The diner Harry took us to wasn't just "decent"—it was the kind of place where the napkins felt like silk and the water probably cost five bucks a glass. It was one of those posh spots in Manhattan where people spoke in whispers and judged you if you used the wrong fork.
Normally, I'd feel out of place, but right now? I didn't give a damn. My stomach was roaring like a jet engine.
At first, I tried to be civilized. I ordered a double-stacked Wagyu burger and some truffle fries. I ate at a normal rate, making small talk with Peter and Harry about school and Oscorp. But the second the last bite hit my stomach, it didn't feel like I had eaten anything at all. It felt like I'd dropped a single pebble into the Grand Canyon.
Damn... even after that, I'm still hungry? How the fuck am I gonna get more food? I thought, my eyes darting around the room. I could feel my cells buzzing, demanding more fuel to jumpstart the Doomsday evolution.
I looked at Harry, who was elegantly sipping a sparkling water. An idea popped into my head.
"Hey, Harry," I said, leaning forward with a devious grin.
"Yeah?" Harry looked up, suspicious.
"How about we do an eating contest? To see who can eat more. The winner gets to make the loser do one thing for them. Anything at all."
Harry blinked, looking at my empty plate and then back at me. "Hmm. Alex, I'm not sure. First of all, this seems sus. Extremely sus. Even the condition is sketchy. You look like you haven't eaten in a week."
"What? You scared, Osborn? I thought you billionaires were all about the 'grind,'" I challenged.
Harry's competitive side flared up. He was an Osborn, after all. "I don't give a damn. Fine. Let's chow down."
"Hey, Peter, you in?" I asked.
Peter, never wanting to be left out of the trio's antics, shrugged. "If you guys are eating, then so am I. But don't blame me when you're both stuck in the bathroom later."
We called the waiter over and ordered. Then we ordered again. And again. And again.
What started as a friendly contest quickly turned into a horror movie for the restaurant staff. Plates of steak, mountains of pasta, and entire trays of sliders were brought to our table. I wasn't even tasting the food anymore; I was just inhaling it.
Peter was the first to collapse. He slumped back against the plush leather booth, his face a pale shade of green, looking at us like we were monsters. "I can't... guys... there is no tomorrow for my stomach..."
But Harry and I kept going. Harry was sweating, his tie loosened, his "rich kid" poise completely shattered. He was astonished by how much I was eating. I was chowing down like there was no tomorrow at all, my body absorbing the calories as fast as I could swallow. I felt a weird heat spreading from my stomach to my limbs—my bones felt denser, my muscles tighter.
Finally, Harry dropped his fork. He slumped over, gasping for air, totally forgetting about the contest and the damn bill.
I reached for another plate, expecting more, only to see the waiter standing there with a trembling lower lip.
"I'm sorry, sir," the waiter whispered, looking at our table which was piled three-feet high with empty dishes. "But... you have eaten everything we have in the kitchen. We are literally out of meat."
"Everything?" I asked, wiping my mouth. I actually felt... half-full. Progress.
Harry suddenly sat up, his eyes bulging as he looked at the receipt the waiter was holding. It was long enough to reach the floor.
"What do you mean 'everything'?! Wait... look at this bill!" Harry yelled, his voice cracking. "Alex! I have a limit on my card for 'lunch expenses'! I don't have enough for all of this! Damn you, Alex! We're gonna be stuck washing dishes for a month because of you!"
I let out a loud, satisfied burp that shook the crystal glasses on the next table. "Tch. Don't worry, Harry. Think of it as 'resistance training' for your hands."
Inside, I was grinning. My skin felt tougher, and the "nerfed" feeling was slowly starting to lift. I looked at the kitchen door. Maybe I should go see if they have any raw eggs left in the back?
The tension in the kitchen was thick enough to cut with a dull steak knife. While Peter and Harry were busy trying to keep their heads down, Alex was leaning back, enjoying the way his body felt after the massive meal. The "nerfed" Doomsday blood wasn't just sitting there; it was processing every calorie, turning the proteins and fats into a foundation of dense muscle and reinforced bone.
The sound of the dishwater sloshing was the only thing filling the silence until Flash Thompson's obnoxious laughter shattered it. He stood there, flanked by his two goons, looking like he'd just won the lottery.
"Look at this! The 'Golden Trio' scrubbing pots like common servants!" Flash jeered, his face reddening as he laughed. "Hey, Parker! Did you forget your lunch money, or did you just decide to start a career in sanitation early?"
Harry's knuckles were white as he gripped a sponge, his rich-kid pride taking a massive hit. Peter just looked at his feet, murmuring for us to just get through it. But I wasn't the old Alex. I wasn't the guy who took shoves and insults with a shy smile.
I looked at Flash, and for a second, my vision pulsed with a faint, reddish tint. My heartbeat felt like a heavy engine thumping in my chest.
"Say cheese, losers!" Flash shouted, whipping out his latest-model smartphone. "This is going straight to the school's group chat. 'Osborn's New Internship: Dishwasher Extraordinaire!'"
I didn't think. I moved. To the others, it looked like a blur. One moment I was standing by the sink, and the next, I was inches from Flash's face. Before he could even press the shutter button, my hand shot out.
CRUNCH.
The sound of plastic and glass shattering was sickeningly satisfying. I didn't just grab the phone; I crushed it. The metal frame bent under my grip like it was made of warm wax, and the screen spider-webbed into a thousand shards before the whole device went dark.
"What the—?! Alex! You crazy freak!" Flash screamed, stumbling back as the ruined remains of his thousand-dollar phone hit the wet floor with a pathetic thud. "You've got balls, Alex! Do you have any idea how much that cost?!"
His goons stepped forward, their faces twisted in confusion and anger. They were used to people being afraid of Flash, not standing up and destroying his property.
"Leave it, Flash," I said. My voice didn't sound like a teenager's anymore. It was low, steady, and held a vibration that made the nearby glassware rattle ever so slightly. "We didn't disturb you. We were minding our own business. But if you want to keep playing this game..."
I stepped into his personal space, towering over him despite my currently "thin" frame. The Doomsday blood was screaming for a conflict, sensing the aggression in the room.
"One more move, Flash," I whispered, my eyes locking onto his. "One more move, and I won't just be breaking your gadgets. I'll break your bones. Let me see you try."
Flash looked at my eyes—at the cold, predatory intensity hiding behind them—and for the first time, he didn't have a comeback. He looked like he wanted to swing, but his body wouldn't let him.
"Alex... leave it. There's no need for this," Peter said, stepping in and putting a hand on my shoulder. His voice was shaking. "We're almost done here. Let's just finish and go."
I didn't take my eyes off Flash. I was waiting. Waiting for the first hit that would trigger my evolution.