Respawned in Marvel: The Ultimate Hunter System - Chapter 11

Chapter 11: The True Supervillain of New York

The subway ride back to Queens was an exercise in surrealism. Veer sat on the hard plastic seat of the late-night train, his battered grey hoodie pulled low over his face, a heavy silver briefcase resting between his worn sneakers. Just an hour ago, he had dismantled a martial arts prodigy and won an underground deathmatch, securing enough cash to change his life. Now, he was watching a rat brazenly drag a slice of pizza down the subway aisle, completely ignored by the three other exhausted commuters in the car.

“Ah, the glamorous life of a reigning arena champion,” Veer muttered to himself, his enhanced Perception easily tracking the rat’s determined progress.

He felt good. His body hummed with the terrifying, dense power of his newly acquired Level 23 stats. His Strength sat at a monstrous 34, and his AP pool was deep enough to drown in. But as he walked the final two blocks from the station to his apartment building, the high of the victory began to fade, replaced by the mundane, creeping reality of his civilian life.

He climbed the creaky stairs to his floor, his superhuman hearing picking up a distinct, impatient tapping sound echoing in the narrow hallway before he even reached the landing.

Veer paused on the top step. Standing directly in front of his apartment door, holding a clipboard and looking at a cheap wristwatch, was Mr. Geller, the building’s landlord. Geller was a stout, balding man who constantly smelled of stale cigarette smoke and cheap cologne.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show up,” Geller sneered, tapping his pen against the clipboard as Veer approached. “I was beginning to think you skipped town, kid. I’ve been calling your phone for three days.”

“Mr. Geller, it is 1:00 AM,” Veer pointed out, his voice perfectly calm and devoid of the intimidation a teenager should rightfully feel toward an angry landlord. “Are you moonlighting as a rent-collecting vampire, or do you just lack a fundamental understanding of basic social boundaries?”

Geller’s face flushed an ugly shade of red. “Watch your mouth, you little punk. You’re two months behind on the rent. I don’t care what time it is, and I don’t care about your international student sob story. You owe me two thousand dollars, and if you don’t have it right now, I’m changing the locks while you stand there.”

Veer didn’t flinch. In his previous life in India, a threat of eviction would have sent him into a spiraling panic. But standing there with a briefcase containing twelve thousand dollars in unmarked bills, and possessing enough physical strength to casually throw Geller off the roof with his pinky finger, the threat felt entirely hollow.

“Two thousand,” Veer repeated, feigning a deep, dramatic sigh. He knelt, popped the latches on the silver briefcase, and cracked it open just enough to slide his hand inside. He pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, counted out twenty of them with blinding, Agility-enhanced speed, and stood back up.

He held the cash out. Geller’s eyes widened, completely taken aback by the casual display of high-denomination currency from a kid who usually ate generic baked beans.

Geller snatched the money, aggressively counting it twice just to be sure it wasn’t counterfeit.

“All there,” Veer said smoothly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with a lumpy mattress.”

“Hold on, kid,” Geller said, a nasty, triumphant little smile touching the corners of his mouth as he tucked the cash into his jacket pocket. “This covers your backlog. It clears your debt. But you still gotta be out by Friday.”

Veer stopped, his hand resting on the doorknob. He turned his head slowly. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Geller shrugged, completely devoid of empathy. “The building got bought out by a development firm. They’re doing a full-gut renovation of this floor. Flipping the units to charge triple the rent to hipsters from Brooklyn. I’m legally required to give you a thirty-day notice, which I slipped under your door three and a half weeks ago. Friday is your last day. Have your bags packed, or my guys will throw them in the dumpster.”

Veer stared at the man. His Intelligence stat instantly pulled up the memory of finding a crumpled, legal-looking document on the floor a few weeks ago, which he had promptly ignored in the midst of his trauma and System awakening.

“You are evicting an financially destitute immigrant teenager so you can slap some cheap grey paint on the roach motels and call it ‘luxury housing’?” Veer asked, his tone entirely deadpan. “Geller, the sheer, unadulterated capitalism of that statement brings a tear to my eye. It’s beautiful. Truly, the American Dream is alive and well in Queens.”

“I don’t get paid to care about your feelings, kid. Friday. Be out,” Geller grunted, turning on his heel and marching down the hallway.

Veer unlocked his door, stepped into the depressing, cramped apartment, and tossed the briefcase onto the lumpy sofa.

