Inside a 24-hour dessert shop, the warm yellow lights made people feel drowsy.
"Ah~" Sakata Gintoki used a small spoon to scoop up a mountain of strawberry milk parfait, squinting his dead fish eyes in bliss.
"I'm alive again. I can feel the dried-up sugar levels in my body being refilled."
Opposite him, Perona was using a small silver fork to taste a delicately shaped Black Forest cake, her posture as elegant as if she were attending a royal afternoon tea.
Several empty plates were arranged beside her, clearly showing she had already swept through a round.
Sato Kazuma, on the other hand, had no time for dessert. He dumped all the cash he had "funded" from the Butcher Gang onto the table, wearing a pair of non-prescription glasses bought from a convenience store, counting them one by one while muttering:
"One, two, three—we're rich! Now the startup capital for Yorozuya, three months of rent, and your strawberry milk for the rest of your life, Gin-san, are all covered!"
He carefully smoothed out the stack of bills, as if caressing a lover's face.
"I've calculated it. If we rent a street-front shop, do some simple renovations, and buy some second-hand office furniture, the remaining money will be enough to keep us going until our first big business comes knocking."
"Horo horo horo," Perona wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin and let out a satisfied little burp.
"It seems you're somewhat useful. This Princess's Yorozuya cannot be too shabby."
"It's 'our' Yorozuya."
Kazuma emphasized, then quickly swept the money on the table into a large paper bag, looking around vigilantly.
"Speaking of which," Gintoki scooped another spoonful of ice cream.
"What happened to that red tengu guy today? After what we did to him, do you think he'll be left with psychological trauma?"
"Who cares about him," Perona curled her lips in disdain. "He was the one blocking the way. Still, to be able to stand up so quickly after being passed through by my Negative Hollow, his spirit is actually quite resilient."
"The point is, he's a hero!" Kazuma retorted.
"We robbed a gang and happened to drive a hero into an autistic state; that doesn't sound good if it gets out."
"What's there to be afraid of?" Gintoki picked his ear with his little finger, unconcerned.
"Anyway, he was wearing a mask, we didn't see his face, and we don't know who he is. We're just strangers passing by; let's just call it a beautiful misunderstanding."
The three of them ate and drank their fill, then walked out of the dessert shop carrying a large bag of "startup capital" with satisfaction, disappearing into the night of New York, completely unaware of what kind of waves their farcical "venture financing" had already stirred up on the other side of the city.
---
Hells Kitchen, on the spire of a church.
The night wind blew against his dark red suit, and Matt Murdock stood quietly beside a gargoyle, like a statue blending into the night.
He could hear the whispers of couples several blocks away, smell the aroma drifting from a hot dog stand two blocks over, and feel the chaotic pulse of the entire district as it teetered on the edge of sin and order.
But in his mind, it was the bizarre scene from a few hours ago that kept echoing.
The man's inexplicable wailing, the weapons and wallets that vanished into thin air, and that bone-chilling despair that could instantly crush his pride-filled willpower.
That feeling was too real, as if all the negative, self-doubting emotions deep within his heart had been instantly detonated by an invisible hand.
"Hey! Daredevil, not sleeping so late, thinking about life?"
A brisk voice came from behind. Matt didn't turn around; he had long since heard that familiar, unique heartbeat that came with Spider-Man swinging on his webs.
Spider-Man landed silently beside him, following his gaze toward the city lights below.
"You look like you're in a bad mood. Playing 'pat-a-cake' with one of Kingpin's henchmen again?"
"It's more troublesome than that." Matt's voice was a bit hoarse.
"Oh?" Spider-Man tilted his head. "Something more troublesome than Kingpin? Does your family have a sister who annoys you every day too?"
Matt was silent for a moment, then briefly recounted what happened at the "Black Swan" bar.
He omitted his own feelings and only objectively described the abilities and behaviors of those three people.
Spider-Man listened quietly, the expression under his mask shifting from relaxed to strange, and finally to grave.
"Wait a minute—you mean, a little girl waved her hand, and a group of tough guys with guns knelt on the ground crying and wanting to go home to raise pigs?"
"Yes."
"And then a high school-aged boy remotely stole their guns, wallets—and underwear?"
"Correct."
"Finally, a silver-haired uncle with a wooden sword solved their leader with one kick?"
"That's right."
