Knock, knock, knock!
A knock sounded, and the Secret Service director entered with an update on Reynolds.
"Mr. President, we still haven't found Reynolds."
"Robert Reynolds." Kingpin repeated the name under his breath, his voice deep and heavy.
"New York is a big city, but a homeless man can't just vanish into thin air."
The Secret Service director stood straight across from him, his face tense as he offered an earnest explanation:
"We used every channel available. We checked police records of homeless people taken into custody, admissions at rehabilitation centers, and registration files from every major shelter. No one matched his description.
After the plasma prism towers were deployed, the homeless people who used to wander the streets either found permanent housing or went to the Mutant registration stations Krakoa set up. We verified the identities of everyone else, one by one. None of them was Robert Reynolds."
Kingpin tapped the armrest twice, slowly and evenly, like a low-frequency piston at work.
He ran through the possibilities. The man might have left New York after the Battle of New York. A fight on that scale could have driven any ordinary person to flee.
Or perhaps he was alive but had changed his identity and appearance, hiding even deeper.
The third possibility troubled Kingpin most: Robert Reynolds might already be dead.
Dead in some forgotten corner, his body disposed of without even a fingerprint record left behind.
"Expand the search," Kingpin said, his voice steady.
"Screen every city in the states surrounding New York. Shelter records, hospital files, funeral home records—all of it.
And send a request for assistance to police departments in every state. Don't offer a public reward. Mark it 'required for a federal security background check' to avoid unnecessary attention."
The director nodded and was about to