“Well,” Veer sighed, looking around the dingy walls. “I guess I don’t have to clean the bathroom before I leave.”

—

The next morning, the library at Mid-Town High was relatively quiet. Veer sat in a corner booth, staring at the glowing screen of a bulky desktop computer, mindlessly scrolling through the early-2000s equivalent of Craigslist real estate listings.

“Looking for a one-bedroom apartment,” Veer muttered, resting his chin on his hand. “Must have running water, preferably fewer than ten rats, and a landlord who doesn’t look like a mob extra from The Sopranos.”

“Are you looking to move?”

The voice was hesitant, lacking its usual booming arrogance. Veer didn’t have to look up; his Perception had tracked the heavy, squeaking footsteps of Eugene “Flash” Thompson from the moment the bully entered the library.

Veer slowly turned his chair. Flash was standing a few feet away, looking incredibly uncomfortable. Since the tournament last night, Flash’s entire worldview had been violently restructured. He had watched Veer shatter a man’s leg with a backhand, knock out a kickboxer with a lazy clothesline, and beat the undisputed champion of the underground to a bloody pulp.

Flash was currently experiencing a profound, existential terror that the scrawny kid he had shoved into lockers was actually a covert government assassin or an unhinged mutant.

“Eugene,” Veer smiled, a completely pleasant, terrifyingly friendly smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Did you come to help me study, or are you just here to aggressively apologize for your past transgressions again?”

“I… I saw what you had on the screen,” Flash stammered, rubbing the back of his neck, his eyes darting around to make sure nobody was listening. “My uncle is a real estate broker. He manages a bunch of properties in Brooklyn and Queens. If you’re getting kicked out, I… I could ask him to show you some places. You know. To help out.”

Veer raised an eyebrow. The offer was genuine, born entirely out of a desperate desire to get on Veer’s good side and avoid a retaliatory beating.

“Flash Thompson, serving as my personal real estate concierge,” Veer mused, leaning back in his chair. “I have to admit, character development looks good on you. My landlord essentially told me to take a long walk off a short pier by Friday. If your uncle has anything that doesn’t smell like a crime scene, I’m interested.”

“Yeah. Yeah, absolutely,” Flash nodded quickly, pulling out his smartphone. “I’ll call him right now. I’ve got my car today. I can drive you after school.”

“Perfect. You can be my chauffeur,” Veer said, turning back to the computer screen. “Don’t forget to wear a little hat. It really completes the aesthetic.”

Flash didn’t argue. He just nodded and practically sprinted out of the library.

—

By 4:00 PM, Veer was sitting in the passenger seat of Flash’s ridiculously expensive, overly polished sports car. Flash was gripping the steering wheel like it was a live snake, hyper-aware of the absolute monster sitting next to him.

“My uncle said he has a great place in Astoria,” Flash said nervously, breaking the silence as they navigated the heavy New York traffic. “It’s a big unit. Two bedrooms, a massive hall, big windows. But… it’s kind of pricey, Singh. I mean, I know you won the ten grand last night, but rent in that area is brutal.”

“I have ten thousand dollars, Eugene,” Veer said, waving a dismissive hand. “In my home country, that is generational wealth. I could buy a small village and declare myself a local warlord with that kind of cash. I think I can afford an apartment in Astoria.”

Flash just gave him a look of deep, profound pity, but kept his mouth shut.

They pulled up to a classic, pre-war brick building on a relatively quiet, tree-lined street. It was a massive step up from Veer’s current neighborhood. Flash’s uncle, a slick-looking guy in a sharp suit, met them at the front door and led them up to the third floor.

He unlocked the door to unit 3B and pushed it open.

Veer stepped inside, and his enhanced senses immediately approved. The air didn’t smell like mold. The hardwood floors were actually polished, not peeling. The living room—the “hall”—was massive, bathed in golden afternoon sunlight pouring through three large, arched windows. There was a decent kitchen and two closed doors leading to separate bedrooms.

“This is phenomenal,” Veer admitted, walking to the center of the room. “I could do a lot of pushups in here. How much?”

The uncle cleared his throat, pulling out a folder. “Well, market rate for a two-bedroom in this zip code is about two thousand, eight hundred a month. But since you’re Eugene’s friend, I can knock it down to two-six.”

Veer froze. He slowly turned his head to look at the broker.

“Two thousand, six hundred dollars,” Veer repeated, his voice entirely flat. “A month. You want twenty-six hundred dollars every single month for a box of air with a nice floor?”

