The Man in the Mirror #1

Nathaniel Cross sat on the edge of the bed, lacing up his boots with slow, deliberate movements. The dim bulb overhead flickered, casting shadows that danced across the cracked walls of the room. His clothes were simple but purposeful—a dark jacket with reinforced stitching, black jeans, and boots scuffed from years of wear.

A few faint burns marred the leather of his gloves, and his jacket had patches sewn in where time and wear had taken their toll. Practical, unassuming—just the way he liked it.

A dusty mirror leaned against the wall, and Adrian glanced at his reflection. Short, dark hair, a face lined with faint scars, and a pair of sharp, gray eyes that didn't miss much. He stood, his boots heavy against the wooden floor, and stepped closer to the mirror.

Then it happened.

The reflection changed. Burn scars crawled across his skin, twisted and raw, reaching up his neck and arms like living things. Flames flickered at the edges of his vision, and the room blurred into something else—crumbling walls, heat pressing down on him like a living weight, the choking stench of smoke.

He was back in that fire. That fire. The one he couldn't escape. The one that had swallowed him whole and spat him into this world where little made sense.

His breath quickened, hands trembling as he gripped the edge of the sink. Memories clawed their way to the surface—the agony, the fear, the sound of his own screams drowned out by the roar of the flames. He shut his eyes tight.

A muffled boom from outside shook the room, breaking through the haze. Explosions. The city hand changed after the Chitauri invasion.

Nathaniel exhaled slowly, forcing his shoulders to relax. His voice was barely a whisper as he muttered, "Waste no more time arguing what a good man should be. Be one."

When he opened his eyes, the scars and flames were gone. His reflection stared back at him, pale but composed.

He turned and walked to the desk. A battered copy of an old book sat on top, its cover faded, its pages creased and worn. He picked it up, running a thumb along the spine, then slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. The weight of it was familiar, grounding.

The room was bare, almost Spartan. A bed with a hard mattress, a rickety stool, and a small desk cluttered with scraps of paper. But it was the board on the far wall that caught his gaze—a web of pictures, newspaper clippings, and notes pinned with red string. Tony Stark's smug face stared back at him from a magazine cover.

A snapshot of Steve Rogers was tacked beside it. Other names, lesser-known but no less important, were scribbled on scraps of paper. The connections were clear, even if the purpose was known only to him.

Nathaniel lit a match, the tiny flame casting shadows across his face. He dropped it to the floor, and the gasoline he'd carefully poured earlier caught instantly. Fire roared to life, devouring the bed, the desk, and the board.

He didn't look back as he stepped out into the night.

...

Night fell over the warehouse district, a labyrinth of shadow and steel. Felicia Hardy—known in certain circles as the infamous Black Cat—perched on a rooftop, her sleek black suit blending seamlessly into the darkness. Her silver hair glinted faintly under the pale moonlight as her piercing blue eyes followed the group of thugs unloading crates from an unmarked van below.

Her intel had been good: Chitauri tech. Salvaged weapons from the Battle of New York, sold to the highest bidder. Felicia smirked, her fingers itching to liberate the merchandise for herself. A payday like this could set her up for months.

The leader, a bulky man in a leather jacket with a snake tattoo coiled around his neck, barked orders at the others.

"Careful with that one, morons! Last guy who mishandled this stuff ended up with a third arm—and not where he wanted it."

The thugs snickered nervously as one of them adjusted his grip on a crate, muttering, "Man, I'm tellin' ya, this alien crap gives me the creeps. Like, what if it's radioactive or some—"

"Shut it, Joey," another cut in, hefting a metallic device that hummed ominously. "Radioactive or not, these babies are gonna make us rich. Mr. Fisk pays top dollar for stuff like this."

Felicia rolled her eyes. She'd dealt with Wilson Fisk's goons before—big mouths, small brains. They wouldn't even see her coming.

But just as she prepared to make her move, the air shifted. A muffled pop echoed through the alley below, followed by another. One by one, the thugs dropped, clutching at their knees or shoulders. Rubber bullets.

Felicia's sharp eyes darted to the source.

A figure emerged from the shadows, clad in a dark jacket and reinforced combat gear. He moved with precision, firing non-lethal rounds with surgical accuracy. Within moments, the thugs were all incapacitated, groaning and writhing on the ground.

Felicia narrowed her eyes. This wasn't part of the plan.

She watched as the man holstered his weapon and began inspecting the crates. When he turned, the dim light caught his face—short dark hair, sharp gray eyes, and a presence that screamed military discipline.

Her instincts screamed at her to leave, but curiosity got the better of her. Silently, she descended, her movements as fluid as water. She was nearly upon him when, without warning, he spun around, catching her wrist mid-strike.

"Nice try, kid," he said, his voice calm but firm.

Felicia twisted, aiming a kick at his side, but he deflected it with practiced ease, pulling her into an arm lock. She hissed in frustration as he produced a pair of cuffs and secured her wrists behind her back.

"Who the hell are you?" she spat, glaring up at him.

He smirked faintly. "Nobody you need to worry about."

Nathaniel Cross stood, stepping away as Felicia struggled against the cuffs. "Stay put. The police will be here soon. Consider it a professional courtesy I didn't use live rounds."

"Courtesy?" she snarled. "You're stealing my score!"

"I don't see your name on it," Nathaniel said, glancing at the crates. "And I'm sure you can find another one. For now, sit tight and wait for the police." He proceeded to tie up her legs before leaving.

Felicia watched as he walked away, her mind racing. Who the hell was this guy?

...

Outside the warehouse, Nathaniel Cross adjusted his gloves, his boots crunching against the gravel as he emerged into the cold night air. A younger man in casual clothing stepped out from behind a nearby crate, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings.

