Stryker

Brooklyn.

Brad had been kicked out of a restaurant kitchen for the fourth time.

With little education, he could only scrape by on odd jobs. But he was far too weak, and whenever an owner could hire someone stronger, he was always the first to be fired.

That evening, Brad was shoved into a corner and thrown out along with his battered reddish-brown backpack.

"Get lost, kid. You work too damn slowly. That new guy, John, can do the work of three of you."

The burly head chef wore a greasy chef's hat. With his thick, hairy arms, he hurled two pieces of black bread into Brad's chest as though throwing a football.

Brad pressed his lips together, his deathly pale face shrouded in darkness. He bent down to check his backpack.

The two fragile light bulbs had smashed against each other under the chef's monstrous strength. All he had to show for two days of work were the two rough, rock-hard pieces of black bread in his arms.

"Wait. You broke my light bulbs. You have to pay for them."

The boy's words stopped the chef in his tracks.

"Who carries light bulbs around?"

"Freak."

Perhaps worried that if he kept venting his anger through violence, the frail little brat might die in the alley, the chef finally tossed out a casual insult and ignored Brad, who sat slumped on the ground.

Brad could only watch as the kitchen's iron door closed. It had taken all his courage to say those words. He certainly did not dare chase after the chef and demand compensation for the bulbs.

"You'll regret this."

"You'll definitely regret this, you brute."

Brad vented with a couple of curses and tried to get up and leave, but the pain in his ribs kept him where he was.

He gulped down air. In his fragmented dreams, he had suffered injuries dozens of times worse than this.

This is nothing, of course!

Brad comforted himself.

But moving really did hurt, so he could only sit in the filthy, garbage-strewn alley and laboriously pull out the black bread.

Brad was starving.

As he struggled to tear into the bread, which was as rough and hard as the chef who had just bullied him, a tall figure appeared at the mouth of the alley.

It was a brawny young man with blond hair and blue eyes, his face full of heroic vigor and his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket. Even the dim streetlights could not seem to hide the faint aura of confidence about him.

"I thought I was the only one who got dragged into this alley and beaten up."

The young man seemed to have excellent eyesight. Even in such poor light, he spotted Brad slumped at the far end of the alley at a glance.

Brad lifted his eyelids. His own eyesight was nowhere near good enough to make out the newcomer's face in the dim light.

But he could at least see how tall and powerfully built the man was.

God, is he seven feet tall?

Brad had never seen anyone so tall. Even those arrogant military officers could not compare.

This tall fellow was like the dependable soldiers in his dreams who had sacrificed themselves to cover his retreat. The same unyielding resolve shone in their eyes.

Brad struggled to swallow a mouthful of bread and warily watched the man approach.

The young man walked over, bent down to help him up, and even picked up Brad's battered cloth bag.

"Sir, I really don't think anyone could pin you down in an alley and beat you up."

Brad narrowed his eyes, savoring that rare sense of security.

The newcomer lifted him up like a little chick. Brad yearned desperately for strength like his.

The young man smiled casually. "It happened all the time back in the day. I got beaten up more than twenty times in this alley alone."

"You must be joking, sir."

Brad grew much bolder. Normally a boy of few words, he became more talkative.

"I'm not joking. Of course, I went back and beat them up afterward. And it certainly wasn't some kind of opportunistic revenge. After all, I never said I was done fighting them. They were the ones who walked away back then."

The young man's large hand closed around Brad's shoulder, and the bony feel of it made him raise his eyebrows.

"Hell, you're even scrawnier than I used to be. How long has it been since you had a proper meal?"

Brad was just about to answer when the young man suddenly lifted a pocket watch and checked the time.

"Sorry, my free time ended two minutes ago... Here, let me buy you a meal, my fellow alleyway sufferer."

The young man pulled a leather wallet from inside his jacket and pressed it into Brad's arms without taking no for an answer, then turned and ran out of the alley.

"No..." Brad weakly opened his mouth, only to lapse into a fit of heavy panting. He could only brace himself against the wall and slowly shuffle out. When he looked up, the young man had already become a tiny speck in the night.