“That’s a steal, kid,” the uncle defended, looking slightly offended. “But here’s the thing. I told Eugene on the phone, the owner won’t rent to a high schooler on his own without a guarantor. However, I have another client. She’s been looking at this exact unit for two weeks, but she can’t afford the full rent either. I told her to meet us here today. If you two hit it off, you can sign a joint lease. Split the rent, thirteen hundred each.”

Veer rapidly did the math. Thirteen hundred a month was still a brutal chunk of change, but it was manageable, especially if he occasionally stepped back into the arena.

Before Veer could respond, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway, followed by a sharp, frustrated sigh. The front door swung open fully.

“I swear to God, Steve, if the subway gets delayed one more time this week, I am going to buy a horse and commute down Broadway,” a voice announced, entirely out of breath.

Veer turned around, expecting another stressed-out college student or a tired retail worker.

Instead, he found himself staring at a girl who completely hijacked the oxygen in the room.

She was tall, at least five-foot-nine, possessing the kind of striking, statuesque presence that immediately commanded attention. She had long, fiery auburn hair that fell in messy, beautiful waves over a chic leather jacket, and bright, piercing green eyes that currently looked incredibly annoyed. She looked to be about nineteen or twenty years old, exuding an aura of exhausted glamour.

Flash, standing next to Veer, instantly stopped breathing. His jaw practically unhinged as he stared at the girl, his teenage brain completely short-circuiting.

“Oh. Hi,” the girl said, stopping in the doorway, her green eyes sweeping over Flash, the uncle, and finally landing on Veer. She looked at his oversized grey hoodie and arched an elegant eyebrow. “You must be the potential roommate. I’m Chloe. Chloe Vance.”

“Veer Pratap Singh,” Veer replied smoothly, easily shaking off the initial shock. His massive Intelligence stat prevented his brain from going offline just because a beautiful woman walked into the room. “And this gaping fish next to me is Eugene. You can ignore him; he’s just my chauffeur.”

Chloe let out a sharp, genuine laugh, walking into the apartment and dropping a massive, heavy-looking leather portfolio onto the kitchen counter.

“Nice to meet you, Veer. Sorry I’m late,” she sighed, rubbing her temples. “I just came from my sixth casting call today. The modeling industry in this city is essentially just professional rejection with better lighting.”

“An aspiring model,” Veer nodded, looking at her striking features. “That explains the genetic lottery victory. It also explains why you want an apartment with massive windows. Natural light is everything for the portfolio, right?”

Chloe looked at him, slightly surprised by the astuteness. “Exactly. I’ve been living in a basement in Brooklyn for two years, and I look like a vampire. But I can’t afford this place alone on catalog work and waitressing.”

She crossed her arms, leaning against the counter, giving Veer a serious, appraising look.

“So, let’s lay our cards on the table,” Chloe said directly. “You’re what, sixteen? Seventeen? I’m nineteen. I work crazy hours, I’m exhausted ninety percent of the time, and my tolerance for teenage drama is absolute zero. If we’re going to share this space, I need to know you’re not going to be throwing ragers on Tuesday nights or leaving pizza boxes in the sink until they achieve sentience.”

Flash finally managed to close his mouth, stepping forward slightly. “Uh, he’s actually—”

“I am aggressively boring, Chloe,” Veer interrupted, stepping in front of Flash. “I don’t throw parties because I genuinely dislike loud noises and most people. I clean up after myself because the concept of an untidy kitchen gives me spiritual anxiety. And my primary hobby involves sitting on the floor in complete silence for hours at a time.”

Chloe stared at him for a long moment, trying to gauge if he was joking. The deadpan delivery was flawless.

“You sound like an eighty-year-old monk trapped in a teenager’s body,” she noted, a small, amused smile touching her lips.

“That is the most accurate psychological profile anyone has ever given me,” Veer agreed, placing a hand over his heart. “Plus, I have a very dark, deeply uncomfortable sense of humor that acts as a natural deterrent for burglars and unwanted guests. If anyone tries to break in, I will simply depress them until they leave.”

Chloe let out another laugh, shaking her head. The kid was weird, but he seemed mature, and more importantly, he didn’t look at her like a piece of meat—which was a refreshing change from literally every other guy she had interviewed with this week.

“Alright, monk,” Chloe said, holding out her hand. “Thirteen hundred each. We split the utilities down the middle. You take the smaller bedroom in the back, I take the master bedroom because I need the closet space for my wardrobe. Deal?”

