A surprise

The last light of sunset gilded New York's concrete jungle.

Lynn sat on the office sofa, closed the last schedule for Pioneer Camp's training next week, and stretched at length.

After several days of nonstop work, even his head felt a little heavy.

Just as he was about to get up and pour himself some water, the lounge door opened silently.

John stepped out in an ordinary black hoodie, his hands behind his back and his footsteps light.

A barely perceptible trace of excitement flickered in his blue eyes.

"Finished with work, Lynn?"

John walked up to the sofa, a hint of anticipation in his voice.

"For now. The rest of the headaches can wait until next Monday."

Lynn leaned back against the sofa and smiled at the blond boy before him. "What is it? Did Annie and Tommy and the others cause trouble downstairs again?"

"No, they've been behaving."

John brought his hands out from behind his back, holding a black blindfold. "I want to take you somewhere today. A surprise."

Lynn paused.

In a place as fraught with danger as Vought International, the word "surprise" often meant a nasty shock.

But looking at John's delicate face, so full of anticipation, he naturally let his guard down.

He cooperatively stayed where he was and tipped his chin up slightly. "Need me to put that on?"

John nodded, stepped forward, and gently placed the blindfold over Lynn's eyes, tying it behind his head.

"You have to promise not to peek, Lynn." The boy's voice sounded beside his ear.

"I promise." Darkness filled Lynn's vision.

The next second, he felt a pair of small but extraordinarily powerful arms wrap around his waist.

Then came a sudden rush of wind past his ears.

The weightless sensation lasted only a brief instant before the hum of Vought Tower's central air conditioning and the muffled feel of its thick carpets vanished completely.

The air temperature changed. The wind carried exhaust fumes, a clamor of voices, and a rich smell of scallion oil and spices he had not smelled in a long time.

"We're here."

John let go and untied the blindfold behind Lynn's head.

Lynn opened his eyes, taking a moment to adjust to the colorful lights around him.

They were standing at the corner of a somewhat crowded street.

Stepping out of the shadows, he saw flashing neon signs all along the street, bright red lanterns hanging from lampposts, and shop signs on both sides covered in the square characters of Chinese writing.

This was New York's Chinatown.

"What made you think of bringing me here?" Lynn looked at the boy beside him in some surprise.

John tucked his hands into his hoodie pockets. Looking at the black-haired, yellow-skinned pedestrians on the street, he explained earnestly:

"I often hear you saying things I don't understand in your sleep at night. I memorized the sounds with my super hearing and checked them against the company's language database. It was Chinese. I know you've stayed with me in that cold place all this time. I thought you must miss the taste of home."

Lynn's heart abruptly softened.

Looking at John, he suddenly felt that all those years of treading on thin ice at Vought International, and all the exhaustion, had been worth it.

This monster, once raised as a killing weapon in a sterile room, now actually understood his homesickness and had acted on it.

"Thank you, John. This really is a wonderful surprise."

Lynn reached out and gave the boy's blond hair a firm ruffle.

"There's a shop up ahead selling pan-fried buns and roast duck. I checked the smell beforehand. It smells the most authentic."

John lifted his chin and took the initiative to tug Lynn forward by his sleeve.

They crossed the bustling street and arrived outside an old Chinese restaurant that looked as though it had been there for years.

The restaurant was small, with a few simple folding tables set beside the road outside.

An elderly Chinese man with graying hair stood working at a huge flat pan, white steam carrying the enticing aroma of meat into the evening breeze.

Lynn had just found a clean, empty table and sat down, and John was about to fetch the freshly cooked pan-fried buns, when three sleazy-looking young white men suddenly staggered over from across the street.

They wore ripped jeans, their arms covered in tattoos, and reeked of alcohol-clearly low-level gang members who loafed around the nearby blocks.

"Old man, time to pay this month's protection money."

Their leader, a young man with a mohawk, stepped forward and slammed his palm onto the chopping board, making the nearby seasoning jars clatter.

The old man jumped and gave an apologetic smile, speaking in somewhat halting English. "Guys, you already collected it once this week. This is just a small business. I really don't have any money to spare today."

"Enough bullshit! If I say you haven't paid, you haven't paid!"

The mohawked man cursed impatiently and reached out to shove the old man.

Caught off balance, the old man stumbled and fell, his elbow accidentally knocking over the tray of pan-fried buns beside him.

A dozen or so steaming buns, their bottoms fried golden brown, rolled onto the greasy asphalt and became covered in dust.

Lynn's gaze instantly turned cold.

But before he could stand up, John's expression had already darkened completely where he stood in front of the stall.

John looked at the dirtied buns on the ground. This was the dinner from home he had spent so long searching for specifically so Lynn could taste it.

At that moment, the boy's savage instincts nearly burst free. He wanted to slice these three pieces of trash in half with his heat vision.

But he remembered Lynn's teachings.

Lynn had said that the truly strong did not need slaughter to inspire fear, and making a bloody mess in the street would completely ruin their appetite for dinner.

John took a deep breath, suppressed the red glow in his eyes, and silently stepped in front of the elderly Chinese man, who had just climbed to his feet.

"Where'd you come from, brat? Get lost!"

The mohawked man sneered at the blond boy, who did not even reach his chest, and reached for John's collar.

John did not dodge. He merely raised his head slightly, met the man's gaze, and gave him a bright, sunny smile.

He raised his right hand and caught the man's outstretched wrist with precision, moving in a way that looked casual but was actually too fast for an ordinary person to react.

The faint crack of bone was barely audible on the noisy street, but the mohawked man's face instantly went deathly pale.

His wrist felt as though it had been clamped in a heavy industrial vise. Immense force traveled up his bones, and the searing pain instantly buckled his knees, sending him crashing down onto the grease-covered ground.

"Aah-let go! Let go!" The mohawked man screamed like a pig being slaughtered.

The other two gang members froze. Having no idea what had happened, they instinctively pulled switchblades from their pockets and pointed them at John.

There was no trace of emotion in John's blue eyes. He did not even glance at the two pieces of scrap metal.

With his free left hand, he casually picked up a pair of cast-iron coal tongs from the chopping board.

Under the two gang members' terrified gazes, John kneaded the hard cast-iron tongs into a twisted iron ball with one hand as though they were modeling clay, then tossed it at their feet with a clang.

"You ruined Lynn's dinner."

John's voice was clear and calm, yet carried a pressure that chilled them to the marrow. "Pick up everything on the ground, then apologize to this old gentleman. Or I'll make your hands look like that iron ball on the ground."

The two knife-wielding gang members looked at the deformed iron ball, then at their leader, kneeling on the ground with his eyes rolling back in pain. Their hands shook, and their switchblades fell straight to the ground.

They dropped to their knees with a thud and frantically began picking up the filthy buns, repeating their apologies over and over, not daring to spare the blond boy another glance.

The old man stood rooted to the spot, somewhat at a loss as he watched the scene.

Lynn came over then and gently patted John's shoulder, signaling that he could let go.

John obediently released his grip, letting the mohawked man clutch his broken wrist and scramble into an alley with his two companions.

Lynn took a few bills from his wallet and placed them on the chopping board, giving the old man a gentle smile.

"Could we trouble you for a fresh serving of pan-fried buns and half a roast duck?"

Lynn pulled out a folding chair and sat down, speaking in fluent Chinese. "We'll eat right here."