The black silhouette of the Quinjet continued to grow larger in the northeast direction.
Ron didn't wait.
He turned and jumped back into the shaft, landing on the platform floor, pressing both hands simultaneously onto the concrete floor.
Magma poured into the underground space from all ten fingers at the same time.
Not offensive heat—it was a precise, all-encompassing melting down to every square centimeter.
The Hydra operating table, monitoring equipment, medicine cabinets, numbered labels on the walls, wiring pipes in the ceiling—everything was engulfed by the 1200-degree Celsius magma within three seconds.
Metal turned to molten iron, plastic evaporated into gas, and paper didn't even leave ashes.
The two corpses were also covered in magma.
Ron paused for a second.
Then he continued to push the temperature.
He couldn't leave S.H.I.E.L.D. any samples for DNA extraction.
Eight seconds. The entire underground laboratory became a pool of magma.
Ron stopped, and the magma began to cool, its surface rapidly solidifying into a layer of grayish-black basalt.
A smooth, uniform texture, devoid of any residue.
He dusted off his hands and climbed out of the shaft.
Frank's breathing came through the encrypted channel, heavy but steady.
"Where are we?"
"Sixth Avenue underground pipes, seven minutes to the safe house."
"Don't go above ground."
"Roger." Ron cut off the communication and stood at the edge of an abandoned parking lot in the Bronx.
The engine of the Quinjet was now clearly audible.
He walked three blocks in the opposite direction, turned into a dead-end alley, melted a half-meter-wide hole in the wall with lava, and crawled into the underground pipe network of the adjacent building.
The pipe network was full of sewage and rust.
Ron waded through knee-deep dirty water for twenty minutes, emerging from the access hatch of a dilapidated fire hydrant in the west side of Hell's Kitchen.
4:19 a.m.
The streets were deserted.
He returned to his apartment, locked the door, took off his tattered suit, threw it into the bathtub, and turned on the hot water for ten minutes.
The bloodstain left by the vibranium dagger on his neck turned red in the hot water, then slowly faded.
The system popped up a 72-hour mission settlement message.
[Mission Completed: Cleanse the Hell's Kitchen Dark Web.]
[Reward Settlement - Justice Points +2000, Total Justice Points: 5200.]
[Impact Castle's capacity expanded to 200 people.]
[Devil Fruit Furnace - Basic Function Unlocked (Previously Used).]
[Extra Reward: Akainu Template Synchronization Rate 30% New Skill - Inu-chan Crimson Lotus - Meteor Volcano (Full Version). Extremely resource-intensive, can only be used once at current stamina limit.]
[Devil Fruit Furnace Product: Paramecia-type Target-Target Fruit (100% Accuracy), completed, can be retrieved at any time.] Ron turned off the tap, dried his hair, and brought up the surveillance footage of the second level of Impel Down.
Beast Hell.
Bulleye crouched in the corner of his cage, his hands bound in front of him by Conceptual Seastone handcuffs.
His ten fingers gripped the air incessantly, an instinctive panic—the fear of having nothing to throw.
He looked up, his pupils unfocused, unable to lock onto any target.
A killer with impeccable aim, stripped of his precise perception, couldn't even count the number of iron bars in front of him.
[Bullseye Precise Perception Source continuously being extracted. Daily sin points: 50.] Ron turned off the screen.
The alarm was set for six.
He lay in bed, taking one last look at the ceiling before closing his eyes.
Two hours later, Judge Ron Stern of this city would appear precisely on time in the corridor of the New York Supreme Court, holding a Starbucks Americano, smiling and nodding to each of his colleagues.
No one would connect him with the Bronx bombing last night.
9:11 AM.
News spread faster than the wind in the courthouse corridor.
Harold Mickson was taken from his home at 8:20 AM by two FBI agents from the Anti-Corruption Unit.
Ron sat in his office, flipping through a case file concerning an inheritance dispute.
There was a knock on the door three times.
The court clerk poked his head in: "Judge Stern, Judge Mickson has been taken away by the FBI. Did you hear?"
