In the evening, the Bronx was shrouded in an orange-red twilight, and the chimneys of distant refineries spewed the last wisp of white smoke into the fading light.
On the streets, crowds hurried home from work, their shadows stretched long by the setting sun. Together with the rusty fire hydrants and crooked newsstands along the roadside, they cast broken, distorted silhouettes onto the asphalt.
When Damian opened the door, the house was dark. He casually flipped the wall switch, and warm yellow light instantly filled the living room.
"Haaaaa—"
He let out a long sigh, tossed his schoolbag onto the sofa, and walked straight to the TV to turn it on.
The screen flickered to life, and the news anchor was already reporting the day's stock market trends.
Watching the news every day without fail was a habit Damian had developed since arriving in this world. That way, he could ensure he didn't miss any major events that might affect it.
After turning on the TV, he turned toward the shrine in the corner of the living room. From the desk drawer, he took out a plate of mosquito coils and lit it with a lighter.
In moments, the faint scent of sandalwood filled the air. He stared at the portrait of Dawei Qiu for two seconds, then gently clasped his hands together and murmured:
"Brother Dawei, I wish you a pleasant meal! You'll have to bear with it for the next couple of days—the cargo ship will arrive soon. Don't worry! When it does, I'll make sure you have a proper feast, even if I have to set off the smoke alarm!"
After muttering the words, Damian headed to the kitchen. There was still half a bottle of orange juice in the fridge. He poured himself a glass; the cool, sweet liquid slid down his throat, slightly easing the fatigue of the day.
Back on the sofa, he sipped his juice and listened absentmindedly to the news.
"…The Mayor of New York City announced today that nighttime patrols in Manhattan will be increased…"
"…Stark Industries' stock price fell another 3% today, with analysts attributing the drop to Tony Stark's controversial decision to shut down the weapons division…"
A series of unremarkable updates left Damian feeling restless. He leaned back against the sofa and stared blankly at the ceiling.
But just as he was considering changing the channel, a breaking news alert flashed onscreen.
"Urgent News: This morning, an F-22 fighter jet crashed at Edwards Air Force Base in California."
The broadcast cut to a press conference. Air Force spokesman Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes stood before a bank of microphones, dressed in a crisp uniform, his expression grave.
"At 9:47 this morning," he began, "an F-22 Raptor suffered a mechanical failure during a routine training mission and crashed in an uninhabited area northwest of the base. Fortunately, the pilot ejected safely and is in good condition. There were no casualties."
Reporters raised their hands, and Rhodes continued:
"The exact cause is still under investigation. Preliminary analysis suggests a possible anomaly in the flight control system. The Air Force will conduct a comprehensive inspection of all F-22s to prevent similar incidents."
Damian narrowed his eyes, his fingers unconsciously tracing the rim of his glass.
"F-22… mechanical failure?"
He repeated Rhodes' words under his breath, and scenes from the movie flashed rapidly through his mind.
According to the timeline, Tony Stark should have just finished testing the Mark II armor—and the military clearly hadn't received any word about the Iron Man suit yet.
"How come it's happening so early…?"
Damian sighed, raised his head, and drained the rest of his juice.
————————
The night in the Mojave Desert is quiet and desolate, broken only by the faint whisper of sand carried on the cold wind.
Deep in the desert stands S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secret prison, its towering concrete walls casting grotesque shadows in the moonlight.
On the watchtower, a searchlight swept slowly across the sky. Guards, rifles in hand, patrolled the perimeter with vigilance.
"Huh? What's that—?"
Suddenly, the beam froze on a single spot—something was moving across the sand.
Puff. Puff. Puff—!!
"Ugh… uh…"
Before the sentries could react, several dark figures emerged from the darkness like ghosts. The muffled reports of silenced pistols followed in rapid succession. The guards on the tower collapsed instantly, blood dripping down the metal stairs.
This team of operatives moved with ruthless efficiency and perfect coordination.
Clad in all-black tactical gear and night-vision goggles, their movements were clean, precise—like a well-oiled killing machine.
In just thirty seconds, every external sentry—both visible and concealed—had been eliminated. Their bodies lay in spreading pools of blood. There hadn't even been time to trigger the alarm.
Inside the prison, the corridor lights began to flicker. A group of guards, moments ago chatting about tonight's game, immediately sensed something was wrong.
But it was too late.
Puff. Puff. Puff—!!
Silenced rifle rounds, fired from every direction, pierced their skulls with surgical accuracy. Blood splattered across the white walls like a grotesque abstract painting.
The black-clad operatives pressed forward. Along the corridors, cells held the world's most dangerous criminals—terrorists, arms dealers, and super-powered felons.
"Hey! Are you here to rescue someone? Take me with you! I'll pay anything—anything you want!"
"Damn it! I didn't see anything! Don't kill me!"
...
Without hesitation, the operatives raised their weapons and fired into the cells.
Puff. Puff. Puff—!!
Five minutes later, the prison fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the sporadic crackle of flames licking the corridors.
At the far end of the facility, the team leader—a man with a crew cut—walked slowly through the carnage, his boots crunching in congealing blood.
An arrogant smirk played on his lips as he casually twirled his pistol, as if the massacre had been nothing more than a game.
In the deepest cell, Obadiah Stane sat motionless on an iron chair, his wrists and ankles locked in specialized restraints.
He lifted his head, eyes cold and indifferent, as though the man before him were nothing more than a stray dog.
"You're late, boy," Stane said icily. "Now get these chains off me."
The crew-cut man tilted his head but said nothing. Slowly, he raised his pistol and pressed it against Stane's forehead.
Stane's pupils contracted. For the first time, fear flickered in his eyes.
"Wait! I'm Killian's friend—!"
Bang!
The bullet tore through his skull. Stane's body jerked backward, his brains and blood painting the wall behind him.
His eyes remained wide open, lips twitching faintly—as if he couldn't believe this was how it would end.
The operative smiled… and fired again.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
He didn't stop until all fifteen rounds were spent.
What remained of Stane's head was now an unrecognizable pulp of flesh and bone.
The man holstered his smoking weapon, whistled softly, and tapped the communicator in his left ear.
"Target neutralized. Mission complete. Proceed with extraction."
A terse reply crackled through the earpiece:
"Copy."
He cast one last glance at the ruined corpse, then turned and walked away.
Outside, a pitch-black helicopter descended silently. The rotor wash kicked up sand and dust, swiftly erasing the last traces of blood—and death—from the desert floor.