Veer looked at her extended hand. He had the money. He needed a place. And having a roommate who was gone all day at casting calls meant he would still have plenty of time to train his Nen in peace.

He reached out and shook her hand. “Deal.”

—

The euphoria of finding a great apartment lasted exactly forty-five minutes.

It died a brutal, agonizing death the moment they sat down in the broker’s office to sign the lease.

“Alright, let’s go over the numbers,” Flash’s uncle said, pulling out a calculator. “First month’s rent is two-six. But the owner requires the last month’s rent upfront, so that’s another two-six. Then there’s the security deposit, which is equivalent to one month’s rent. Another two-six. And finally, my broker’s fee, which is fifteen percent of the annual rent.”

Veer sat perfectly still in his chair. He didn’t need a calculator. His Intelligence 18 stat crunched the numbers instantly, and his soul felt like it was leaving his body.

“Wait,” Veer said, his voice dangerously low. “You’re telling me that before I even turn the key in the door, we have to pay twelve thousand, four hundred and eighty dollars?”

“Welcome to New York real estate, kid,” the uncle said without an ounce of sympathy. “Split down the middle, that’s six thousand, two hundred and forty dollars from each of you today. Cash or cashier’s check.”

Chloe winced visibly, pulling a thick envelope from her massive purse. “I’ve been saving for a year for this,” she muttered, counting out her half with painful reluctance.

Veer stared at the desk. Half of his prize money. Gone. Evaporated into the ether of the New York housing market in a matter of seconds. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the organizer’s bonus envelope, and then opened his briefcase, slowly, agonizingly counting out his share.

But the bleeding didn’t stop there.

Over the next two days, the true horror of moving set in. The apartment was unfurnished.

Veer found himself standing in the middle of a massive Swedish furniture store in New Jersey with Chloe and a deeply traumatized Flash, who had somehow been roped into being their personal moving truck driver.

“I need a bed,” Veer muttered, staring blankly at a basic wooden frame that cost four hundred dollars. “I need a mattress. I need a desk. We need plates. Why do plates cost money? They are literally just baked dirt.”

“Stop whining and help me lift this sofa box,” Chloe commanded, pointing at a massive, flat-packed box that weighed over two hundred pounds. “Eugene, grab the other end.”

Flash stepped forward, groaning as he prepared to lift.

“Don’t worry about it, guys. I’ve got good core strength,” Veer sighed.

He didn’t bother waiting for them. Veer casually reached down with one hand, grabbed the plastic binding straps of the massive sofa box, and lifted the two-hundred-pound package off the ground as easily as if it were a loaf of bread. He tucked it under his arm and began walking toward the checkout counter.

Chloe stood frozen in the aisle, her jaw dropping as she watched the scrawny teenager carry the massive weight with zero visible effort. She slowly turned to Flash.

“Did he… did he just pick that up with one hand?” Chloe asked, her voice hushed.

Flash, looking entirely dead inside, just nodded. “Yeah. Don’t ask questions, Chloe. Just accept it. It’s better for your mental health.”

—

By Sunday evening, the new apartment was finally put together. The living room had a sofa, the kitchen had pots and pans, and the fridge was stocked with the high-protein groceries Veer’s superhuman metabolism demanded.

Veer sat alone on the floor of his new bedroom, leaning against his freshly assembled bed frame. The sun was setting, casting long, dark shadows across the hardwood floor.

He pulled out his chunky flip phone and opened the calculator app, though he already knew the exact number.

He had started the weekend with twelve thousand dollars.

Between the first month, last month, security deposit, broker’s fee, a bed, a mattress, kitchenware, a portion of the sofa, groceries, and a MetroCard, the money had drained faster than water through a sieve.

He stared at the remaining balance of his underground fighting fortune.

Forty-two dollars and sixteen cents.

Veer let his head fall back against the mattress, letting out a long, hollow laugh that echoed in the quiet room. He had literally fought a deathmatch, awakened a demonic Nen beast, and gained the physical strength to throw a minivan into the Hudson River.

“You really don’t know where the money goes when you live in this city,” Veer chuckled darkly, shaking his head at the ceiling. “You can be Captain America, you can be the Ant King, you can be the strongest guy in the room… but the New York cost of living will always, inevitably, keep you absolutely, permanently broke.”

He closed the flip phone and tossed it onto the floor. He needed to find another underground fight club. And he needed to do it soon, before his roommate realized he couldn’t afford next month’s electric bill.