The clinic was hidden where most New Yorkers forgot to look. Down a set of rusted service stairs, past an iron gate tagged with layers of graffiti, the air smelled like bleach fighting a losing battle against mildew. Felicia Hardy pushed the heavy door open with her shoulder, Delilah's limp weight draped over her back.
Inside, the hum of old fluorescent lights revealed a space that looked more like a mechanic's garage than a medical practice. Steel tables scarred with knife marks, a wall of mismatched cabinets, and a fridge in the corner with duct tape holding the door shut.
The man who emerged from the back wasn't much prettier. The doctor was gray-haired, with thick glasses hanging crookedly off his nose, surgical coat yellowed at the cuffs. He paused when he saw the body slumped on Felicia.
"Again?" His voice was gravel and nicotine. "One of yours?"
Felicia shrugged, easing Delilah onto a cot. "Not mine. Just someone who won't stay dead." She tossed him a duffel bag with a heavy clink. "Cash, up front. And a phone." She slid a burner across the table. "When she wakes up, send a text to the only number on it and then hand her this. She'll know what to do with it. Until then, no calls to anyone else."
The doctor unzipped the bag, eyes widening slightly at the stacks inside. He closed it without a word, businesslike. "And if she wakes up violent?"
Felicia smirked, hands on her hips. "She will. Consider the extra cash hazard pay. Keep her hidden, keep her breathing, keep her from breaking too much furniture. That's your job. Do it well."
The old man grunted and rolled Delilah into the recovery position, already checking vitals. "You pick strange strays, Cat."
Felicia was already halfway out the door. "Yeah, well, I've got nine lives. She only gets one second chance."
Felicia broke into the night, the city wind tugging at her white hair as she vaulted from fire escape to rooftop ledge. The skyline glittered like a million unspoken secrets. For most, rooftops were edges. For her, they were highways.
But her mind wasn't on the run.
'Spider's too soft. The kid's too sharp. And me? I'm stuck in the middle, cleaning up bodies and promises I didn't sign up for. Well, at least the pay is worth it.'
She'd seen Ethan play strategist, all calm words and hidden cards. He was dangerous in a way Peter never would be. Peter wore his heart in his mask; Ethan wore a dozen masks and none of them had a heart.
Still, when he asked for something, she delivered. In exchange, he would deliver what she needed when she needed it.
By the time she reached the hotel roof, the city's hum had dulled to background noise. Felicia perched on the ledge, one knee up, scanning the access door. She didn't have to wait long. The hinges creaked, and out walked Ethan, hands in his pockets, like he'd known exactly when she'd arrive.
"Evening," he said simply, as if she were an expected guest.
Felicia tilted her head, smirking. "Evening? Kid, you owe me. One favor doesn't cut it. Babysitting your new girlfriend and hauling the body to my guy? That's at least two."
Ethan didn't flinch. "I already promised I'd help convince Peter to join you on that heist you keep circling. That counts."
Felicia folded her arms. "That's a half-favor. At best."
He smiled faintly. "You drive a hard bargain."
She reached into her pack and pulled out a small reinforced canister, tossing it underhand. Ethan caught it without looking, eyes narrowing at the weight.
"The other item," she said. "Roughhouse's blood. You're welcome. The lady assassin did the messy part, making him bleed. I just scooped it up before anyone noticed."
Ethan turned the canister over in his hands, face unreadable. Inside was more than just blood. It was an opportunity.
Felicia watched him, curiosity sharp in her eyes. "So? What's the big deal? Why did you want that brute's blood? Just looks like bad news in a bottle to me."
Ethan closed his fingers around it. "Roughhouse isn't just a bruiser. My sources tell me he's an Asgardian, you know that race of gods like Thor and Loki. That means what's in here isn't just blood—it's a key. A sample of what gods are made of."
Felicia raised a brow. "And you're planning what—make a Thor in a bottle? Kid, I knew you were ambitious, but this is a new tier."
He didn't answer her directly. Outwardly, he only gave a small shrug. Inwardly, his mind spun.
Asgardian blood. Dense tissues, regenerative healing, durability that outpaces human design by centuries. If I map this and play my right, it could crack open the next phase. Not for myself—at least not yet. For leverage. For tools. For building the kind of insurance policy no one else in this city could even dream about.
Human labs couldn't touch this kind of work. But Ethan didn't need them. He had Sage's Mind and lots of knowledge backing his idea, shadow servers ready to store the data of he experiments, and patience. Roughhouse was a brute to most people. To Ethan, he was a way for him to evolve past the limits of being human.
'If the world's going to be ruled by people born with powers. Soon, more and more powerful beings will keep popping out of the woodwork. I'll make sure I can write my own rules when the time comes.'
Felicia studied him in silence, reading the edges of his calm. She didn't press further—smart enough to know some doors stayed closed.
"You're a little creepier than I thought. Make sure you don't take my blood," she said at last, half-amused, half-wary.
Ethan tucked the canister into a secure case inside his pack. "Good. That means I'm doing this right."
Felicia smirked, shaking her head as she backed toward the ledge. "Just remember, kid—you play with gods' blood, don't be surprised when gods and other people who want the blood come a-knocking."
He met her gaze evenly. "That's… a fairly good point."
And with that, Felicia vaulted into the night, leaving Ethan alone on the rooftop, one hand resting on the canister that might just rewrite the future and help him survive in this dangerous world.