In a rage, Hulk underwent a terrifying second transformation.
His body ballooned to nearly five meters tall, a living mountain of muscle and fury. Next to him, Finnian Murdock—barely 1.87 meters—looked like a child.
A sharp-eyed New York cameraman clicked just in time, immortalizing the iconic image: a lone man facing down a towering Hulk.
Boom. Boom.
Hulk's fists slammed down in a frenzy, but no matter how hard he struck, he couldn't break through Finnian's energy absorption.
It was like the X-Men movie, when Apocalypse absorbed the nuclear submarine's power—except Finnian was better. His upper limit wasn't discomfort. It was nuclear bombs.
He could absorb and redirect the kinetic force of a nuclear explosion.
And here he was, casually tanking Hulk like it was nothing.
He even had the mental bandwidth to check his internal clock, making sure his "performance" lined up with the audience's emotional peak.
Because even heroics had pacing. Too long, and people got bored. Too short, and the moment lacked punch.
Timing was everything.
So, between blows, Finnian staged the perfect set pieces: letting Hulk hurl him aside in slow motion, only to heroically shield bystanders and camera crews from collateral damage.
It wasn't about surviving. It was about selling it.
There's an old saying: life depends entirely on acting.
And if you wanted to lead people, acting was more important than power.
Five minutes into his grandstand performance—exactly when the crowd's emotions peaked—Finnian prepared for his perfect finale.
Hulk pounded his chest and roared.
In response, Finnian flicked his hand. The geyser of water from a broken hydrant instantly froze into a swarm of ice dragons, which roared and lunged at Hulk.
The streets shimmered with frost, puddles snapping into ice underfoot.
The crowd gasped.
Did it hurt Hulk? Not really. But it looked damn terrifying, which was exactly the point.
Because now, every punch Finnian threw also froze Hulk's blood on contact. In seconds, Hulk was sluggish, his body frosting over.
Panicked, he roared again, leapt skyward, yanked a hovering helicopter out of the air, ripped Betty Ross free, and fled down the street like a rampaging beast.
General Ross, battered in the wreckage of the helicopter, was ignored completely.
Girlfriend over father-in-law. Hulk logic.
And just like that, the chaos was over.
Almost instantly, the ice-covered street filled with reporters.
They charged Finnian like a stampede, slipping, falling, scrambling up again—desperate to reach the man of the hour.
"Sir, are you Superman?!"
"Sir, I'm with New York TV—"
Finnian raised a hand, silencing them with calm authority.
"Please. There are still injured people who need help."
That one line hit like gospel. Reporters immediately shifted to drag Ross and the helicopter pilot out of the wreckage, giving Finnian the halo moment he wanted.
Only then did he allow himself to be interviewed.
"I'm just a public servant," he said humbly.
"Why did I fight? Because I love this land."
"I don't want to be a superhero. I want world peace."
The man actually glowed in the camera lights.
As the crowd swelled around him, Finnian smoothly pulled Coulson into the frame.
"Mr. Coulson is my superior. If you have questions, he can answer them."
And in the next second—he vanished, slipping away like a phantom before the press could swallow him whole.
By morning, he knew, his popularity would skyrocket. Then it would be all about leveraging that fame into real power.
Later that night, when he opened his borrowed safehouse door, a beautiful girl barreled into his arms, eyes sparkling.
"Brother, you were so handsome!"
Even with her clinging to him, Finnian kept his mind on the bigger picture.
"Pack your things. We're moving."
Living in Chinatown had been useful for optics, but it was starting to get risky.
So, he borrowed an empty mansion from a wealthy "friend" and slipped away under cover of night.
Gain and loss. That was the game.
If he wanted to become invincible, he needed money. And to make real money, he needed power. And to get power, he needed to be a superhero—publicly.
That meant revealing his identity.
That meant accepting the chaos that came with it.
And that meant cultivating mystery.
Sometimes, you had to let the bullets fly a little before striking again.
By dawn, newspapers and the internet blared with headlines:
"God is White!!!"
"The King Walks Out of Comics!"
"Why Did I Act? Because I Love This Land."
Chinatown was swarmed by journalists desperate for an interview. Luckily, Finnian had been smart enough to vanish before the circus arrived.
Meanwhile, at Stark's seaside estate…
Tony Stark woke on the lab couch, Jarvis's voice gently prodding him awake.
"Sir, there's a piece of news you may want to see."
"News? What, did God come down to Earth?" Tony muttered.
"…Please look at the screen."
Ten minutes later, Tony was on his feet, wide-eyed.
"Holy shit! That guy's real?! Jarvis, call him!"
Then Tony shook his head, a grin spreading.
"No. Screw that. I'll find him myself."
Hyde Gardens, Manhattan. Villa No. 1.
Tony rapped on the door of a house he technically owned but never lived in. Billionaire problems.
He'd been working all night with Dr. Yinsen, building the foldable Mark armor. When Finnian had called asking to crash there, Tony hadn't thought twice.
Now, with the headlines still burning in his head, he was here in person.
The door cracked open. A young woman peeked out.
"Come in! Thank you so much, Mr. Stark. Otherwise, my brother and I would have no place to stay."
Tony waved it off like it was nothing, but inside he was buzzing.
That bastard. That smug, gorgeous bastard.
Moments later, Finnian appeared. Tony didn't even bother with small talk—he just stuck out his hand.
"One hundred million and this house. In exchange for one hundred milliliters of your blood."
For a second, Finnian almost considered it.
But then shook his head. He wasn't about to let a mad scientist like Stark run wild with his DNA. The idea of dozens of Finnian clones running around was horrifying.
In hindsight, he realized he'd underestimated the storm he'd unleashed by revealing his identity.
The general public had been primed. Tony's "I am Iron Man" reveal hadn't happened yet. Hulk was ugly and terrifying.
And then suddenly, there was him—handsome, powerful, the perfect all-American savior.
It was political correctness wrapped in wish-fulfillment. The city government was already capitalizing on it.
"Three hundred million and the house."
"Five hundred million!"
"Stop, stop!" Finnian cut him off before the billionaire could outbid himself again.
God, being poor sucked.
Even when Tony's stock had tanked from shutting down the weapons division, the man could still casually toss around sums that made Finnian's head spin.
"Fine. I'll make you some serum later," Finnian offered carefully.
The system inside him warned against overplaying his hand. This was Tony Stark—top of the global food chain.
"Serum?" Tony's eyes narrowed. "Like the one they used on Captain America?"
Finnian thought for a moment, then nodded.
"Something like that. Just as good. Better, even. No charge. You keep the house."
Tony frowned. "That doesn't sound right. Nothing's free."
"I insist," Finnian said firmly.
Tony considered, then smirked.
"Fine. But I'm wiring you the money anyway."