Jack stared at the rearview mirror; the Manhattan skyline was being swallowed by twilight.
Ron's hand rested on the car door handle.
The iron gates of the shipyard's main building were flung open from the inside, the rusty hinges screeching.
Lin Xiaowei stood on the threshold, clutching a math workbook with its edges curled up.
Ron released the car door handle and turned to walk back.
Frank leaned out of the second car, his wolf-like eyes narrowing in the dim light, and got out as well.
Inside the main building.
Jessica stood at a workbench, her hand on the radio knob.
The radio volume was turned up to the maximum, Chinese news broadcasting coming through the microphone.
The announcer spoke rapidly, with a noticeable tremor in his voice.
"This morning, a vicious attack occurred on Mott Street in Manhattan's Chinatown."
"Thirty unidentified armed men stormed the Chinese Consolidated Benevolent Association, demanding twenty laborers from the community each month."
"Chairman Chen refused on the spot."
"Three hours later, Mr. Chen's tea restaurant was destroyed by an unknown green flame; the entire building was reduced to ashes within three minutes."
"Mr. Chen himself was found hanging from a utility pole at the intersection of Mott Street, suffering extensive unexplained burns all over his body; his condition is currently unknown." Ron walked to the table.
Frank followed, placing a Manhattan map on the table.
His finger touched the location of Mott Street in Lower Manhattan, his nail drawing a white mark on the map.
Lin Xiaowei put down her math workbook and walked to Ron.
The black veins on her arm had receded to her wrist.
A faint white light flickered at her fingertips—the antibody power awakening within her.
"Chinatown is my home."
She looked at Ron, her English fluent, but she used the Chinese word for "home."
Ron stared at the map.
Parker Robbins' expansion was exceeding expectations.
Kingpin hadn't dealt with human trafficking before because the Hand controlled it.
Now that Kingpin was down, the Hand had shrunk, and Parker saw a vacuum.
He was testing the limits of New York's underclass with extreme violence.
"I told you, your job is to rest, eat, and study," Ron said.
Lin Xiaowei's lips pressed into a straight line.
"But—" Frank walked past, grabbed a piece of burnt bread from the table, and tossed it to Lin Xiaowei.
"Kid, you should be practicing your studies." Lin Xiaowei caught the bread steadily without turning around.
"Then you go," she said, looking down at the bread in her hand, "help me protect my home."
Frank glanced at her, then turned and took an M249 light machine gun from the weapon rack in the corner.
The ammunition belt was wrapped around his arm, the brass cartridge cases gleaming coldly in the light.
"Let's go." Frank strode out of the iron gate.
Ron turned to Jessica.
"Stay here and keep an eye on her." Jessica nodded, a purple mental shield appearing around her fingertips.
Ron walked out of the main factory building. Bucky was already sitting in the passenger seat of the second car, his silver-white metal left arm resting on the window sill.
Three black SUVs drove out of the shipyard.
Their direction changed; they weren't going to Midtown, but straight to Lower Manhattan.
Night fell completely. At the intersection of Mott Street.
No police cars appeared. All the shops on the street had their shutters down, and the neon signs flickered with a dilapidated light.
Six vans were stopped in the middle of the road, and thirty men in black hoodies blocked both ends of the street.
On the traffic light pole at the intersection, Mr. Chen, sixty years old, hung upside down.
His Tang suit had been burned away; forty percent of the skin on his chest, thighs, and back had completely disappeared.
The wound was carbonized by some corrosive force, exposing the grayish-white muscle and fascia beneath; not a drop of blood flowed.
He was still breathing, his chest rising and falling weakly every ten seconds.
Behind the second-floor windows of the apartments on either side, a dozen pairs of eyes peered out through the gaps in the blinds.
A white man in a black jacket stood under a telephone pole, holding a megaphone.
"This is the rule!" the white man shouted at the tightly closed windows on both sides of the street. "The boss said the Kingpin era is over. This place is now ours!"
"Eight o'clock tomorrow morning, have twenty men ready!"
"One less, and I'll burn the whole street down!" The white man threw the megaphone on the ground; the plastic casing slammed against the asphalt with a dull thud.
