With the sudden appearance of the naked man, a suffocating tension settled over the vicinity of the Manhattan Stock Exchange.
For over twenty seconds, no one moved, no one spoke.
Then, the man stirred.
With the stiff, uncertain motion of the undead, he raised a hand.
Instantly, over seventy rifles and a dozen grenade launchers locked on to him.
Iron Man hovered overhead, both repulsors glowing in his palms, the power steadily building. His mask reflected the unknown figure, even as J.A.R.V.I.S. scanned the target in real-time.
A soft hum emanated from the Black Widow's right gauntlet as a blue-white arc of electricity shimmered along its surface—beautiful, but lethal.
As for Agent Phil Coulson...
He looked at the standard-issue S.H.I.E.L.D. pistol in his grip and sighed internally.
Why do I always bring a handgun to a god-level problem?
With a small cough, Coulson composed himself, then stepped slightly forward—keeping a respectful distance—and called out.
"Can you understand me? Who are you, where are you from, and what is your purpose here?"
The man blinked, his expression dazed. He seemed to wrestle with the very fabric of consciousness. His brows furrowed deeply.
Aren't those the three questions of existence?
Who am I?
Where do I come from?
Where am I going?
"I am Heisenberg… the 64th Supreme Elder of the Kryptonian Presbyterian Church… I…"
Before he could finish, a sudden and overwhelming pain overtook him.
His knees buckled.
A soundless scream contorted his face as his body convulsed violently.
It was as though a psychic storm had erupted in his mind—millions of voices howling, an unrelenting roar of information and sensation.
It felt like tens of thousands of wild dogs barking in his skull, like a swarm of whispers crashing like thunder.
Every breath became a battle. The air—rich with oxygen and bathed in the yellow light of Earth's sun—felt like razors in his lungs.
And above all… the radiation.
Heisenberg recognized it instantly.
Solar radiation. Yellow sun radiation.
The very energy source that empowered Kryptonians. But for someone newly exposed to it… it was less a gift and more a violent awakening.
His Kryptonian cells, dormant for decades aboard cold vessels and cryogenic chambers, were suddenly force-fed the solar fire of Earth's sun.
It was not a gentle transition.
It was like flooding a dried-out riverbed with the fury of a monsoon.
Every cell screamed.
"I... ahh—uh... F-Fuck!!"
His body slammed against the pavement, his limbs curled inward like a shrimp tossed into boiling water.
It was hard to believe. This was the main avenue in Manhattan—heavily monitored, constantly patrolled, reinforced by the latest StarkTech smart sensors and drones.
And yet... there was a massive crater, still steaming.
Tony Stark hovered above it in his Mark II armor, sensors scanning frantically. He blinked through the HUD, replaying the fall in his mind.
"...no way..." he muttered.
He disengaged his repulsors, landed, and took a few hesitant steps toward the edge—then recoiled a dozen paces back in visible disgust.
He stared at the impact zone, then down at his armor's lower torso plating.
"Holy hell. That... that can't be how he landed. That's not physically possible—no physics I know of." He grimaced, backing away further. "That's it. I'm scrapping this suit. There's no tech-cleaning solution for that kind of trauma."
He shot upward into the sky with a blast from his repulsors, shaking his head.
"That's just... not Stark-grade."
---
S.H.I.E.L.D. New York Facility – 40 Minutes Later
Behind the reinforced observation glass, Director Nick Fury stood with his arms crossed, eyeing the subject on the other side.
Heisenberg.
Alien. Possibly Kryptonian. Definitely not human.
In the adjacent room, a team of elite S.H.I.E.L.D. medical scientists swarmed around the unconscious being, instruments flickering.
"Our scanners can't penetrate his epidermis," one tech said, frustration in his voice. "We've calibrated for Asgardian density, but this is something else."
"His muscle tissue—denser than Vibranium alloy," another muttered, peering at his cracked scalpel.
"I tried a gamma-enhanced laser on his eye. Not even a blink."
"He's not just invulnerable. He's... undetectable."
"Even Thor's physiology isn't this unyielding," a senior bioanalyst noted.
Fury didn't blink. "Run every test again. And don't assume he's deaf."
Before they could respond, a voice—deep, calm, perfectly enunciated English—cut through the room.
"I'm an alien, not an idiot."
The man on the table opened his eyes.
X-ray vision cut through lab coats. What he saw made him raise an eyebrow.
"Nice... accessories," he muttered, narrowing his eyes at one particularly adventurous scientist. "Guess you Earthlings really multitask."
The doctors froze.
In the observation room, Fury activated his mic. "He's conscious. Engage, but keep him calm."
"Too late for calm," Heisenberg growled.
He sat up, flexed his arms—and the titanium-alloy restraints snapped like twigs.
"Not exactly guest treatment," he said, swinging his legs off the bed.
The moment his feet hit the floor, he staggered. Still regaining strength.
He caught himself on a nearby scanning rig. His grip crushed the casing into scrap.
Without a word of apology, he ripped the white sheet from the bed and tied it around his waist like a makeshift robe.
He turned toward the mirror and stared.
"You, on the other side," he said. "Director Nicholas Joseph Fury. I heard your name. Roughly 742 meters away."
Fury wiped a bead of sweat from his temple. "He's got super-hearing too," he muttered.
Then Heisenberg walked. Straight toward the glass.
Fury and Hill took a reflexive step back.
Heisenberg pressed his forehead against the glass. "You're not far enough."
Fury raised a brow.
"Twenty steps. Go."
He didn't argue.
They backed away—twenty paces, to the corner of the hallway.
And then—
Shatter!
The reinforced, one-way, bulletproof glass exploded as Heisenberg calmly stepped through it, unharmed.
Glass shards rained like a storm behind him.
Still holding the sheet at his waist, he raised a hand toward Fury.
"Nice coat. Get me one like it."
Fury raised a hand in placation. "We'll provide whatever you need. Just... come with me. We can talk in my office."
Heisenberg nodded.
Hill broke off to prep the office while Fury led him down the hall. By the time they arrived, Hill had returned—with black boots, slacks, shirt, and a trench coat.
Heisenberg examined the garments and gave an approving nod.
"Better than Krypton's ceremonial robes. We haven't updated those in a hundred millennia."
He changed instantly, creating a burst of wind that ruffled Fury's eyepatch.
By the time Fury opened his eyes again, Heisenberg was seated casually on the Director's sofa.
"Sit. Ask. I'll answer."
Fury remained standing a beat too long, then sat opposite the alien like a junior agent in front of a general.
"Get us some of the top-shelf stuff," Fury told Hill, who gave a subtle nod and exited again.
Meanwhile, unseen by Heisenberg, Hill quietly passed the go-order to Coulson and Romanoff.
Code Green. Contact Bruce Banner. Just in case.
Fury cleared his throat.
"Before the drinks arrive... who are you?"
Heisenberg smirked.
"Who I am?" He leaned back, steepling his fingers.
"I am the 64th Chief Elder of Krypton's High Council. The only one ever labeled a traitor by unanimous vote."
"I was sentenced to temporal exile—cast into the void between dimensions for 18,000 of your Earth years."
"And now?" He shrugged.
"I've missed my time. My people. My world. I have nothing left... except what I choose to become."
He paused.
"Am I dangerous? Perhaps. But you're mistaken if you think I came here for revenge or conquest."
"I am not your enemy."
He locked eyes with Fury.
"I am... just a Kryptonian."