"Nick Fury's a bastard. Guy uses you up and tosses you the second you're inconvenient. Real piece of work."
Locke stared at the snapped agent badge in his hand, jaw tight enough to hurt. The plastic edge dug into his palm, but he didn't loosen his grip. A few hours ago, Nick Fury had called him into a sterile office, delivered a calm, clinical verdict about "post-traumatic stress" and "loss of operational control," and then dressed up a forced dismissal as a voluntary retirement. It had been neat, efficient, and completely insulting.
"Damn it," Locke muttered under his breath, the words slipping out like steam from a cracked valve. "So what if I dropped a few more scumbags than they're comfortable with? Since when did cleaning up trash become a problem?"
He let out a short, humorless laugh, already knowing the answer. Optics. Public opinion. The same garbage that let monsters walk free as long as they didn't make headlines. "Lose control?" he scoffed quietly. "Then what about Bruce Banner? What happens when he blacks out and levels a city block?"
The broken badge slipped from his fingers and hit the pavement with a dull clack. Locke didn't bother picking it back up. Whatever it had represented—authority, legitimacy, belonging—was gone now. Along with it, any reason to pretend he fit inside their system.
"I was even thinking about warning them," he added, almost to himself. "About Loki and whatever game he's playing next." He shook his head once, sharp and dismissive. "Guess that's their problem now."
He adjusted the violin case slung over his shoulder and stepped into the restless flow of Times Square. Neon signs flickered overhead, crowds moved like currents in every direction, and the city buzzed with the same chaotic rhythm it always had. But to him, something felt off—older, rougher around the edges, like a version of New York caught halfway between eras.
"What now?" he murmured, weaving through pedestrians without slowing. "Go freelance? Mercenary gigs, cash under the table?" The idea didn't bother him nearly as much as it probably should have. Rules had never been his strong suit, and S.H.I.E.L.D. had just proven how disposable those rules were anyway.
"Or maybe I head to Hell's Kitchen," he went on, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "See what the so-called Defenders are up to. Bet they'd love me."
He hadn't decided yet. Not really. Everything still felt like it was shifting under his feet, like the ground hadn't settled after an earthquake. But one thing was certain—he wasn't going back.
The crowd pressed in around him, voices overlapping, languages mixing, life carrying on without a care for his personal disaster. Locke exhaled slowly, letting the noise wash over him. "I miss the old days," he muttered, though he wasn't entirely sure which days he meant anymore.
Once, he'd just been another guy behind a screen, killing time online, drifting through life without direction. Then one reckless act of bravery had thrown him into this world—a stitched-together reality of heroes, villains, and everything in between. And like any man with a pulse, he'd dreamed of standing out, of being seen, of becoming something more than ordinary.
He'd gotten his chance.
Through sheer grind and a little luck, he'd completed the system's tasks and earned rewards that most people would've called insane. The [Mad Kirin Blood] had burned through his veins like wildfire, rewriting his body from the inside out. The [Bloodthirsty Blade] had become an extension of his will, a weapon that thrived on conflict. Together, they'd pushed him into the ranks of so-called superheroes.
The cost, of course, had been obvious.
Where Locke went, bodies followed. Fights didn't end clean—they ended in blood, broken bones, and silence. The media had latched onto it immediately, slapping him with a name that stuck whether he liked it or not.
The Butcher.
He'd never really cared. The people he put down weren't innocent, and he wasn't interested in playing gentle when lives were on the line. Efficiency mattered more than appearances. Ending a threat meant ending it completely.
At some point along the way, he'd crossed paths with Black Widow. What started as cautious cooperation had turned into something closer to mutual respect after a few long, brutally honest conversations. She'd seen what he was capable of and, more importantly, why he did it.
That connection had opened the door to S.H.I.E.L.D.
For a while, it had almost felt like things were clicking into place. The organization had resources, structure, and reach. Standardized gear, coordinated intel, cleanup teams that erased the aftermath of battles—it turned chaos into something manageable. Being a hero wasn't just a title there; it was a job with systems, support, and a clear chain of command.
Then Tony Stark showed up.
Everything shifted overnight.
The spotlight followed him, dragging the entire team's focus along with it. Stark's charm, his tech, his larger-than-life persona—it all reshaped the narrative. And he made it very clear he had zero tolerance for Locke's methods.
