Hunter of Marvel - Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Love Letter

The quiet of the empty apartment was a welcome relief.

Veer unlocked the front door, pushed it open, and stepped inside, letting the heavy deadbolt click shut behind him. He dropped his canvas backpack by the small entryway table, rolling his shoulders to ease the phantom stiffness. His physical body wasn’t tired—his Vitality stat ensured he felt practically indestructible after a normal day—but his mind was buzzing with the sheer, exhausting weight of the information he had processed over the last few hours.

He walked into the kitchen, intending to grab a bottle of water, when his phone vibrated sharply in his pocket.

He pulled it out, glancing at the cracked screen. The caller ID displayed a name that made his brow furrow slightly: ‘Felicia Hardy’.

Veer stared at the glowing screen for a moment, weighing his options.

First of all, he have not saved her mobile number. So how did it appeared on his phone.

Second, Ignoring it might provoke her, which was the opposite of what he wanted. He slid his thumb across the glass, accepting the call, and brought the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” he answered, his voice flat and perfectly neutral.

“Hey,” Felicia’s voice drifted through the speaker. She sounded entirely relaxed, lounging wherever she was, completely unaffected by the cafeteria drama. “Listen, about what happened at lunch today.”

“You mean your boyfriend threatening to have his police captain father lock me up?” Veer asked smoothly. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Philip has a temper,” Felicia said, a hint of patronizing apology in her tone. “He’s fiercely territorial. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t actually freaking out. He’s all bark, mostly. Just stay out of his way and he’ll forget you exist by tomorrow.”

“It’s fine, Felicia,” Veer replied, leaning against the kitchen counter. The thirty-six-year-old former police officer found the entire situation utterly trivial. He had dealt with actual, hardened criminals holding loaded weapons; a rich high school kid throwing a tantrum over his girlfriend was laughable. “Teenage kids always fight over their girlfriends. It’s just hormones and ego. It’s completely normal.”

A long, heavy pause stretched across the line.

“Wow,” Felicia finally said, her voice laced with genuine bewilderment. “That was… weird.”

“What was?”

“The way you just said that,” she replied, a suspicious edge creeping into her tone. “You’re a teenager too, Veer. We’re in the same grade. Why are you suddenly talking like you’re an old man dispensing life advice? You sound like my uncle.”

Veer mentally cursed his own slip of the tongue. The seamless blending of his two sets of memories sometimes blurred the lines of his outward persona. He needed to maintain the facade of the eighteen-year-old kid she thought she knew, not the seasoned, weary adult he actually was inside.

“I just read a lot of psychology articles,” Veer deflected smoothly, shifting his tone to sound slightly more defensive and youthful. “Anyway, I have a massive pile of AP Physics homework to get through. Was there anything else?”

The sudden shift in topic worked perfectly. Felicia’s fleeting curiosity was easily extinguished by the mention of schoolwork.

“No, that’s it,” she said, her tone cooling significantly, reverting to her usual dismissive arrogance. “Just don’t do anything stupid. See you around, Singh.”

The line went dead.

Veer lowered the phone, shaking his head slowly as he tossed it onto the counter. Dealing with her was a minefield he simply didn’t have the time or energy to navigate. He had far more pressing issues to worry about than high school politics and secret cat burglars.

He walked into the small living room and sank onto the worn fabric of the couch, staring blankly at the blank television screen.

His mind immediately snapped back to the Quest hovering in his active system logs.

‘Rescue or ensure the survival of Anthony Edward Stark. Time Limit: 60 Days.’

Veer laced his fingers together, resting his chin on his hands. Part of him—the cynical, practical part—argued that Tony Stark’s fate was absolutely none of his business. Stark was a billionaire weapons manufacturer, a man who had built an empire by selling instruments of death to the highest bidder. If he died in a cave in Afghanistan, it was a brutal, poetic justice. Why should Veer risk his own newly acquired life, sneaking into a heavily fortified terrorist camp in a foreign desert, just to save a billionaire?

But the other part of him, the part that possessed the terrifying foreknowledge of this universe’s future, knew the grim reality.

If Tony Stark walked out of that cave, he wouldn’t be the same man. He would shut down his weapons division. He would build the Iron Man suit. He would become a flawed but desperate protector of the world.

More importantly, Iron Man was the linchpin of the Avengers. Without Stark’s funding, technology, and absolute refusal to lose, the team wouldn’t form. And if the Avengers didn’t exist to protect the world, a single teenager swinging around Queens in red and blue spandex wasn’t going to be enough to stop what was coming.

Veer’s thoughts drifted to the Chitauri invasion—the Battle of New York.

