Bullseye studied the man before him, eyes narrowing with interest at this so-called Death God.
"Butcher?"
He casually lifted the dossier and skimmed it. His expression shifted.
"Hm. He slaughtered more than two hundred people in four months? That's a butcher, all right."
"Actually, it's closer to five hundred," the man replied. "Yesterday alone, more than two hundred gunmen—Herman Odea included—were gunned down in his own Queens office."
Bullseye set the file down, a cold smile curving his mouth. "You see him as a threat, Mr. Kingpin?"
The man was indeed one of New York's biggest crime lords—Kingpin.
Hands steepled under his chin, Kingpin gave the opposite answer. "No. I see an excellent warrior—killer, assassin."
"I'm interested in him," he repeated.
"You want to recruit him? That's not a good call," Bullseye said, frowning. Confident as he was, he wasn't stupid. The dossier made it clear: this opponent would be a problem. Killing him would take time, prep, and a careful plan. Face-to-face, the outcome was uncertain—capturing him alive for Kingpin, even less likely.
"He's only been massacring gangsters," Bullseye added. "With your… reputation, you're not exactly a fit to 'conquer' him."
"Then we try. If he won't bend, we break him."
Kingpin wasn't letting go. Success had taught him that with the right leverage, anyone could be brought into line.
And if not? No mercy.
"Fine. But it won't be cheap."
"You'll be compensated, Bullseye," Kingpin said, dismissive. Money wasn't an obstacle to results.
Bullseye nodded, took the dossier, and left.
Kingpin lit a cigar and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring out over the city like a king surveying his domain.
He was building a legend—and legends need lieutenants.
Would this "Butcher" become one?
…
A month passed. It was September now. Autumn crept in, temperatures easing from summer heat, and New Yorkers were pulling on light sweaters.
Still Queens. Ben Shaw was in the same old apartment, on the third floor of a big building.
He woke, washed up, and threw on a gray sweater, black hoodie, sweatpants, and white sneakers—young, lean, and sharp.
Opening his door, he met two people in the side corridor: a warm, chatty Black auntie and a middle-aged man.
"Hey—morning, Little John," the auntie called with a grin.
John was the English name he used. Adapt or stand out.
"Morning, Aunt Mary," Ben replied.
"Wow, you've really filled out. Hit a growth spurt? Want Aunt Mary to set you up with a pretty girlfriend?" she teased.
Ben smiled shyly, waving it off. "Heading out to jog. Bye, Aunt Mary."
"Oh—be careful. They say there's a serial killer in Queens."
"I know, Aunt Mary."
He nodded seriously and moved on.
As for the middle-aged man, Ben just gave a polite nod. A tenant, probably—no reason for any real overlap.
"What a good kid. It's a pity…" Mary's voice carried both admiration and regret. As a neighbor, she knew what a seventeen-year-old like him had endured.
But in the past six months, he seemed to have found his rhythm again.
Ben heard her—his hearing long past normal—but didn't dwell on it.
He wasn't the boy paralyzed by grief anymore. He carried the body's memories and the love for its parents, but that didn't rewrite who he was. His core wouldn't bend to inherited feelings.
Worth noting: when he first arrived in this body, the memories weren't complete.
A normal brain can't absorb another person's decade-plus of memories in an instant without risk of overload and collapse. The brain filtered and blocked a lot of "useless" data at first. Later—after the golden finger awakened and strengthened his body and mind—his processing capacity surged, and the rest of the memories came online.
A footnote. As long as it didn't twist his nature, he ignored it.
After four months of wiping out Queens' criminals, the local crime rate had nosedived.
Gangs adapted. With a reaper stalking Queens, nobody wanted to be next.
Targets fled, hid at home, or froze their operations.
Ben had taken the last month off—and the streets were calmer.
Morning joggers were out in force. On his runs, he saw plenty along the sidewalks.
He ran to feel the subtleties of change in the simplest way—learning how to ride new muscle and motion with precision.
Truthfully, he was also just bored. He didn't need money now, didn't have to work. He stayed home, devoured knowledge on a new computer or from stacks of books: chemistry, physics, combat, shooting, more.
His enhanced brain ripped through information, accelerating learning to absurd levels.
He could pick up a skill—like shooting—in seconds.
Without prior range time, he learned in combat.
A few engagements later, he moved like a top-tier marksman.
With near-perfect photographic memory and recall, nothing he saw ever faded.
He wasn't going to waste that.