East Kolkata
Andrew stood on an old, half-rusted bridge, staring down at the murky water below. The air was humid and thick, the kind that stuck to your skin and made everything feel heavy.
His burner phone buzzed in his hand.
One message. Three words.
Start our plan now, Mr. L.
He stared at it for a long moment. Not because he was hesitating—that ship had sailed a long time ago. But because he was letting the weight of it sink in. What came next was irreversible. People were going to die today if anything went wrong.
With a casual flick of his wrist, he tossed the phone into the river.
It spun through the air once, twice, then disappeared beneath the surface with barely a splash. Gone. Like it never existed.
Andrew turned and walked down a cracked, narrow road that led to the edge of the neighborhood. The kind of place most people avoided. Crumbling houses with sagging roofs, rusty gates hanging off their hinges, windows covered with old cloth instead of curtains.
He stopped in front of one of these houses and knocked.
The door opened a crack. A young Indian guy peered out, recognized him immediately, and swung it wide open without a word.
Inside, the air was stale and thick with the smell of gun powder. Two white guys sat on folding chairs, quietly checking their gear—cleaning rifles, testing knives. Three local men stood nearby, dressed casually enough to blend in with the city, but their eyes? Hard. Sharp. The eyes of people who'd killed before.
"Get ready," Andrew said flatly. "We move at 2 PM. Sharp."
Nobody asked questions. They just started prepping.
The Other Side of Kolkata
On the opposite end of the city, an old, beat-up motorcycle sputtered to a stop in front of a run-down motel.
The rider—a middle-aged white guy in a dusty coat and worn-out shoes—kicked down the stand and climbed off slowly. In a city like Kolkata, where tourists came and went all the time, he didn't stand out. He'd been here long enough to blend in. Just another foreigner passing through.
He pushed open the motel's glass door—half the panes cracked or missing—and a little bell chimed weakly above his head.
The guy at the reception desk looked up from his newspaper and grinned wide.
"Dr. Ron! Already finished work today?"
His English was rough, heavily accented, but friendly. Genuine.
"Dr. Ron" smiled back tiredly, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. "Yeah, same as always. Could you get me some food?"
The receptionist laughed. "You don't need to ask every day, Dr. Ron! You're basically family now."
That simple statement brought a flicker of real warmth to the man's face. A rare, genuine smile.
Soon after, he sat in the small outdoor dining area on a wobbly plastic chair, quickly finishing his food. Nothing fancy. Just simple, local food. He didn't eat for pleasure anymore—just fuel to keep going.
After lunch, he climbed the creaky stairs to his room.
It was small. Barely furnished. A narrow bed with a thin mattress, an ancient TV that barely worked, and a wooden wardrobe that looked like it was from the 1970s.
But for the past eight months, this room had been home to the man the world once knew as Bruce Banner.
Bruce was about to lie down—just close his eyes for a few minutes—when his laptop pinged.
A message.
He sat up immediately, a jolt of adrenaline shooting through him, and moved to the wardrobe. But instead of clothes inside, there were boxes filled with high-tech equipment. Stuff that probably cost more than the entire building.
He pulled out a heavily modified laptop, attached a weird device that looked like a flash drive with two tiny antennas, and booted it up.
The message was from Betty Ross.
After the fight with Abomination in New York, Bruce had fled to India. The population was massive, which made it easy to disappear. It had modern amenities but wasn't so technologically advanced that the military here could track him easily. Perfect for hiding.
He hadn't told anyone where he'd gone. Not even Betty.
But during their time on the run together, he'd mentioned India as a possibility. And she knew the IP address of this custom device he used. So when the message came through, he wasn't surprised. Just... conflicted.
He wanted Betty to have a normal life, free from his mess. But at the same time, he didn't want to lose her completely.
So yeah, the message made him happy. In a bittersweet, painful kind of way.
Their conversations had been normal at first. Just catching up, like old times. But three days ago, everything changed.
She'd warned him: her father was planning to kill him.
Bruce was tired. God, he was so tired. How many years had it been since he'd had a peaceful night's sleep? Since he'd been able to just exist without looking over his shoulder?
He didn't hate General Ross. Not really. Not anymore. But after years of being hunted like an animal, yeah—there was some anger there. The experiment had taken everything from him. His career. His life. His identity. His peace.
For eight months, he'd finally found something close to normal here in Kolkata. And now Ross was going to ruin it. Again.
Today's message was supposed to have the details. He opened it.
What he read made his blood run cold.
Message from Betty:
Bruce… you have to leave. NOW. He already knows where you are. He hired mercenaries to kill you. Head east toward Tibet, cross into China than Russia, and lay low in some rural village. It should be safe after a while.
Bruce tried to steady his breathing. His hands were shaking.
Honestly? He didn't care if he died. He'd tried to end his own life multiple times.
Humanity wouldn't let him live in peace, and the Hulk wouldn't let him die without a fight. So now he was stuck—trying to protect the world from the Hulk, and protect the Hulk from the world.
If something happened to him here, in the middle of a crowded city...
He couldn't even imagine the devastation.
Bruce jumped up, suddenly frantic, and reached for the bag under his bed.
Then—
BOOM!
An explosion rocked the room.
The force threw Bruce backward, slamming him into the wall. Pain exploded in his arm—sharp, burning, agonizing. His ears rang. Smoke filled the air, thick and choking. Wood splinters rained down from the ceiling.
He looked down.
Blood. Spreading across his shirt from a wound in his upper bicep.
They're already here.
Bruce gritted his teeth, clutching his arm, and stumbled toward the corner of the room. His thoughts raced.
Stay calm. Stay calm.
If he lost control now—
If he turned into the Hulk here, in the middle of a residential neighborhood—
There'd be nothing left. Not the motel. Not the people who'd been kind to him. Not the receptionist who'd called him family.
Nothing.
He pressed his back against the wall, breathing hard, trying desperately to keep his heart rate down.
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