At first, it had been small disagreements. Comments during briefings, subtle jabs about "excessive force." Nothing that couldn't be brushed off.
Until it wasn't.
A week ago, everything detonated.
Footage of Locke taking down a supervillain—messy, brutal, undeniable—had hit the internet. It spread like wildfire, looping across every platform, dissected from every angle. What he saw as decisive action, the public saw as something else entirely.
"My God, what kind of hero does that?" one clip replayed in his memory, voices layered with outrage. "He's not a hero—he's a psychopath!"
Twenty casualties. Twenty lives, all tied directly to him in the narrative that followed. Context didn't matter. Circumstances didn't matter. The label stuck.
Bloody Butcher. Get him out of New York.
It had felt orchestrated, like someone had nudged the dominoes just hard enough to guarantee they'd all fall in the right direction. Public pressure mounted, internal politics kicked in, and S.H.I.E.L.D. did what organizations always did when things got messy.
They cut him loose.
A sharp electronic chime snapped him out of his thoughts.
"Urgent news bulletin!"
Locke glanced up as a massive screen on a nearby building shifted to a live report. The footage was shaky, zoomed in on the front of a damaged bank somewhere in Queens. Smoke drifted from shattered glass, alarms blared faintly through the speakers, and chaos buzzed just beneath the surface.
"An explosion has been reported near Third Avenue," the anchor's voice continued. "Authorities suspect a superpowered robbery in progress."
The screen cut to a short clip.
A burly man burst through the wrecked entrance, arms loaded with cash boxes. Sand spilled and swirled around his feet, moving with unnatural life, curling and shifting like it was part of him. Each step left a trail that refused to settle.
Locke slowed, eyes narrowing slightly as recognition clicked into place.
"Sandman," he said quietly.
Sandman—real name Marco. A guy pushed into a corner by circumstances, now clawing his way out the only way he could. From what Locke knew, the money wasn't for luxury or greed. It was for a hospital bed, for machines and treatments keeping his daughter alive.
And if things followed the usual script, this would end badly.
Spider-Man would show up, stop the robbery, and Marco's desperate gamble would fail. No money, no treatment, no miracle. Just another tragedy dressed up as justice.
Locke watched the clip loop once more, then looked away, his expression unreadable.
"As a father, the guy's just trying to save his kid," he murmured. "And that makes him the villain."
His lips curled slightly, not quite a smile. "Yeah… that tracks."
He shifted his grip on the violin case, fingers tightening just a fraction. "So what if we flip the script a little?" he went on, voice low but steady. "Give the 'good guys' something to chew on for once."
For a moment, he stood there, weighing it. Not the morality—he'd already made peace with where he stood on that—but the implications. Once he stepped in, there was no walking it back.
Then a familiar mechanical chime echoed in his mind.
[Ding. Detecting shift in host intent. System recalibrating.]
[Ding. Upgrade complete.]
[Ding. Ultimate Evolution Module active.]
Locke blinked once, the corner of his mouth lifting despite himself.
"About time," he said softly.
The system's voice continued, crisp and precise.
[Ding. Nearby opportunity detected.]
[Objective: Sandman's Wish.]
[Description: Marco seeks funds to treat his critically ill daughter. Following a prison escape and exposure to experimental radiation, he has acquired sand manipulation abilities. Despite his methods, his primary goal remains unchanged.]
[Interference: Spider-Man repeatedly disrupts his efforts.]
[Directive: Assist Sandman in escape and ensure successful funding of medical treatment.]
[Reward: Scales with target's gratitude. Multiplicative bonuses applied.]
Locke let out a low whistle, impressed despite himself. "So now helping villains is officially on the table," he said. "And the better it goes for them, the better it goes for me."
He adjusted the strap of the violin case and started forward again, pace quickening as his decision locked in. The crowd blurred around him, his focus narrowing to a single point across the city.
"Guess we're doing this," he muttered.
His movement shifted subtly, steps growing lighter, faster. Wind seemed to gather at his feet, each stride carrying him farther than it should have. The technique felt almost instinctive now—something he'd picked up and refined until it became second nature.
People barely noticed as he slipped past them, a blur threading through the chaos of the street.
"Let's see how this plays out," Locke said under his breath, eyes fixed ahead.