Hell's Kitchen, 15th Street, sat in an uneasy stillness that didn't match the time of day. Even in the middle of the afternoon, foot traffic was scarce, and the few people who drifted through looked like ghosts of themselves—skinny, hollow-eyed, and clearly lost to something far worse than hunger. Most of them moved erratically, muttering or twitching, oblivious to the world around them and anything resembling normal life.
But one man stood apart from the rest, not because he looked any better, but because of the way he carried himself. Instead of blaming his situation or lashing out at others, he clenched his fists and muttered under his breath, his voice low but firm, like someone trying to hold onto a code that the world had already discarded.
"The elders taught me to be righteous. To stand up for the weak."
His brow furrowed as he replayed the memory in his head, frustration creeping into his tone. "I saw a woman being harassed, so I stepped in. That's what I was supposed to do, right?"
He paused, jaw tightening slightly. "I only knocked a few teeth out. That's all."
A flicker of confusion crossed his face, followed by something close to hurt. "So why did she call me a lunatic?"
Danny Rand stood there for a moment longer before the scent of grilled meat snapped him out of his thoughts. His stomach growled loudly as he turned toward a nearby hamburger cart, the smell alone enough to make his mouth water.
Escaping from that isolated mountain world had cost him more than he'd expected. Back there, in the wilderness, survival had been simple. He had his skills, his training, and the land itself. Hunting, gathering, enduring—it all made sense.
But here, in the middle of the city, everything felt backwards.
He wasn't just broke. His entire way of living felt out of place, like he'd been dropped into a world that ran on rules he didn't understand. Even something as basic as getting food had become a problem he couldn't solve the old way.
Just as he was bracing himself to endure the hunger with sheer willpower, a pair of hamburgers suddenly appeared in front of him.
Danny blinked and looked up.
Standing there was a young man with a relaxed smile, a violin case slung casually over his shoulder. Before Danny could even open his mouth to refuse, the man spoke first, his tone light but carrying an odd kind of confidence.
"You look like you need it," he said, then tilted his head slightly. "Tell you what—once you're full, how about we fight?"
Danny's eyes lit up instantly, the earlier confusion vanishing like it had never been there. The word "fight" hit him like a spark, igniting something far more familiar and comfortable.
"You want to fight me?"
For someone who had spent years refining his martial arts in isolation, combat wasn't just a skill—it was the one thing he truly understood. Without hesitation, he clasped his hands together in a traditional martial greeting, posture straight and respectful.
"Then I'll gladly accept."
He didn't waste any more time. In three quick bites, both hamburgers were gone, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before giving a sincere nod. "Thank you."
Locke—formerly Li Xuan—watched him with an amused expression, clearly entertained by the sheer efficiency of it. "Still hungry?" he asked casually.
Danny didn't even try to hide it. He patted his stomach and gave an honest answer. "I'm about halfway there."
"Alright," Locke said with a grin, turning toward the vendor. "Ten more."
It was a small expense, barely worth thinking about. A few dozen dollars in exchange for building goodwill—and possibly securing a future ally—was an absurdly profitable trade in Locke's eyes. The Ultimate Evolution Module didn't just reward power; it rewarded positioning.
And this? This was positioning.
Time passed quickly as Danny devoured the food without restraint, his appetite bordering on ridiculous. By the time he finally leaned back and rubbed his stomach in satisfaction, the scene had already drawn attention.
The food truck owner stood frozen, staring at him like he'd just witnessed something unnatural. His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out.
Twenty burgers.
Gone.
If it weren't for Danny's healthy complexion and the lack of any visible distress, the man might've already dialed emergency services.
"Is… is that even human?" he muttered under his breath.
Completely unaware of the silent judgment, Danny let out a contented sigh and turned back to Locke. "That was incredible," he said sincerely. "So, when do we fight?"
Locke raised a hand, stopping him before he could get too eager. "Not right after eating," he replied calmly. "That's just asking for trouble."
Danny blinked, then nodded as if that made perfect sense. "Right. Of course."
With the immediate excitement postponed, the two of them naturally fell into conversation. And as it turned out, Danny wasn't exactly the most guarded person in the world.
It didn't take long before pieces of his story started slipping out.
He never directly mentioned where he had trained, but it was obvious enough. A remote mountain village, years of isolation, and a skillset that didn't quite match the modern world—it painted a clear picture without needing specifics.
He also talked about his current problem.
He had come back to the city looking for answers, specifically about a plane crash from years ago. His target was Harold Meachum, or more precisely, the company tied to him. But every attempt to contact Meachum Industries over the past couple of days had ended the same way.
He couldn't even get past the front desk.
"They won't even give me a chance to explain," Danny said, frustration slipping into his voice. "It's like I don't exist to them."
Locke listened quietly, already aware of how this story was supposed to play out. In the original trajectory, Danny would eventually trust the wrong person, get drugged, and end up locked away in a psychiatric facility.
It was a mess waiting to happen.
Which made it the perfect opportunity.
"Have you thought about reaching out to your childhood friends?" Locke suggested casually, as if it were just a passing idea.
Helping someone when they were already thriving didn't carry much weight. But stepping in when they were at their lowest? That was how you built something real.
Locke wasn't interested in shallow connections. If he was going to invest in someone, he wanted loyalty that actually meant something.
Danny hesitated, clearly considering it. "I… probably should," he admitted. "I need to talk to them properly."
What he didn't say out loud was who he was really thinking about—Ward Meachum.
As things stood, Ward was now the acting head of Meachum Industries, holding real power within the company. His sister, Joy, handled financial matters but didn't have the same level of authority.
Before Danny could dwell on it any further, the sharp sound of heels striking pavement cut through the air, fast and deliberate.
Both of them looked up.
A Black female officer was running toward them at full speed, her expression focused and serious. The moment Danny saw her, his body tensed instinctively.
"Sir, it's been a pleasure talking to you," he said quickly, already stepping back. "But I need to go. We'll have our duel another time."
Locke didn't stop him. Instead, he casually handed over a phone. "Use this to reach me."
Danny accepted it without hesitation. "Got it."
Then he was gone, sprinting off with surprising speed, taking the steps two at a time as he disappeared down the street. The officer tried to pursue him, but after a few seconds, it was obvious she wasn't going to catch up.
She slowed to a stop, letting out a frustrated breath before turning away.
Locke watched her retreat, his gaze thoughtful.
He recognized her immediately.
Misty Knight—a key player in Hell's Kitchen, and someone closely tied to another powerhouse in the area.
Everything was lining up exactly as expected.
These people moved in circles. The right connections, in the right place, at the right time—that was all it took to start pulling threads.
"Maybe it's time to put together a little team," Locke murmured to himself, a faint smile forming. "Call it the Defenders or something."
The idea lingered for only a moment before something far more important cut in.
A sharp notification rang out in his mind, crisp and unmistakable.
[Ding. A random mission has been detected nearby.]
Locke's attention snapped inward instantly.
[The Feast of Carnage: Since its birth, Carnage has never had a proper meal. Weak and underdeveloped, it survives by scavenging scraps from slaughterhouses. Despite its caution, it has now been targeted by Bullseye, the Kingpin's top assassin.]
[Ding! Upon accepting this mission, the host must assist Carnage in escaping and provide it with a sufficient meal. Rewards will scale based on Carnage's level of satisfaction.]
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