He heard it before he saw it.
Even from rooftops away, Scott's enhanced senses picked up the voices. The echo of rage. The smack of knuckles against flesh. Someone was getting beat up.
Fast.
By the time he approached the source, he was already crouched on the edge of a building overlooking a narrow alley below. He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just crouched in the shadows, listening.
"You stupid, stupid idiot!" one of the voices growled. There was a thud, followed by a pained grunt. "How could you drop the damn box like that?! The cops nearly found the stash!"
Scott crept closer, peering down without revealing himself. The streetlight flickered overhead, barely illuminating two figures—one standing over the other, fists clenched. A third guy loomed nearby, pacing with agitation.
"The police almost found the drugs in it because of you," the man snapped, slapping the downed guy across the head. "You're lucky we didn't lose everything."
Drugs.
Scott's eyes narrowed behind his red mask.
Of course, he thought. Of course they're drug dealers.
He exhaled silently through his nose. How the hell have I only been in this world for five hours and I'm already running into this?
The guy on the ground whimpered something and tried to stand, but the ringleader shoved him back down.
"Get up. Now. We don't have time for screw-ups. The shipment's moving to the warehouse tonight."
He lowered his voice, but Scott still caught every word.
"This is the largest truck distribution Hell's Kitchen has seen in months. Without the Devil around, it'll go smooth as butter."
Scott blinked.
"…Oh no," he whispered. "No, no, no—dammit."
He pressed his palm to his forehead.
I accidentally walked into Hell's Kitchen.
Of all the places to wander into—of all the boroughs and alleys in New York—he had to stumble into this one. The chaos capital. The one place in the city still on fire after the Devil's fall.
"I was supposed to start small," he muttered under his breath. "Stop a car chase, maybe catch a purse thief. Not raid a drug empire's mobile fortress."
He almost backed away.
Almost.
But then he hesitated.
He scanned the area again. Listened closer.
There were at least four of them down there. All talking about a warehouse, a shipment, and truck distribution. Something big was about to move—and no one was watching. Not the cops. Not the big-name heroes. Not even the neighborhood defenders like Jessica Jones or Iron Fist.
They were probably busy cleaning up the city's wreckage after Daredevil's disappearance.
Which left exactly one person on this rooftop.
"Goddammit," Scott muttered. "I have to help, don't I?"
The moral compass in his chest pulsed like an annoying alarm clock. He could leave. Pretend he saw nothing. Stay safe and live to fight another day. But he wouldn't sleep tonight if he did.
Not with this.
So, slowly and silently, he began to follow them.
⸻
The group made their way down the block and eventually disappeared behind a chain-link fence into the parking lot of an old, rusted warehouse. It looked condemned. Half the windows were boarded up. But the lot itself? Full of activity.
Scott stayed perched above, moving from ledge to ledge, rooftop to rooftop, until he found a good vantage point across the street. From there, he scouted the scene.
Inside the warehouse, dozens of men moved back and forth—shouting orders, loading crates, sealing boxes, shoving things into duffel bags. Weapons were everywhere. Pistols. Bats. Crowbars. Some even carried assault rifles like this was a military op.
But the part that chilled him?
They were hiding the drugs in everything.
In car engines.
In the linings of winter jackets.
Inside motorcycle tanks.
Even in the freaking seats of trucks and the heel of shoes.
And there were trucks. So many trucks. Parked, loading, and lined up to roll out in all directions.
If this went off, every street in Hell's Kitchen would be littered with hidden narcotics, and there'd be no way for the police to track where the shipments went without tearing the entire city apart.
"Holy shit," Scott whispered.
He gritted his teeth and reached for his thigh holster.
The long-barreled silver handgun slid out smooth as silk, the white grip cold against his glove. Despite its size, the holster was built for it—quick draw, quick reholster, no unnecessary noise.
He stood up, wind tugging at his red hood.
"Well…" he muttered. "Guess it's time for me to crash the party."
The warehouse was buzzing with activity—until it wasn't.
A sudden shattering crash cut through the air as Scott smashed through one of the upper windows, glass exploding in all directions.