Suddenly, the roar of engines came from the end of the street.
Three black SUVs didn't slow down, smashing through the metal barricades at the intersection.
The metal railings were knocked away, crashing into a fire hydrant on the roadside, their tires screeching across the asphalt.
The first car came to a smooth stop directly beneath a telephone pole.
The door opened, and Ron stepped out.
His white cloak billowed in the night wind, the word "Justice" emblazoned in black on the back pointing directly at the thirty hoodies.
The white man hesitated for a second, then drew his pistol and pointed it at Ron's head.
"Who the hell are you?"
Ron didn't look at him. He raised his right hand, and a stream of dark red lava shot from his fingertips.
The intense heat instantly dried up the air within a three-meter radius, and the lava precisely severed the nylon rope suspending Mr. Chen.
Mr. Chen plummeted straight down.
Bucky got out of the second car, extending his pure silver metal left arm to catch Mr. Chen.
Twenty times the force of gravity negated the impact of the fall at the moment of contact, and Mr. Chen landed flat on the hood.
The white man pulled the trigger.
The bullet struck Ron in the chest, tearing a hole in his suit.
The bullet embedded itself in the dark red lava, instantly melting into a drop of molten gold that fell to the ground.
The white man took a step back, and thirty hooded-shirt-clad men simultaneously raised their automatic rifles.
Ron stomped on the megaphone on the ground, shattering it.
"Parker Robbins wants people," Ron said, looking at the white man. "I'll deliver them to him." Dark red lava spread from Ron's feet, instantly melting the asphalt.
The scorching smell of sulfur masked the stench of blood in the street.
The white man turned and ran.
Ron's right hand reached forward, his Armament Haki extending through the air.
An invisible force gripped the white man's neck, lifting him into the air, his legs kicking wildly.
Thirty automatic rifles fired simultaneously, muzzle flashes illuminating the entire street.
Bullets rained down on Ron, the intense heat melting the bullets.
Molten gold dripped from Ron's suit jacket, creating small, smoking craters in the ground.
Frank rose from the roof of the third vehicle, the M249 machine gun spitting out a half-meter-long tongue of fire.
The ammunition belt traced deadly trajectories in the night, shattering the knees of the ten hoodies in the first row.
Blood exploded in the air, screams echoing throughout Mott Street.
Buckley took a step forward, his silver-white metal arm hanging limply at his side, his right palm pressed against the ground.
A dark gray gravitational wave swept across the ground, instantly crushing the pebbles into powder.
The remaining twenty hoodies suddenly felt their legs go weak, twenty times the force of gravity pressing directly onto their spines.
Their bones cracked under the immense pressure, and all twenty men collapsed to the ground, their jaws slamming into the concrete.
The rifles in their hands weighed dozens of kilograms, impossible to lift; even the strength to fire was completely gone.
The gunfire ceased, leaving only the wailing of the hoodies on the street.
Residents in the apartment buildings on either side watched this scene through their blinds, instinctively holding their breath.
The violence that ruled Chinatown was crushed in the street by another, purer form of violence.
Ron walked up to the white man suspended in mid-air.
A system panel popped up.
[Target: George Miller.]
[Sin Value: 1200.] Ron released his grip.
The white man slammed onto the scorching asphalt, the fabric around his knees instantly igniting. He screamed and crawled backward.
Ron stepped forward, his military boot stomping on the white man's right hand, shattering the bone.
"Go back and tell Parker Robbins," Ron said, looking at the man beneath his feet, "I've taken over the Chinatown human trafficking business." A dark red vortex split open in the ground behind the white man, the suction of Impel Down emanating from it.
The twenty hoodies lying on the ground were dragged by an invisible force, sliding along the ground towards the vortex.
The screams were mercilessly swallowed by the spatial rift.
The vortex closed.
The white man watched his men disappear, his crotch soaked.
Ron lifted his foot, and the white man scrambled into the alley.
Ron didn't chase. He turned to look at Mr. Chen, who was lying on the hood of the car, barely alive.
Mr. Chen opened his eyes, his gaze passing over Ron's shoulder, looking towards the end of the street.