He runs so fast!

With that thought, Brad took out the wallet again.

A photograph slipped out. Brad bent down with difficulty to pick it up. It showed a woman with strong brows and bright eyes, both strikingly spirited and breathtakingly beautiful.

"Oh! His girlfriend is really pretty."

Brad tucked the photograph back into the wallet, thinking that he would be sure to return it the next time he saw this kindhearted man.

Then hatred flared in Brad's eyes, and he turned to look at the restaurant beside him, the one that had just thrown him out.

"I swear I'll make you pay!"

Brad pressed his hand against the restaurant's outer wall, closed his eyes, and stood there for a while.

"Damn it! Why did the power suddenly go out? What the hell is the government doing? I paid them so much money!"

Curses and furious shouts drifted faintly from the restaurant kitchen, but Brad had already limped off the street.

The young man's words had given Brad quite an "inspiration."

If what he said was true, if even that kindhearted man had gone back to settle scores with those thugs after growing strong, then Brad really ought to make good use of his own innate talent.

Survival came first. Looking at everything now, all the moral considerations that had troubled him before were complete fucking bullshit.

The next day, most of Brooklyn's restaurants mysteriously lost power, and the municipal workers could not fix the problem no matter what they tried.

The bizarre wave of power outages left many restaurant owners in misery.

A month later, a young man carrying a battered cloth bag appeared on the streets of Brooklyn, claiming to be a top graduate of New York Harbor University, skilled at repairing any faulty small device or electrical circuit.

No one had heard of the university he named, and at first, no one took him seriously.

That changed when he helped Grace's family get their damned light bulb working again. That family of cheapskates had refused to replace it, even though it had been broken for ages.

The first restaurant owner who sought the young man's help did so on the off chance that it might work.

Then he was back in business.

Brad was immediately surrounded by a crowd, but he told everyone that he only took one job a day.

If they paid a booking fee, however, he could consider coming sooner.

Those roughnecks cursed the young man bitterly, but for the moment, no one else seemed capable of solving their problem.

In the end, they had no choice but to obediently pay him.

The fellow was also extraordinarily cautious. His skills in evading pursuit and setting traps, learned who knew where, made countless people with bad intentions suffer.

And Brad never let anyone watch him work.

All anyone knew was that Brad spent a little while near the circuit breaker, and the problem was solved.

As a result, countless people called him a freak, too.

But Brad clearly did not care.

Certain unusual memories had given him a high tolerance for insults.

As long as he could live better, he could accept not just something as harmless as being cursed at, but even ceasing to be human.

Come to think of it, in the story from his dreams, he really did seem to have stopped being human in the end.

But he could no longer remember the details.

A month later, all of Brooklyn's businesses were operating normally again.

And Brad's complexion was much rosier than before.

Some farsighted restaurant owners gave Brad generous discounts.

After all, no one could predict whether another power outage might happen.

Brad also rented a decent room, finally establishing a firm foothold in Brooklyn.

Every day, after eating and drinking his fill, he wandered the streets, but he never saw his tall, imposing young benefactor again.

There are only so many restaurants in Brooklyn. From what he said, he's a local. Does he never eat out with his girlfriend?

Brad found it rather puzzling.

Ordinary young couples go out on a date at least once a week, don't they?

Do they never go on dates?

Once again, Brad was wandering the streets after dinner when he stopped in his tracks.

A strangely dressed man blocked his path, two long blades strapped to his back.

Brad went pale and turned to head back, only to see an Asian man in black combat gear standing a short distance behind him, a gun tucked at his waist.

Damn it! Why have such strange people set their sights on me?

"Hello, Mr. Brad."

A pale-faced, clean-shaven man in military uniform stepped out of the shadows.

Brad eyed the newcomer warily, his expression turning strained.

"There's no need to worry so much. As long as you cooperate, you won't suffer the slightest harm."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Stryker."

"You seem to have a rather unusual talent. How about joining my squad and working for me for a while?"

After that night, Brad was no longer seen in Brooklyn.

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