shadow.
Next time Kingpin's goons try to corner me, they aren't getting a 'thin nerd.' They're getting a blade to the throat.
Back in my "coffin," I spent the night practicing CQC (Close Quarters Combat) drills and sword forms. My body remembered the movements from the anime and movies I'd watched, but the Doomsday cells made them faster, more fluid.
As I sat on the floor, cleaning my new blades, an idea hit me. Money. I still need more of it if I want those Stark shares.
In my old world, I spent years reading webnovels. Super Gene, Lord of Mysteries, The Daily Life of the Immortal Emperor... they were masterpieces. And in this universe? They didn't exist.
"It's not plagiarism if the author isn't in this dimension," I muttered, cracking my knuckles and opening a cheap laptop I'd scavenged.
Remaking those stories was going to be hard. I still had that "lazy energy" from my past life clinging to me like a second skin, and my brain felt like it was made of lead after the workout. But if I wanted to be the King of Marvel, I couldn't just be a monster—I had to be a mogul.
One month to kill a Kingpin. One week to start a literary empire. No pressure, Alex. No pressure at all.
After I finished the CQC drills and wiped the oil from my new katanas, I sat on the floor of my "coffin," staring at a map of Hell's Kitchen I'd pinned to the wall. My muscles were humming with a dull ache, a reminder that my body was still caught in the transition between "High Schooler" and "Apex Predator."
Info is king, I thought, tapping a pen against my chin. I can't just go in swinging. I need to know the rhythm of the streets. Who collects the protection money? Which warehouses stay open past 2:00 AM? Who are the guys whispering in the back of the 24-hour diners?
Tomorrow was Saturday. No school, no Mrs. Warren, and no fake homework to forge. It was the perfect window for a reconnaissance mission. My plan was simple: spend the entire day as a "ghost." I'd drift through the whole place, observing the patterns—who does what, what goes where, and who answers to whom. In the Marvel world, the "little guys" always talk, you just have to be close enough to hear them.
Saturday in New York is chaos, I reasoned. It's the best time to disappear in a crowd. I'll map out Fisk's front businesses. If I can find a weak link in his supply chain, I won't have to fight a hundred goons at once. I can just cut the throat of the operation.
The thought of the upcoming mission made my blood simmer. I looked at the gear I'd bought—the mask, the tactical clothes, the blades. It felt real now. I wasn't just a fan watching a screen anymore; I was a variable in the equation.
Eventually, the mental and physical exhaustion of the six-hour gym grind began to win. My eyelids felt like lead. As I crawled onto my thin mattress, my mind drifted—as it usually did—to the "perks" of this new world. I started thinking about the legendary beauties I'd only ever seen in panels and on posters. Gwen's smile, Black Widow's intensity, Wanda's mystery...
Yeah, ROB, if I survive this Kingpin quest, you better be ready to upgrade my 'charm' stats too, I chuckled to myself. I made sure I had a fresh box of tissues nearby—hey, even a Doomsday-to-be has needs, and the "Otaku" energy from my past life wasn't going to vanish overnight.
With the sound of the city humming outside my window and the weight of my new katanas nearby, I finally drifted into a deep, heavy sleep.
Saturday was coming. And by the time the sun went down tomorrow, I wouldn't just be Alexander Prince anymore. I'd be a hunter.