Spider-Man was silent. He had seen aliens, fought high-tech criminals, and even fought side-by-side with a goddess who could manipulate the weather, but he couldn't imagine that scene.
"Alright," he scratched his head.
"This sounds—it really is a bit more troublesome than Kingpin. Especially the one stealing underwear, the taste is too bad, must be condemned."
"They are not ordinary people." Matt turned to him, the invisible eyes under his mask seemingly able to see through the human heart.
"Their abilities do not belong to any kind I recognize. Moreover, they act without logic, neither clearly good nor evil. I don't know what they will bring to this city."
"A bunch of chaotic people with strange superpowers, sounds like every Tuesday's routine. Luckily my Mikoto isn't like that, she's so well-behaved—right?"
Spider-Man shrugged, trying to lighten the mood, then thought of the scene where he was blocked in an alley by Mikoto a few days ago. His own sister was too strong~
"Don't worry, buddy. New York is like a giant pizza, it always attracts all kinds of weird 'toppings.' We'll figure it out."
Matt could hear the sincerity beneath his heartbeat. He knew that this neighborly hero who liked to make quips, just like him, regarded protecting this city as his own responsibility.
"I'll keep an eye on them," Matt said.
"We'll do it together." Spider-Man extended his fist and lightly tapped his shoulder.
"Next time you meet them, remember to call for backup. I'm curious if that stealing skill works on my underwear."
---
Meanwhile, over the Atlantic Ocean, a private business jet was flying steadily westward.
Inside the cabin, Slade Wilson, codename "Deathstroke," was leaning against a comfortable leather seat, reviewing the encrypted files sent to his tablet.
The file was very short, especially the part about his three new targets, filled with vague language and subjective speculation, clearly compiled based on the accounts of those survivors who had suffered mental trauma.
[Target 2: Identity unknown. Codename: Gothic Lolita. Characteristics: Pink long hair, Gothic dress, carries a parasol. Ability: Unknown mental attack, can instantly disintegrate the target's fighting will and cause them to fall into extreme depression. Danger level: High.]
[Target 3: Identity unknown. Codename: Pickpocket Boy. Characteristics: Black-haired boy, sportswear. Ability: Suspected telekinesis, can steal specified items ignoring physical rules. Note: Has a special fetish for stealing men's underwear. Danger level: Medium.]
[Target 4: Identity unknown. Codename: Silver-haired Samurai. Characteristics: Silver natural curly hair, lazy, holds a wooden sword. Ability: Extremely strong physical skills, swordsmanship unknown. Can subdue Butcher Gang elite thugs with one hit. Danger level: High.]
Deathstroke's finger paused on the line about "stealing men's underwear," and the single eye under the mask showed no fluctuation.
Absurd.
This was the first reaction of an ordinary person seeing this report. But Deathstroke was not an ordinary person.
His brain, enhanced by the super-soldier serum and developed to 90%, had already begun to operate at high speed, stripping away the core tactical information from these seemingly nonsensical descriptions.
Mental control, forced disarmament, melee suppression.
This was no circus clown; this was a well-coordinated, complementary combat squad.
The girl was responsible for crowd control, the boy was responsible for disarmament and interference, and the silver-haired man was the final reaper. They were just operating in a—highly deceptive way.
As for the first target, Daredevil, the information was much more detailed. Active in Hells Kitchen for years, proficient in various fighting styles, possessed extraordinary senses, and—a fatal weakness.
His hearing, smell, and touch were amplified to the extreme; this was both his weapon and his Achilles' heel.
Deathstroke turned off the tablet, the faint light of the screen flashing across his cold, two-colored mask.
Wilson Fisk wanted four heads, leaving none behind.
But for a top-tier hunter, killing the prey directly was the most boring way. He enjoyed studying the prey, setting traps, and watching them struggle in despair more.
He picked up another file beside him, which was the report on recent abnormal events in New York provided by Wesley. His gaze fell on the riot that happened in Times Square a few days ago.
"Electromagnetic manipulation," "unknown zombies," "viral infection," "high-voltage current purification"—
A cold arc curled at the corners of Deathstroke's mouth under the mask.
This city of New York was even more interesting than he had imagined.
He tossed the tablet aside, closed his eyes, and began to nap, but his brain had already constructed dozens of hunting plans, each precise to the second.
The plane was carrying the Grim Reaper, flying toward a city about to be engulfed in a larger storm.