[Aron's First person POV] [1 month later]

It's been 1 month since I moved out of the Mutant Academy to my new home. I did some renovation to make it at least habitable. Nothing too fancy, just enough to call it a home. Moving on, I found a normal job at a delivery firm. The pay wasn't much but it was enough for a single person to get by, well, not that I need money since my investments bring me more than I could ever spend in my whole life.

I got around 40 million in my bank account thanks to the rise in Stark Industries stocks and the fall in Oscorp stocks. Not to mention those small plots of land I bought using the remaining money I got from casino earnings, which were later sold to real estate agencies for a ridiculous amount.

All in all, I'm more than rich, I'm freaking loaded.

Anyway, I decided to keep my mutant power a secret from everyone outside. The mutant detectors don't work on me, so, I'm safe for now. Oh, if you are wondering why I'm still living in that small house or why the hell I work in a small delivery firm, the reason is simple; no one cares about a simple delivery guy and I drive a lot around town delivering orders.

So, I get to see and hear a lot of things. This also helps me keep track of what's going on in the city, which comes in handy when I need to punish someone who escaped the law. All the news I gather during work hours, I use them to help out the regular civilians who the heroes always ignore. The corrupt cops, thugs, muggers, thieves, etc, etc, I punish them all in secret.

It's like that TV series Dexter Morgan. He kills criminals who have escaped justice and his alter ego, 'The Bay Harbor Butcher'. That's basically what I do too, minus the killing part, well, as long as I can avoid it. I only beat up criminals and send them to prison or sometimes, straight to the hospital. And I also set a mental trigger in their mind. The moment they think of doing anything illegal or crime again, they will get insane nightmares and hallucinations for a few days and even after that if they again try to commit a crime, the final trigger will activate, killing them on the spot. Now, no one can say I didn't give them more than one chance. Three chances should be enough, right?

But the hardest part of this life is to hide from the heroes. There are cameras everywhere. So, I take my time and plan everything before moving. Last week, that Punisher guy almost got caught by the cops. I was there in the area and I might have helped him escape. Hopefully, he will be in hiding for a few weeks. That way, the heat will die down.

I'm not a vigilante or a hero, I'm just a delivery guy who delivers packages in the morning and justice at night. I guess this is what they call, "Keeping the city safe."

Right now, I'm driving my car with some fast food and drinks for dinner. That black G-Wagon before me belongs to a mafia group. Hammerhead or so I heard. I've been following them for the past week and found some disturbing stuff. They were involved in all kinds of shady operations—extortion, drug trafficking, arms deals. But what really got under my skin was the human trafficking racket they seemed to have their hands in.

I'd pieced together the structure of his crew. Hammerhead ran things with an iron fist, but the day-to-day operations were handled by his lieutenants. Benny was one of them, but there were others—guys like Frankie "Fingers" and Vito "Scarface." They were ruthless, but none of them were as dangerous as Hammerhead himself. The guy was a freak of nature, with a surgically reinforced skull that made him nearly invincible. I'll rip out his skull if I ever get my hands on him.

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It's about time someone put them down for good.

I kept my distance, careful not to draw any attention. My car, an old, beat-up sedan, blended easily into the late-night traffic. Nothing fancy, nothing that screamed "follow me." Hammerhead's crew was paranoid, always on the lookout for tails, so I had to be extra cautious.

Hammerhead wasn't just running the usual mafia operations. He had found a new partner, someone or something much more dangerous. The name "Symkarian" kept popping up in the chatter I'd overheard—an organization based in a small, war-torn country, known for its elite mercenaries. The more I dug, the more I realized this wasn't just about the usual criminal empire-building. Hammerhead was planning something big, something that could shift the balance of power in the city.

Earlier today, I overheard a conversation between two of his goons. They were discussing a shipment—high-tech weapons—arriving from overseas in a few days. The kind of weapons that would give a small-time gangster like Hammerhead the firepower to take on anyone, even the bigger crime families or superheroes. The deal was supposed to go down at the docks, where Hammerhead's crew controlled a few warehouses. That's where I would make my move. But I needed to be smart about it. Taking down a mafia crew armed to the teeth wasn't something I could rush.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, pulling me out of my thoughts. I reached for it with one hand, glancing at the screen. It was a message from one of my informants—an old bartender at a dive I frequented when I was gathering intel. I manipulated his mind and turned him into my informer. He had a lead for me on Hammerhead's right-hand man, a thug named Benny "The Bull" Caruso. The message read: "Benny's at Club Mirage. Hammerhead's not there, but he's talking to some big players. Thought you'd want to know."

Club Mirage. A seedy nightclub where lowlifes and wannabe gangsters hung out. It wasn't far from where I was, so I decided to make a detour. The G-Wagon had pulled into a gated compound up ahead anyway. Hammerhead's men were always holed up in one of their safe houses around here, so I'd catch up with them later.

I took a left turn, heading toward the nightclub district.

When I finally reached Club Mirage, I parked a few blocks away and walked the rest of the distance. The neon lights flickered ominously, casting eerie shadows on the cracked pavement. A couple of bouncers stood by the entrance, checking IDs, but I had no intention of going in through the front. Instead, I made my way down a side alley, where I knew there was a back entrance.

I phased through the wall.

The thumping bass of the music reverberated through the walls as I moved through the dimly lit corridors.

I found him in one of the VIP lounges, seated on a plush couch, surrounded by a couple of goons and a few women who looked like they didn't want to be there. But what really caught my attention was the man sitting across from him. He was dressed in a sharp suit, with an air of authority that screamed "danger." I couldn't place him at first, but then I remembered. This was Aleksander Kravinoff, the younger brother of Sergei Kravinoff—better known as Kraven the Hunter. What the hell was he doing here?

I went to the bar.

"What'll it be?" asked the bartender. He was a burly guy, with tattoos on his arms and a scarred face. He looked like someone who could handle himself in a fight.

"Whiskey, neat," I replied.

The bartender poured me a drink.

I sipped my drink.

"You sure about this, Benny?" Aleksander asked, his accent thick but his tone controlled.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Benny replied, taking a swig of his drink. "The shipment's coming in three days. High-grade stuff, straight from Symkaria. Once we get our hands on it, no one in this city will be able to touch us. Not Fisk, not the cops, not even those freakin' superheroes."

Aleksander leaned back, his expression unreadable. "Symkaria doesn't like failure. If your boss screws this up, it'll be more than just your heads on the line."

Benny chuckled, but there was a nervous edge to it. "Don't worry. Hammerhead's got it all under control. We'll handle the transport, and your guys will get their cut. Everyone wins."

Aleksander didn't respond immediately. Instead, he stood up, adjusting his suit. "I hope for your sake you're right, Benny. Because if this operation goes south, I won't be the one dealing with the consequences. You will."

With that, he turned and walked out, leaving Benny looking a little more pale than when the conversation started.