Fate Didn't Always Grab You by the Throat-Sometimes It Struck Your Weak Spot...

No one dared to raise any questions, because in the past two or three weeks, rumors about this "Chief Ethan" had permeated every corner of the surrounding neighborhood like the lingering musty smell in an alley.

Some say he single-handedly bent a knife thrown at him by a madman trying to take over his "territory," proclaimed himself the king of the neighborhood, and remained there ever since in the best nomadic dwelling on the street.

Some say that a few defiant thugs tried to gang up on him, but their fists and bullets only made dull thuds as they struck him; he didn't budge, which terrified the thugs.

Some say that the person whose fingers could harden like steel and easily scratch brick walls wasn't Ethan at all; the real Ethan had long since died in a deal with the devil.

But only those who witnessed it firsthand know that those rumors were not true "gossip" in the real sense.

This is how Mr. Ethan established his position over the past two or three weeks. Not through empty talk, but through this incredible, yet very real, strength!

In fact, few people know that in the first few days after his "awakening," this black man was simply using this ability to protect himself and try to fight for a better place to live.

But with his second "slumber" and his growing control over this metallic power—especially when, in a fit of rage, he smashed the blade of a smuggled outsider's knife with a single punch, and easily slammed the thug leader, who had tried to threaten him with a dagger and gun, against the wall with his face as smooth as butter, leaving deep marks on the brick wall near the man's ear with just his finger, terrifying him so much that the man fled like a stray dog begging for mercy—then the news spread like wildfire!

This neighborhood has a new "leader".

The unspoken rules of the slums are simple yet brutal: a clenched fist is power, and marksmanship is law.

Before his energy was exhausted, he possessed an almost invulnerable defense against common weapons like street-level knives, daggers, and small-caliber firearms, as well as a violent "iron hand" capable of destroying most obstacles.

This man, Ethan Flores, quickly established his own gang territory, recruiting the homeless and destitute in the area. He collected "management fees" from shops according to street custom, dabbled in low-level debt collection, and clearly defined who owned the "territory" in each block.

At the same time, his reputation quickly transformed from the rumored "indestructible black vagrant" to "Black Devil," and finally to the leader "Iron Finger Ethan."

Life is amazing, isn't it?

Frankly, even Ethan himself occasionally can't help but fantasize about the new "uncrowned king" of this neighborhood—

What if this power had come sooner? What if this belated gift had been more generous?

However, many choices have already led to a point where there is no turning back.

After the crowd that had come to "report on their work" dispersed...

Inside the warehouse, apart from the current "owner," the only one temporarily remaining, Old Panko, finally stepped forward and lowered his voice, "Ethan, son, you did this—far too quickly."

"You don't yet have a truly reliable base or a stable workforce. If you continue to expand your territory now—you need to understand, if you're too ambitious, it will attract vultures."

Faced with this life experience that clearly echoed the wisdom found in certain slang from ancient Eastern countries, and especially seeing the old black man's worried eyes, Ethan fell silent for a moment.

"I know, old Panko. But we can't afford to slow down."

His voice also lowered, no longer the pretentious tone he had when facing his "subordinates," "If we stop now, we'll be devoured by others, like a bullfighter in red trousers riding a mad bull. We can only hold on tight; we absolutely cannot let go."

1

This guy, who wandered around in a jeep as a child and later received some education, especially after years of hardship and struggle, is not unaware of his situation. He just happened to have one or two special "bargains," but these bargains cannot directly change the holder's lowly status. They only give him a little more qualification to climb to the top of the food chain more quickly in the quagmire of the bottom.

This very fact will inevitably push this newly arrived "hunter" into the eye of the storm.

It's unavoidable.

The two stared at each other, speechless for a long time.

Until someone took action and knocked on a small door on the side of the abandoned warehouse.

"Mr. Ethan Flores?" The voice outside the door was calm, devoid of much emotion, as if simply stating a fact.

This was clearly not one of the "guests" scheduled for the event.

The door, which was originally reserved for Old Panco's discreet access, was pushed open, and a white man in a dark suit, with a lean build and sunglasses on his nose, appeared silently at the doorway and made a friendly appearance.

But they didn't rush in.

Old Panco, with his keen senses, had already quietly retreated to the side, using the tall old shelving as cover, leaving the figure still sitting on the sofa to face this uninvited guest.

Ethan's body was already tense. He turned his head to the side, and all the muscles in his body were in a subtle "ready" state, like an arrow nocked on a bowstring.

"I don't think I know you, stranger."

The voice echoed faintly in the warehouse, carrying a deliberate hoarseness and hostility.

