Seven days after the Battle of New York, Baishan Cemetery.
Compared to the grief-stricken Samira, Luca's expression was eerily calm.
Because his father, Herman, was half-Chinese, Luca had chosen Baishan Cemetery as his final resting place—a site renowned for its excellent feng shui and the final home of many prominent Chinese figures.
Guests came and went, laying flowers and offering quiet condolences, but Luca remained motionless, his eyes fixed on the tombstone before him.
A heavy silence hung over the grounds, thick with collective sorrow.
Out of respect—or perhaps pity—for the young man, even those who'd known his parents well refrained from intruding. They merely nodded in quiet acknowledgment as others stepped forward to pay their respects.
But Luca's thoughts weren't on the funeral.
Though the official death toll from the Battle of New York remained undisclosed, the losses had been staggering. Even here, in one of the city's most prestigious cemeteries, funerals were being held daily.
After all, under the Chitauri's guns and cannons, there had been no distinction between rich and poor, powerful and powerless.
On the surface, a week later, life seemed to have settled back into rhythm.
In reality, Manhattan—particularly Midtown and Uptown—remained in chaos.
Streets overflowed with protests and vigils. Politicians and charities broadcast endless prayers. Crews worked around the clock to disinfect, rebuild, treat the wounded, and bury the dead. The aftermath of the battle was far from over.
Real life wasn't like the movies, where everything neatly resolved the moment the heroes won.
If anything, the most absurd part of the past week hadn't been the alien invasion—it had been the scramble over who would pay for the damage.
The central debate dominating news cycles, street protests, and congressional hearings wasn't about alien tech or national security. It was about classification:
Was this a war, a natural disaster, or a terrorist attack?
Seven days on, and they still couldn't agree on the most basic label.
The U.S. military was pushing hard to define the Chitauri incursion as an "alien war." Such a designation would trigger the Defense Production Act, expanding military authority—and, crucially, granting the Department of Defense full control over recovered alien technology. Yes, it would obligate them to contribute to compensation, but under emergency protocols, that burden would be minimal.
Meanwhile, major insurers and financial institutions were lobbying to classify the event as an "alien terrorist attack." Since the 2001 exclusions, terrorism had been explicitly excluded from standard insurance policies. This framing would let them deny virtually all claims while also justifying their refusal to support government-backed, low-interest loans for small businesses and individuals—redirecting capital instead toward "stable" investments in larger corporations.
The government's position was more complicated. Both federal and New York state officials leaned toward labeling the event a "natural disaster." It was the most publicly palatable option—soothing voters, easing international optics, and unlocking disaster relief channels.
But the Stafford Act made things messy: if declared a federal natural disaster, Washington would shoulder 90% of reconstruction costs; if classified only as a state-level disaster, the burden dropped to 75%. The result? A fierce tug-of-war between Albany and D.C., each side jockeying to shift financial liability.
In short, Congress, the military, intelligence agencies, corporate interests, and even the media—all had their reasons to get involved.
Some sought to shift blame. Others aimed to build reputations. And more than a few were eyeing alien debris.
Regardless of their actual connection to the New York incident, everyone seemed eager to claim a piece of the aftermath.
Aside from the initial disaster relief, the first substantial aid—funds, supplies, logistical support—came from Stark Industries and international partners.
The rest? Opportunists. Criminals. Small, unsavory groups focused on smuggling Chitauri weaponry.
Indeed, reports of bank robberies using alien tech had been circulating for days.
Even Luca himself had secretly stockpiled a few Chitauri weapons. He intended to quietly hand them over to the company's weapons development division for private analysis—just in case there was salvageable technology.
It wasn't unheard of. Most arms firms did the same. As long as it stayed off the books and out of public view, even S.H.I.E.L.D. tended to look the other way.
That division, however, had once been led by his father, Herman. Without Herman's vision and expertise, its capabilities were uncertain.
And right now, Luca had little real authority in his own company. Everything would have to wait.
"Young Master Luca…"
Samira hesitated several times before finally whispering a reminder, watching as Luca stared blankly at the tombstone.
He snapped out of his reverie, stepped forward, and gently placed the flowers at the base of the headstone.
His father's death was tragic—made more so by the chaos still lingering in the city—but Luca's mind kept circling back to his own uncertain future.
Just as he lowered the bouquet and began to stand—
A hoarse, grating voice cut through the quiet from behind him.
"Heh heh~ Luca! Such a big occasion—my brother-in-law's funeral—and you didn't even invite me? That really hurts."
Everyone turned.
A middle-aged man in a rumpled black suit shuffled toward them, his hair slightly disheveled, posture hunched. He bore a striking resemblance to Luca's mother, Gina—but where she carried herself with sharp, efficient confidence, this man looked like a cheap imitation.
His suit was clearly chosen with care, yet it hung awkwardly on his frame, giving the impression of a monkey dressed in human finery. His face was pale and drawn, eyes sunken but gleaming with something hungry and opportunistic—like a rat that had just caught scent of a feast.
"Who is that?"
"Isn't that Ms. Orange's brother? I've seen him at the office."
"Never heard of him."
Guests who'd begun drifting away now lingered, murmuring among themselves. A few close associates of the Orange family took half-steps forward—only to be tugged back by companions.
No one wanted to intervene directly. This was clearly a family matter. And though the newcomer radiated hostility, it wasn't their place to step in—especially not when a spectacle seemed likely.
As the man drew closer, Luca's nostrils flared. A flicker of revulsion crossed his face.
He'd seen too many like him—both in this life and the last.
But he didn't need past-life knowledge to recognize this one. Even the original Luca, young as he was, knew exactly who this was.
Dragan Orange.
His mother Gina's younger brother. His uncle.
A hopeless gambler.