Ron put down his pen, took off his gold-rimmed glasses, and wiped them.
"What for?"
"They say it's related to bribery. Three years, seventeen million."
Ron put his glasses back on his nose and shook his head.
"What a pity. Judge Mickson has always been a senior colleague I greatly respected."
After the clerk left, Ron closed the case file.
Another name was missing from the list.
12:15 PM.
The café next to the courthouse.
Ron ordered an Americano and a sandwich, and sat down by the window.
He had just taken a bite of his sandwich when a woman with short brown hair sat down opposite him with a latte.
"Courier, can I borrow some salt?" Ron looked up.
The woman wore a grey-blue cashmere sweater, dark jeans, and flat Chelsea boots.
Short brown hair, below her ears, bangs parted to the side. Makeup so light it was almost invisible.
She looked like an ordinary office worker in Manhattan's financial district.
Ron handed her the salt.
His Observation Haki wasn't consciously activated, but at this distance—less than a meter—information automatically flooded in.
Heartbeat, fifty-eight beats per minute. Fourteen beats per minute lower than the average person, consistent with special forces soldiers who had undergone long-term, high-intensity physical training.
Slightly behind her left hip, beneath her clothing, was a hard bulge. A miniature pistol, most likely a Glock 26. A narrow-bladed dagger was strapped to the inside of her right ankle; the tautness of her calf muscles indicated she was accustomed to that weight.
The watch on her left wrist had a thick dial, its thickness exceeding its decorative purpose. A communicator.
Natasha Romanoff.
Ron's chewing speed remained unchanged, his expression unchanged, his heartbeat unchanged.
"Thank you." Natasha sprinkled some salt into her coffee and stirred it.
"A latte with salt?" Ron raised an eyebrow.
"The Scandinavian way, to remove the bitterness. Want to try it?"
"I drink an Americano. Bitter is meant to be bitter." Natasha smiled.
"Are you a judge?" She glanced at the court badge pinned to Ron's suit lapel.
"A magistrate. Handling trivial matters."
"There's been a lot of news from Hell's Kitchen lately. Gang raids, nightclub bombings, dockside warehouse destruction… What do you court officials think?" Ron put down his sandwich and wiped his mouth with a tissue.
"To be honest?"
"Yeah."
"It's pretty scary. I have to hurry home after get off work; I don't feel safe at all on the road." Natasha held her coffee cup in her right hand, her left hand resting on the edge of the table.
She was observing everything about Ron—the diameter of his pupils, the flaring of his nostrils, the way his lips moved when he spoke, the changes in the grip of his fingers on the sandwich.
The Red Room Cult's micro-expression analysis system. Every parameter had a corresponding deception indicator.
Ron Stern, male, 34 years old, New York Supreme Court Justice.
Pupillary diameter stable, no stress-induced dilation.
No extra nasal flaring.
Lip movements natural, without any trace of deliberate control.
Finger grip even, without any tremors caused by tension.
Every indicator is within the "real" range.
Perfect.
Too perfect.
Natasha mentally marked a question mark.
When an ordinary person is approached by a stranger, their micro-expressions will show at least two or three fluctuations. Nervousness, curiosity, wariness, even harmless social anxiety, will leave traces at the muscle level.
This man in front of her showed none of these fluctuations.
Either he was genuinely indifferent to everything.
Or his level of disguise surpassed hers.
"There's a rumor that some superpowered person is causing trouble." Natasha picked up her coffee and took a sip. "Do you believe it?"
"What doesn't New York have? The Hulk's been on the news, so it wouldn't be surprising if I believed it." Ron stuffed the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth and wiped his hands with a tissue.
Then he did something Natasha hadn't anticipated.
He spoke up.
"By the way, I have a friend who works in the federal system. He said S.H.I.E.L.D. has been investigating Hell's Kitchen lately?" Natasha's hand, holding the cup, paused for 0.3 seconds.
His Observation Haki detected her heart rate jump from 58 to 59.
Just one beat more. But it was more.
"S.H.I.E.L.D.? What's that? A government agency?" Natasha smiled. "I work at a bank, I don't know much about these things." Ron smiled too.