He came in upside down, cloak fluttering, limbs tucked in like a gymnast mid-dive. The loud crash drew the attention of every single criminal in the warehouse, their heads snapping up in unison.
Too late.
While still mid-fall, Scott reached for his holster and drew his long-barreled silver pistol, the white grip flashing under the flickering ceiling lights. His red mask caught the light just enough to reflect off his eyes—eyes that locked instantly onto every armed target below.
BANG. BANG. BANG.
In a rapid sequence of shots, he tagged every single person holding a gun. Chest. Shoulder. Kneecap. Forehead. Perfect shots, fired from upside down with absurd calm.
But none of them died.
Because Scott had set the gun to non-lethal mode.
The bullets hit hard—dropping every target like a ragdolls bloody but not dead, the victims collapsed in temporary stasis of death. Their bodies would regenerate and revive in 24 hours, but for now? They were down. Fast.
Scott twisted in midair and flipped cleanly, landing on both feet with the grace of a predator. His red hood fluttered behind him as he straightened up, exhaling through his mask.
Dozens of unarmed thugs stared at him, stunned.
Then they screamed.
And charged.
Scott didn't wait.
He fired off two more shots, dropping the first two who rushed at him. The third made it too close, so Scott stepped forward and punched him straight in the jaw.
The man crumpled like paper.
Scott flinched. He hadn't even hit that hard.
Right… Spider-Man strength.
He made a mental note—again—not to go full force unless he wanted to send someone through a wall.
The next wave came at him from both sides.
Scott turned, pivoted, and slammed his boot into one man's ribs, sending him flying. Another thug lunged with a crowbar, but Scott ducked low, spun, and swept his legs out with one foot, sending the guy crashing to the floor.
Then came two more.
Scott leapt backward onto a stack of crates and vaulted over the charging enemies, flipping into a perfect corkscrew twist in midair and landing behind them.
They turned—just in time to catch a heel to the temple.
But numbers were against him now.
More came. Too many. They started surrounding him, grabbing pipes, bats, even chains. They encircled him fast, forcing him into a tight space with no room to dodge.
"Alright…" he muttered. "Let's level the playing field."
He jumped.
Straight up.
With a quick backflip, he launched high into the air above the entire mob, clearing ten feet with ease. The criminals below stumbled forward—momentum carrying them awkwardly as they crashed into each other, confused and shouting.
While still in midair, Scott reached under his cloak and pulled out a single cigarette from the infinite pack.
There was a small vent slot built into his mask, just above his lower cheek—custom-made for this exact reason. He slid the cigarette into the opening, and the internal mechanism clicked it into place. And then he pulled lighter for the cigarette and started smoking.
The moment he hit the ground, he exhaled hard.
A wave of dense, dark smoke with embers burst from The end of the light cigarette like a cannon blast.
It exploded outward in a swirling current, sweeping across the warehouse like a living storm.
The criminals didn't even have time to scream.
The smoke slammed into them like a freight train, sending bodies flying into the walls, toppling crates, and knocking over entire racks of duffel bags. They were launched backward, coughing and yelling as they hit hard surfaces with a thud, clatter, and groan.
Scott stood in the center of the smoke, unfazed.
His cloak settled behind him like wings folding in after flight. The red highlights on his armor glowed faintly through the haze. The warehouse was silent now, the fog of the fight still curling through the air.
He took one last drag, pulled the cigarette from the vent, and let it fall to the floor.
"Whew," he muttered. "That was easier than I expected. Maybe I overestimated Hell's Kitchen."
He looked around at the bodies strewn across the warehouse floor, all breathing, but unconscious or too dazed to move.
He rolled his shoulder with a smirk.
"This might be the best debut ever."
And then—
"What do we got here?"
A voice. Calm. Sharp.
From behind him.
Scott turned fast, his eyes narrowing beneath the mask.
Someone was standing at the edge of the smoke, a silhouette just starting to take shape as the haze began to clear.
(please check out my novel: Star Island: A Hero's path It's on Royal Road, but The first 102 chapters Are in WebNovel)