Chapter 32: Hell's Kitchen Community Academy — Grand Tour
"You coming with me today or what?" Ethan asked, adjusting his collar in the mirror — something he almost never bothered to do.
Today was a big deal. Big enough that Ethan had actually dressed up, trading his usual look for a clean Zhongshan suit. Western suits could go to hell — those things strangled you. But today mattered, and he was going to look the part.
It was a big day for Hell's Kitchen, too.
The community academy Ethan had bankrolled — the only one in the entire neighborhood — had finally finished renovations.
Wade, for once, wasn't wearing his red-and-black spandex. His burn-scarred face was out in the open.
Wade's face was the price of survival. Cancer had been eating him alive, so he'd signed up for the Weapon X program and gotten a healing factor grafted in. The healing kept the cancer in check — permanent stalemate — but the tradeoff was that his skin never healed past the burn stage.
So when people said Deadpool was the most shameless man in the Marvel universe, they weren't wrong. The man literally didn't have a face to lose.
Wade was sprawled on the couch, one hand propping up his head, the other aiming a remote at the TV. His voice was pure melodrama: "I have zero motivation today. Belinda — the bartender? — dumped me last night. I'm not going anywhere."
Ethan didn't even slow down. "She didn't dump you. That implies you were dating. You get rejected every other Tuesday." He grabbed his keys and walked out.
He decided to skip the car. The academy wasn't far — close enough to walk, and it gave him a chance to check on his blocks along the way.
What he saw made the walk worth it. The streets under his watch had transformed. They were clean, orderly — people had actually set up vendor stalls selling legitimate merchandise and breakfast food. He even spotted a Chinese vendor pushing a cart loaded with fresh youtiao and hot soy milk.
Ethan looked at the peaceful scene and let himself feel it. A year ago, this same stretch would've been a war zone — gangs shooting it out in broad daylight. Now there were breakfast carts.
Not a bad day, he thought. Nothing on the docket. Could almost sit back and enjoy the view.
Before he knew it, he was standing at the front gates of the community academy.
Kingpin was already there, gesturing at the entrance and talking to his secretary, Sharon O'Casey.
Ethan jogged over. "Uncle Fisk — you didn't have to come out yourself. You could've just sent Sharon."
"Ha!" Fisk's laugh rumbled like a subway train. "My godson's school just finished renovations — you think I'm going to miss that? Besides, I'm on the board of trustees. I paid for half of this place. If some contractor cut corners, I want to be here personally to send him to meet his Maker."
Fisk looked genuinely happy. Maybe even a little proud. For a man who'd grown up in these same streets, investing in education here probably meant more than he'd ever say out loud.
Fisk turned to his secretary. "Sharon. Walk us through it."
Sharon O'Casey gave a crisp nod and stepped forward. "The academy is divided into three zones: academic, residential, and recreational. The academic zone consists of one classroom building and one library. The classroom building has three floors with thirty-six classrooms total — three classes per grade, covering grades one through twelve."
"The residential zone includes a cafeteria and one dormitory building. The dormitory has six floors, twenty rooms per floor, each room approximately two hundred square feet. Current capacity is four students per room. Two additional dormitory buildings are still under construction." She paused. "Mr. Cross — do you think two hundred square feet for four students might be a bit tight?"
Ethan rubbed his chin for a moment. "Make it six per room."
Sharon blinked. "Six? That might be rather cramped—"
Ethan turned his head slowly and fixed her with a narrow look. "A lot of kids in Hell's Kitchen don't have anywhere to sleep at all. Six to a room isn't cramped."
Fisk gave a slight nod. He'd grown up here. If you'd told a young Wilson Fisk he could have a warm room shared with only five other kids, he'd have called it luxury.
This woman's been eating too well, Ethan thought. Someone should ship her off to visit a few university dorms on the other side of the Pacific. Two hundred square feet — that's about a hundred and eighty-five square feet of actual living space. In some universities over there, they'd cram ten students into that. I'm not even building these dorms to prison spec, and she's complaining?
Besides — how many Hell's Kitchen families could actually afford tuition, let alone room and board? Some of these kids didn't even have parents. Ethan had never planned on charging them a dime. Free housing, free education. What more did they want?
Sharon must have realized she'd misspoken, because she pivoted smoothly. "Of course, compared to what was here before, this school provides these children with a safe learning environment — and every dormitory room has been fitted with heating. Your generosity will absolutely be remembered by the children of Hell's Kitchen for years to come."
In America, installing air conditioning was significantly more expensive than heating — which was why Ethan hadn't sprung for AC. The heat rarely killed anyone. But New York winters? Those could put you in the ground.
The flattery hit its mark. Ethan had built this school for one simple reason: to give these kids somewhere to learn. But if a good reputation came along for the ride, he wasn't going to complain.
Sharon continued the tour. "The recreational zone currently includes two basketball courts, a boxing gym, and — per your instructions — an indoor shooting range. Unfortunately, the football field you requested couldn't be accommodated due to insufficient space."
"Once the Department of Education approves our accreditation, we can begin hiring faculty and enrolling students. However..." She glanced at Fisk, then back to Ethan. "Regarding enrollment — Hell's Kitchen's teenagers are a steady pipeline of fresh recruits for the local gangs. If you pull all of them into this school, the gangs won't take it lying down. I'm sure you're aware of that."
"I'm aware." Ethan turned to Fisk. "I trust Uncle Fisk can help with that part."
Fisk drew on his cigar. "I'll send out invitations under your name — invite the gang leaders to a meeting at my office. They'll give me enough face to show up. How you convince them after that is your problem."
"That's all I need. I'll handle the rest."
Ethan knew exactly what he was dealing with. Hell's Kitchen's gangs were wild dogs — every last one of them thought they were king of the hill. Even Fisk's name might not be enough to make them fall in line, because the math was simple: there were only so many teenagers in Hell's Kitchen, and the gangs barely had enough new blood to go around as it was. Now Ethan wanted to scoop them all up? If he were in their shoes, he'd push back too.
But if Hell's Kitchen was ever going to have a future, this school had to exist. Kids were blank pages — and in Hell's Kitchen, the only ink available was black. What Ethan wanted to do was make sure that even if the color was black, it came in every shade imaginable.
His gaze drifted to the academy's perimeter wall. He turned to Sharon.
"Install razor wire along the top of that wall. Electrify it. I want to make sure that whether it's someone from outside or a student from inside, the front gate is the only way in or out."
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