He ran a cold, tactical analysis of the event. In the movies, it was a spectacular team effort, but structurally, Tony Stark was the absolute MVP. Stark had maintained air superiority. He had killed more alien soldiers than anyone else on the field, including a literal Norse God and a rage-fueled gamma monster.

And at the climax of the battle, when the World Security Council panicked and fired a nuclear missile at Manhattan, it was Tony Stark who intercepted it. It was Stark who carried the nuke through the portal, destroying the alien mothership and saving millions of lives.

Veer lived in New York.

If Tony Stark died in Afghanistan, there would be no Iron Man. If there was no Iron Man, the nuclear missile would hit its target.

Veer imagined the fallout. Thor would survive the blast; he was a god, built of denser, magical material. Loki would survive, protected by his Alien physiology and the Mind Stone. The Hulk would probably just absorb the gamma radiation and get angrier.

But Captain America? Black Widow? Hawkeye? They would be instantly vaporized.

And Veer Pratap Singh, sitting in a apartment in Queens, would be wiped off the face of the earth in a blinding flash of atomic fire.

“I don’t plan to die,” Veer whispered to the empty room, his eyes hardening with absolute resolve.

Saving Tony Stark wasn’t an act of altruism. It was an act of pure, calculated self-preservation.

However, wanting to save Tony and actually possessing the capability to do so were two entirely different things. He was currently Level 4. He was physically fit, stronger than an average human, and possessed exceptional stamina. But he wasn’t bulletproof. If he walked into a Ten Rings encampment right now, a single stray bullet from an AK-47 would end his second chance at life before it even began.

Before he even thought about buying a plane ticket to the Middle East, he needed to drastically increase his level, and he needed skills that would allow him to survive a warzone.

Veer stood up, pacing the length of the small living room. The System had explicitly stated that he could learn any skill present in its database simply by asking for it. Since his foundation was based on the ‘Hunter x Hunter’ power system, he knew exactly what he needed to survive.

He stopped pacing, closing his eyes and focusing his intent on the interface.

“System,” Veer commanded clearly, his voice steady. “I want to learn ‘Ten’, ‘Zetsu’, ‘Ren’, ‘Gyo’, and ‘Silent Gait’.”

The response was instantaneous.

A sharp, ringing chime echoed in his skull, followed by a massive, sudden influx of data. It felt as though a frozen block of ice had been dropped directly into the center of his brain, slowly melting and dispersing complex, intricate knowledge into his neural pathways.

He gasped, dropping to one knee as he processed the sheer volume of information. He didn’t just understand the definition of the skills; he possessed the fundamental, theoretical blueprint of how to execute them.

The blue holographic panel flared into existence, displaying the newly acquired abilities.

—

[Skill Acquired: Ten (Level 0)]
‘Description:’ The ability to prevent aura from leaking away from the body once the aura nodules are opened, containing it in a shroud around the user. Maintains youthful vigor, slows aging, and provides a baseline defense against physical attacks and malicious emotional Nen.

[Skill Acquired: Zetsu (Level 0)]
‘Description:’ Stops the flow of aura entirely, closing all aura nodules. Renders the user incredibly difficult to perceive or track. Removes all Nen-based defense, making the user highly vulnerable. Can relieve physical fatigue by interrupting aura usage.

[Skill Acquired: Ren (Level 0)]
‘Description:’ Focuses on producing a massive, explosive amount of aura, projecting it outward violently. Drastically enhances all physical abilities, stamina, and durability for a short duration.

[Skill Acquired: Gyo (Level 0)]
‘Description:’ An advanced application of Ren. Concentrates a large portion of aura into a specific body part. Massively increases strength in that area at the cost of leaving the rest of the body vulnerable. Frequently used in the eyes to see hidden Nen structures.

[Skill Acquired: Silent Gait (Level 0)]
‘Description:’ A physical technique allowing the user to move at high speeds without generating any audible noise, utilizing specific foot placement and weight distribution.

—

Veer slowly stood up, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple. The skills were all listed firmly at Level 0. Having the theoretical knowledge was like owning the manual to a complex machine; it didn’t mean he knew how to drive it yet.

He needed to practice.

Given his immediate need—sneaking around a terrorist camp or moving unnoticed through a hostile city—’Zetsu’ was the most critical skill on the board. He needed to learn how to erase his presence entirely.

Veer walked into his bedroom, closed the door, and sat cross-legged in the center of his mattress. He took a deep breath, letting the chaotic thoughts of high school, nuclear bombs, and billionaires fade into the background.

He closed his eyes and tried to feel his aura nodes.