"You can call me Mr. Smith." The man didn't approach, but slowly put his hand in his pocket, took out a black ID holder from his inner pocket, carefully flashed it under the light, letting the Federal Bureau of Investigation badge flash by.

"I came here specifically because there's something I'd like to discuss with you."

Really.

Old Panko's worries were not unfounded; the vultures indeed came smelling the scent.

His gaze swept past the figure at the doorway and confirmed that there didn't seem to be a large number of people behind him as he had expected; instead, there was only a lone figure standing there.

"Then—please take a seat."

"Thanks."

He walked in without any ceremony or warning, and naturally sat down in the guest seat opposite Ethan. He didn't even care about the springs sticking out from the tattered leather of the sofa under his buttocks. This strange man, who looked like he had stepped out of a classic movie, just looked at Ethan with a leisurely air.

"Mr. Flores, your behavior patterns between Seventh and Eighth Avenues have changed significantly over the past ten days or so."

The guest cut to the chase, speaking in a flat tone as if reading an outdated financial report, "You have successfully integrated the homeless population in this area, re-established a simple set of resource allocation rules, and temporarily reduced related types of conflict incidents by at least 20-30 percent."

"During this process, you demonstrated some—unusual abilities—which caught our attention."

Ethan remained silent.

Smith, however, didn't seem to expect an answer. He simply lowered his voice even further, "We're very interested in you as a person, and in how you acquired this special talent. But frankly, that's not the main reason I've come to see you today."

He took out a tablet, unlocked it, swiped his fingers a few times randomly, and then turned the screen towards the host's house across the street.

On the screen is a clear photograph.

A little Black girl, who looked about seven or eight years old, with many small braids in her hair, was lying on a hospital bed. Her face was pale, and she had more than one thin, transparent tube inserted into her nose. She was giving the camera a difficult smile.

Especially her eyes—upon closer inspection, they were almost identical to those of Mr. Ethan in front of her!

At that moment, even old Panco, hiding behind the shelves, heard that abruptly stopped "breathing sound."

"Sarah Flores, seven years old, is currently receiving treatment at the Illumination Society Hospital Children's Oncology Center in New York. Isn't she a lovely little girl?"

"Since you separated from your ex-wife, you've been wandering, struggling, and risking everything, putting every penny you can get into envelopes at a fixed address just to pay for this child's medical treatment."

"I have to say, fatherly love is truly a great thing, isn't it?"

"But objectively speaking, her current condition is not very optimistic, and the cost of the First Tier of targeted therapy—"

Smith's voice remained steady, but every word he uttered struck Ethan's heart like a sledgehammer.

"Based on the hospital's estimates, it's roughly equivalent to the kind of neighborhood business protection tax you're collecting."

"It should be enough to receive it ninety years from now."

"Calm down, Mr. Flores."

Seeing the caged beast-like look in the other man's eyes, Smith raised his hand and made a downward gesture, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses. "We're not a gang. Quite the opposite, we can provide some help you desperately need."

He retrieved the tablet and quickly switched the image on the screen. It appeared to be an official document, with the top line titled "Special Talent Cooperation and Research Agreement"—"Work for us, undergo some basically harmless testing and questioning, to help us understand special individuals like you."

Smith said slowly.

In return, all of Sarah's medical and educational expenses will be fully covered by a special "charitable fund," and she will receive the best medical resources.

"At the same time, you will also gain a legitimate legal status and a stable income, and you will no longer have to sleep in open-air cardboard boxes or abandoned warehouses."

He paused, looking at Ethan's already gloomy face.

"Of course, you can continue your current street activities," and then wait to be taken to jail for charges such as unlawful assembly, threats of violence, extortion, etc., and receive a new jail number."

"Believe me, nobody really cares about these little things."

"But what will happen to this poor child, and her already exhausted mother, then?"

A question that made no attempt to conceal the underlying meaning, a question that could be described as "shrimp and pork heart".

Only the poor "master" of this place sat there, clenching his fists, motionless.

Looking at the screen that kept switching between his beloved little angel's weak smile and that damned document, and then at Smith's face that seemed to have everything under control, making him want to punch him to pieces.

The black man's chest heaved violently, and he even pressed his hand hard against his heart.

As if it had started at some point, a vague, agonizing pain began to emanate from beneath his ribs.

In the end, all the anger, struggle, and humiliation turned into a barely audible gasp, impossible to escape.

The old man's already dark face had darkened even further, making one wonder if even the blood beneath his skin had congealed into lead.

He managed to squeeze out a single word through gritted teeth.

"----Continue."