C33: Harlem
It seems Li Ran had overestimated the effect.
The notoriety generated from his encounter with Frank Castle, the Punisher, was less impactful than he'd hoped.
This realization reminded Li Ran that even within the realm of Marvel's vigilantes, not all heroes or anti-heroes generate the same mythos. While social standing might influence their visibility, Li Ran suspected the difference lay deeper, in their essence.
After all, compare this with Tony Stark, the billionaire playboy philanthropist who had yet to face the crucible that would forge him into the Iron Man. In contrast, Frank Castle, the battle-hardened ex-Force Recon Marine turned one-man war machine, had already been broken by grief. He had long discarded the concept of personal safety in his relentless crusade against organized crime.
"Burnt out" might be insufficient, but it painted a rough picture of Frank's inner state.
This was a man who no longer feared death, who had already buried his identity alongside his family. Such a soul wouldn't be easily rattled, nor would he generate the kind of renown Li Ran relied on to empower his system.
Still, Li Ran didn't take the outcome too hard. Even a less-than-optimal encounter with someone of Frank's caliber was more productive than his earliest attempts, where meager legends had been gained at great effort.
Better to keep expectations grounded. After all, Stark-like figures, iconic, brash, and media-saturated were few and far between.
Refocusing his attention, Li Ran scanned the next lead.
In his hand was the third-edition reprint of the Daily Bugle, black-bannered and already nicknamed the "Bug Black" among inner circles due to its scathing tone. This article covered a strange incident in Harlem. Several gang members claimed they'd seen a shirtless black man who was "invulnerable to knives, bullets, and shame," walking through their territory like a living tank.
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Manhattan – Harlem.
The infamous inner borough. Home to both the vibrant roots of African-American culture and the persistent shadow of poverty, crime, and racial tension. It was once the seat of the Harlem Renaissance—now, it contended with increasing violence from inter-gang turf wars and friction from an influx of Latino immigrants.
Along the Harlem River, a trio of young Black men loitered on a graffitied street corner. When a lone figure in a tight red T-shirt passed near, their interest turned hostile.
"Hey! Yo, yellow-skin midget!" one of them jeered, flashing a gold grill. "This ain't Chinatown. You lost?"
The figure stopped, locking eyes with them. The sun reflected off the smooth scalp of a heavyset man with tattoos spilling over bulging deltoids.
"You talking to me?" the stranger asked, tone calm.
"Yeah, I don't see any other Bruce Lee clones around," the tallest mocked, flashing a crude gesture. The group burst into laughter.
The stranger, Li Ran, sighed, rolled his shoulders, and walked toward them.
"What, you tryna throw hands with us?" one barked, emboldened.
A shirtless man, massive, with a coiled snake tattoo on his pec and the nickname "Martin" carved across his knuckles, stepped forward to intercept him. "Yo, you better turn your ass back around. This ain't a tourist block."
"Martin, relax," another man whined. "We were just getting warmed up. Dude's barely five-six. Let him run."
"We still gotta meet up with the Rattlesnakes later," Martin muttered. "No point wasting time."
"Then I'll make it quick," Li Ran said and before Martin could respond, a single palm struck him square in the chest.
Martin's two-hundred-pound frame lifted off the ground like a dummy hit by a truck.
He flew backward into a chain-link fence with a metallic clang, coughing blood.
"Martin!"
"Holy—!"
The others froze. They had seen it clearly, this guy hadn't even put his weight into the strike. No wires, no stunt pads. Just raw, impossible force.
Snapping out of their shock, two of them drew. One pulled a rusty Glock 19 from his waistband; the other flipped open a switchblade.
They didn't even finish aiming.
A red blur moved.
CRACK.
BAM.
Two bodies hit the pavement with a thud.
A third tried to run and was promptly clotheslined by a flying roundhouse that sent him cartwheeling into a trash can.
Within ten seconds, only the last one, the same one who'd made the "Bruce Lee" joke—remained standing.
He stared, trembling, as Li Ran adjusted his collar.
"D-Don't… We're with the Rattlesnakes, man! You mess with us, you mess with all of Harlem!"
"Got any cash on you?" Li Ran asked flatly, brushing a speck of lint off his shoulder.
"…Huh?"
"I said. Money."
Fumbling, the man dug into his jeans and retrieved a few crumpled bills.
"Twenty-five dollars."
Li Ran took it without ceremony.
"Is this… is this a mugging?" the man asked, stunned.
"Call it compensation for racial discrimination," Li Ran replied, pocketing the bills. He then pointed a finger at the pile of moaning bodies. "Tell your friends: next time, keep your mouths shut."
With that, he turned and continued down the avenue, vanishing into the Harlem haze.
Behind him, Martin groaned, spitting a tooth.
"Martin, man—you okay?"
"Call Tyrone," Martin wheezed. "Tell him to get the Rattlesnakes. We just got hit by a damn metahuman."
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