According to the knowledge the System had implanted, every living being had nodes—tiny pores in the spiritual body through which life energy naturally leaked. Zetsu required the user to consciously sense these nodes and forcefully slam them shut, completely suppressing their life force.

In his past life, he had watched the anime. He remembered the protagonist, Gon Freecss, a prodigious natural talent, grasping the concept of Zetsu and executing it perfectly in a matter of seconds, relying purely on instinct.

Veer, however, was not an anime protagonist. He was a realistic human being attempting to manipulate a metaphysical energy field he had never truly felt before.

He sat in absolute silence, focusing entirely on his own body. He tried to visualize the pores closing. He tried to imagine his body as a sealed vault. He actively tried to remove all intent, all emotion, and all presence from his mind, aiming to mimic the cold, unfeeling state of an inanimate object.

Ten minutes passed. Nothing happened. He just felt like a guy sitting on a bed in the dark.

Twenty minutes. His legs began to cramp slightly, but he ignored the discomfort, pulling on the discipline of his past life’s police training. He had sat in cramped, freezing unmarked cars for twelve hours at a time during stakeouts. He could handle sitting still.

Thirty minutes. Forty minutes.

It was incredibly frustrating. He could feel the latent energy thrumming deep within his chest—but he couldn’t figure out how to cap the invisible leaks. It was like trying to flex a muscle he didn’t know existed.

An hour passed. Then an hour and a half.

Most teenagers would have given up out of sheer boredom, assuming the system was broken or the skill was too advanced. But Veer possessed the stubborn, unyielding patience of a grown man who understood the stakes. He didn’t move. He didn’t open his eyes. He just kept probing, kept visualizing, kept pushing against the invisible barrier in his mind.

Finally, as the clock on his nightstand ticked exactly past the one-hundred-minute mark, something clicked.

It wasn’t a loud, dramatic realization. It was a subtle, incredibly delicate shift in his internal pressure. He felt a microscopic ‘snap’ deep within his core, like a valve sealing tightly shut. Then another. And another.

A cascading chain reaction rippled across his body.

‘[Skill Level Up: Zetsu has reached Level 1!]’

Veer’s eyes snapped open.

The physical sensation was profoundly unsettling. The latent, humming energy that he had grown accustomed to feeling around his body was suddenly cut off, locked away behind an impenetrable wall. He felt incredibly light, almost hollow, as if a layer of his very existence had been shaved off.

He slowly stood up and walked over to the cheap, full-length mirror attached to his closet door.

He stared at his reflection, a cold chill running down his spine.

Physically, he looked exactly the same. But the ‘feeling’ he gave off was entirely different. His dark eyes, usually sharp and observant, looked completely lifeless, devoid of any spark or intent. His breathing was so shallow his chest barely moved. If someone were to glance into the room, their eyes would naturally slide right past him, registering his form with the same level of interest they would give to a coat rack or a shadow in the corner.

He was essentially mimicking a corpse. He was still visible, but the primal, instinctual radar that humans used to detect the presence of another living being would completely fail to register him.

“Perfect,” Veer murmured, his voice sounding flat and dead in the quiet room.

He kept the skill active, pulling up his system interface to monitor his stats. He watched his AP and Fatigue meters carefully.

To his immense satisfaction, Zetsu consumed absolutely zero aura or stamina. Because it was the act of ‘suppressing’ energy rather than expending it, it was entirely free to maintain. As long as he could keep his mental concentration locked on the sealed nodes, he could theoretically keep Zetsu active forever.

He also noticed a new metric hovering beneath the skill description.

‘Proficiency: 1%’

He waited, keeping his mind perfectly still. Exactly five minutes later, the number ticked up to 2%.

Veer smiled, the expression looking terrifyingly out of place on his lifeless face. It was a passive grind. Every five minutes he maintained Zetsu, he earned one percent proficiency. That meant to reach Level 2, he simply needed to keep the skill active for five hundred minutes. Eight hours and twenty minutes. He could literally level up the skill while he slept, provided he trained his subconscious to hold the nodes shut.

Suddenly, the heavy sound of the front door unlocking and swinging open broke his concentration.

Veer’s aura nodes instantly flared open, his presence rushing back into the room like water bursting from a dam. He let out a sharp breath, the sudden return of his life force leaving him slightly dizzy.

He walked out of the bedroom.

Mark had just entered the apartment. He looked absolutely destroyed. His shoulders were slumped forward, his messenger bag hung limply from his hand, and he moved with the slow, dragging shuffle of a man walking to his own execution.

He didn’t even look at Veer. He just dropped his bag on the floor, walked over to the couch, and collapsed face-first onto the cushions, letting out a muffled, agonizing groan of pure despair.