"Cameras?" Nathaniel asked, his voice low but carrying the weight of command.

"Handled exactly as you asked, sir," the man replied, standing at attention despite his informal attire. Despite his words, he seemed curious about something, more specifically, the oddly specific manner in which Nathan asked for the cameras to be handled. Still, he was disciplined enough to not ask.

Nathaniel nodded, his gaze sweeping over the unconscious thugs being loaded into a separate van by two other operatives. "Good. Make sure the police get Kingpin's thugs before you're gone. Advanced tech and assholes don't mix well."

The younger man hesitated, his posture stiffening as though wrestling with something unsaid. "Sir… the boss' been asking about you. He says he needs to run some things through you. Figured I'd pass it along."

A shadow of a smile tugged at Nathaniel's lips, though his eyes remained cold and calculating. "Rick's just bored. Tell him I'll visit when it's time. For now, I've got another Mason to see."

"Understood, sir." The man gave a short nod, though his curiosity lingered.

Felicia Hardy, her hands still bound but determination burning bright in her chest, had managed to drag herself close enough to the warehouse entrance to overhear their conversation.

Her keen ears picked up every word, and her mind raced to piece together what she'd learned. Rick? Another Mason? Who was this guy working with, and why did he care so much about Chitauri tech?

As Nathaniel moved toward an unmarked truck parked nearby, he stopped suddenly. For a brief moment, his sharp eyes flicked to where Felicia was hiding in the shadows. A faint smirk crossed his face before he climbed into the truck.

The engine roared to life, and the vehicle rolled away, leaving Felicia alone with her thoughts and the groaning of incapacitated thugs.

"Well," she muttered under her breath, flexing her wrists against the cuffs. "Guess I'll have to find out who you are the hard way..."

...

The bell above the door jingled as Nathaniel Cross stepped into the dimly lit shop. The smell of soldered metal and burnt plastic hit him immediately, mingling with the faint scent of machine oil. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered with radios, old transistor parts, and other odds and ends that suggested the place barely stayed afloat.

At the counter sat an old man, hunched over a battered radio, his fingers deftly working to repair its frayed wiring.

Phineas Mason didn't look like much—a wiry frame, balding white hair, and thick glasses perched on his nose. To the untrained eye, he was just another relic in a shop full of them. But Nathan knew better.

This was the Tinkerer, a man whose reputation preceded him in the darkest corners of the underworld. His inventions had enabled countless heists, escapes, and power plays. Behind the façade of this unassuming radio repair shop lay a labyrinthine workshop brimming with tech that would make Stark Industries look like a kid's toy factory.

Phineas glanced up at the sound of the bell, his eyes narrowing when he saw Nathan. He sighed, his expression twisting into an annoyed grimace. "It's you... great," he muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm. Without waiting for a response, he went back to fiddling with the radio in front of him.

Nathan smirked but didn't take offense. He walked up to the counter and set a heavy gym bag down with a dull thud. "That's the tech you asked for," he said evenly. "Along with a down payment and a list of my needs."

Phineas's hands froze for a moment, his lips thinning into a line. Finally, he set the radio aside, adjusted his glasses, and unzipped the bag.

Nathan took a seat across from him, watching as the old man rummaged through the contents. Pieces of Chitauri tech glinted under the shop's flickering fluorescent light, their alien design unmistakable. Alongside them was a small stack of cash and a folded piece of paper.

After several minutes of scrutinizing the tech, Phineas grunted. "Not bad," he muttered, though his tone lacked enthusiasm. "Come back in a week. I'll have it ready."

Nathan nodded, leaning back in his chair. "I will be." He paused, his expression turning thoughtful. "Although…"

Phineas's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "Spit it out before I die of old age," he snapped.

Nathan chuckled softly. "I thought you should know— the request is a personal one. This time, I'm not working for Uncle Sam… so maybe try not to add any backdoors to my gear, will you?"

Phineas scowled, his bushy eyebrows knitting together as he glared at Nathan. "I can tell you that I won't be adding any backdoors," he said, his tone dry and cutting. "But that would make me a liar." He set down the piece of alien tech he'd been examining and gave Nathan a hard look over the rim of his glasses. "Uncle Sam or not, I won't have my own genius turned against me."

Nathan shook his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He'd dealt with Phineas's brand of paranoia enough times to know it wasn't worth arguing over. "Well, can't blame me for trying," he said, rising from his chair.

He gave the older man a nod. "I'll see you in a week then."

Phineas let out a gruff harrumph, his focus already shifting back to the battered radio on the counter. As Nathan's booted steps echoed across the room, the old man sighed heavily and raised his head. "How's Ricky these days?"

Nathan stopped, the faintest smile spreading across his face. He turned back, hands sliding into his jacket pockets. "Are you really asking me how your son is doing when he's only a bus ride away?"

Phineas's expression turned even more sour, his scowl deepening into a frown. "Forget I even asked," he grumbled, waving dismissively. "Just get your ass outta here."

Nathan chuckled as he resumed his walk toward the exit. "If you miss your son that much, I'm sure I can offer you a job," he said, casting a glance over his shoulder. "Keep you close to him."

Phineas's face twisted in anger, his voice rising slightly. "If I wanted a job, I'd ask my own son, asshole."

Nathan paused at the door, his hand resting on the handle. "Well," he said lightly, "your son was in my employment last I checked, so he'd have to run it by me first anyway."

Phineas's response was immediate—a gnarled middle finger raised defiantly in Nathan's direction.

Nathan laughed, tipping an imaginary hat at the older man. "Good chat, old man," he said, stepping outside.

The door swung shut behind him, leaving Phineas to mutter a string of colorful curses as he returned to his work, the flickering fluorescent light casting his shadow long across the cluttered counter.

...

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