"Yeah, who knows?"
He stood up and left a ten-dollar bill as a tip.
"Here's the salt back."
"Keep it." Natasha swirled her coffee cup. "I'll treat you to a Scandinavian latte next time." Ron nodded, turned, and walked out of the cafe.
The door closed behind him.
He took four steps.
His right hand was in his pocket, his index finger resting on the lining of his suit jacket.
A miniature tracker.
Less than two millimeters in diameter, it was stuck to the seam of the left shoulder of his jacket.
Natasha had attached it when she handed him the salt shaker.
There was another one.
Under the coffee table, at the junction of the tabletop and the support rod, a recorder the size of a pinhead.
A wisp of black, armor-colored light emanated from Ron's right index finger, and his fingertip vibrated at an extremely high frequency for 0.1 seconds.
The tracker's nanocircuit shattered during the vibration, turning into metallic powder smaller than dust.
Ron shook the fragments off from the seam of his shoulder.
A homeless man walked past him, his coat stained with dirt and grease.
The dust settled on the homeless man's shoulder, mingling with the grime.
Ron continued walking towards the courthouse.
Through the glass window of the café behind him, Natasha Romanoff put down her coffee cup, watching Ron's figure disappear into the crowd.
She took out her communicator and switched to an encrypted channel.
"Frey."
"What conclusion?" Natasha paused for two seconds.
"This person is either completely innocent, or a better actor than me." There was a three-second silence on the other end of the channel.
"Keep watching." 6 PM. Safe House.
Frank sat on the cot, administering an IV to the Hydra test subject.
The IV tube was one he'd bought from a 24-hour pharmacy; the needle was stuck in the young man's right arm vein, the tape crookedly fastened.
When Ron pushed open the door, the young man on the cot was slowly opening his eyes.
His pupils dilated for two seconds, then focused.
An unfamiliar ceiling. Mold. Rust. The smell of gun oil. "Where...am I?" His voice was hoarse, as if he hadn't spoken in a long time.
Frank tossed him a bottle of water.
The young man caught it.
His reaction speed was three times faster than an average person.
He looked down and saw the number on the inside of his right arm—WS-07.
He touched it. Needle marks. Not just one, but dozens, densely packed.
His hand began to tremble.
Fragments of memories flooded back. White light. A belt binding his wrist. The cold touch of a needle piercing his carotid artery. Someone screaming on the bed next to him, screaming for a long time, then falling silent.
"My name is Jack."
He looked up at Ron and Frank.
"Jack Reynolds. NYU Pre-Medical. Six months ago...they shoved me from the library entrance into a van."
He clutched the water bottle, the plastic denting in his hand.
Ron pulled over a folding chair and sat down opposite him.
"Jack. You have a degraded version of the Super Soldier Serum in your body. Your strength and speed are three times that of an ordinary person. Do you still want to go back to school?"
Jack's hand stopped.
Ron didn't wait for his answer.
"Tell Frank when you've thought it through."
He stood up, walked to the folding table, and unfolded a map of Hell's Kitchen.
More than half of the red dots on it were missing.
Frank leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"What about Kingpin? He won't sit still."
Ron didn't reply.
His Observation Haki had intercepted an unusual electromagnetic signal on his way back.
It wasn't from S.H.I.E.L.D.
It was coming from the Fisk Building in Midtown Manhattan, with an extremely high encryption frequency, pointing to a receiver he couldn't currently locate.
He couldn't decipher the signal content.
But the system automatically marked a line of text.
[Abnormal activity detected in Kingpin's communication network. Encrypted communication. Recipient code name unknown.] Ron picked up a red pen and circled the location of the Fisk Building on the map.
Next to the circle were two words—
"Plan B." The light bulb on the folding table flickered, dimmed, and then lit up again.
Frank's vertical pupils contracted into two golden lines, his gaze fixed on the circle on the map.
On the cot, Jack Reynolds clutched a dented water bottle, his pupils reflecting the dim light.
On the inside of his right arm, the black ink serial number WS-07 gleamed coldly in the light.