Veer leaned against the hallway frame, watching his roommate. The situation with Mary Jane Watson and Flash Thompson had thoroughly shattered whatever fragile, romantic hope Mark had been clinging to. His heart wasn’t just broken; it had been publicly, humiliatingly pre-empted before he even had a chance to try.

Veer let out a quiet sigh. He walked past the living room and into the kitchen.

He opened the refrigerator, reaching all the way to the back, behind the rotting vegetables and the questionable mayonnaise. He pulled out a brown paper bag containing three cold bottles of beer. He had swiped them from the back storeroom of the convenience store during his shift two nights ago.

Veer knew perfectly well that it was highly illegal to consume alcohol in New York City if you were under twenty-one. But as a former cop, he also knew that occasionally, the strict letter of the law had to take a backseat to the immediate emotional triage of a broken heart.

He walked back into the living room, popped the caps off two bottles using the edge of the coffee table, and pressed the cold, sweating glass of one bottle directly against the back of Mark’s neck.

Mark yelped, rolling over quickly. He looked up, his eyes red and rimmed with unshed tears, and saw the beer.

He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t make a sarcastic comment. He simply reached out, took the bottle, and took a long, desperate pull.

Mark had absolutely zero tolerance for alcohol. His body was fueled entirely by processed sugar and caffeine. The heavy, cheap beer hit his bloodstream like a freight train.

Veer sat in the armchair opposite the couch, sipping his own drink slowly, letting the silence stretch. Mark didn’t want to talk. He just wanted to numb the stinging reality of his high school existence.

Within thirty minutes, Mark was thoroughly, undeniably drunk. He had finished his first bottle, claimed the third one, and was currently staring blankly at the ceiling, occasionally muttering incoherent sentences about the unfairness of the universe and the structural flaws of the high school hierarchy.

Veer finished his beer, feeling only a very mild, pleasant warmth. His Level 4 Vitality metabolized the alcohol far too quickly for him to get truly intoxicated.

He stood up, stretching his arms above his head. He was physically fine, but the mental exhaustion of holding Zetsu for over an hour and a half had finally caught up with him.

“I’m going to bed, Mark,” Veer said, his voice quiet. “Drink some water before you pass out, or you’re going to hate yourself in the morning.”

Mark just grunted, waving a floppy hand in the air.

Veer shook his head, walking back into his bedroom. He stripped down to a t-shirt and sweatpants, collapsed onto his mattress, and closed his eyes.

He didn’t realize he had left his smartphone sitting on the edge of the coffee table in the living room.

Out in the living room, Mark sat up slowly. The room was spinning slightly. The alcohol had stripped away every ounce of his natural shyness, anxiety, and common sense, leaving behind only a raw, burning, entirely misplaced courage.

He needed to tell her. He needed Mary Jane to know that someone out there, someone better than Flash Thompson, had loved her from afar for a decade. He didn’t care about the consequences anymore. He was a romantic martyr.

He leaned forward, his blurry eyes scanning the coffee table. He saw a phone.

Mark grabbed it. His thumb fumbled clumsily across the screen, swiping it open. Because Veer hadn’t set a complex passcode yet, the phone unlocked immediately.

Mark didn’t notice the different wallpaper. He didn’t notice the lack of his gaming apps. His alcohol-soaked brain was on a singular, self-destructive mission.

He opened the messaging app. He tapped the icon to start a new message. He squinted, carefully typing in the phone number from memory—a number he had found in a shared group chat months ago and had practically burned into his retinas, but had never possessed the courage to use.

He selected the contact.

Then, Mark began to type. His thumbs flew across the digital keyboard with the speed of a seasoned gamer, pouring a decade of repressed, overly dramatic, desperately sincere teenage love into a single, massive block of text.

‘I know you’re with Flash. I know I shouldn’t be saying this. But I can’t keep it inside anymore. I’ve watched you for years, MJ. You’re the most incredible, beautiful, vibrant person in this entire school, and you deserve someone who actually sees you, not just a trophy to carry around. I just needed you to know that someone truly cares about you. Always.’

Mark stared at the glowing block of text, a profound, tragic tear rolling down his cheek. It was a masterpiece.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, closed his eyes, and pressed SEND.

The small ‘whoosh’ sound confirmed the delivery.

Mark dropped the phone back onto the coffee table, a massive, liberating weight lifting off his chest. He slumped back into the couch cushions, totally oblivious to the fact that he had just sent a desperate, heartfelt love confession to the most popular girl in school… entirely from Veer Pratap Singh’s phone number.