On the rooftop of the Tricurved Wing Building, Heisenberg's eyelids fluttered twice.
He had fallen asleep, and by the time he awoke, the sunlight had already vanished beyond the city skyline.
Instinctively, he raised his left wrist to check the time.
Right...
He didn't wear a watch.
But he had another way.
> "System, let's see how much origin material I've gathered."
The reply was immediate, clinical in tone.
> "In your previous engagements, you injured seven civilians native to Earth-199999. Your destruction punch and uncontrolled heat vision led to mass hysteria in Midtown Manhattan. As a result, 843 residents have chosen to relocate from New York City.
In total, your actions have slightly altered the fates of 7,626 individuals.
When you affect the course of someone's life to even a slight degree, the system converts those ripples into 'origin material.' You have accumulated 7.626 square meters of origin substance."
Right...
Heisenberg rubbed his temples.
Had he really changed that many lives… without even realizing it?
A tremor from a single punch. A column of heat vision nearly tearing through the stratosphere.
That was enough to make over 800 people leave New York?
And what followed?
A new home. A new job. A job someone else might have taken.
Would someone miss their chance at wealth because another person arrived just ahead of them?
Would someone's soulmate end up with someone else instead… all because of his actions?
Hmm…
Now that he thought about it, that was kind of exhilarating.
If life was like chess, it wasn't "one step and three calculations."
It was "one step, 30,000 consequences."
Trying to map it out was madness.
No, life isn't chess.
It's like driving in Chongqing.
Even with GPS, there's no telling which fork to take. Miss one U-turn, one obscure ramp, and you might never reach your destination.
And where would you end up then?
That thought alone made Heisenberg open his eyes. He glanced at the moonlight, then up at the constellations — crystal clear, even through New York's haze.
> If I wasn't Kryptonian… just some overworked office drone...
Then jumping off this rooftop wouldn't change a single New Yorker's fate.
He sighed and raised his wrist again.
This time, he wasn't just checking for the time.
He was remembering.
> "Give me a watch," he said silently. "The H. Moser & Cie 'Endeavour Concept – Black Hands' — the one I wore in my last life."
The system chimed immediately.
> "Origin Mission initialized.
Target: H. Moser & Cie, Endeavour Concept, Jet Black.
Estimated cost: 3.626 square meters of origin material. Confirm expenditure?"
> "Confirm."
A moment later, a black dial, seamless and minimalist, appeared on his wrist. Its golden hands glinted in the moonlight — perfectly familiar.
He stared at it for a long moment. No detail betrayed it as artificial.
Then he noticed something — a slight tear on the lower strap.
Wait… this was the same watch.
Not a replica. The original. The one he wore back then.
> "Mission complete," the system explained.
"Origin material consumed: 3.626 square meters. Primary cost went toward multiversal transfer of original object."
Heisenberg smirked.
Now that was customer service.
> "All right," he said. "New question — how much origin material would it take to eliminate a Kryptonian's genetic weakness to kryptonite?"
> "Origin Mission parameters accepted.
Full genetic purge of kryptonite vulnerability: 17,400 square meters."
> "And what about my personal weakness? I'm an ancient Kryptonian — wouldn't it cost more?"
> "Correct. Due to your unique genetic structure and enhanced solar absorption rate, eliminating your kryptonite vulnerability would require 24,400 square meters."
> "Okay… different angle. How much origin material would I get back if I exchanged my bloodline for that of a pure vampire?"
> "Replacing ancient Kryptonian bloodline with a pure vampire progenitor template would return 8.42 million square meters of origin material to the host."
> "Whoa — wait, gain origin material?"
> "Affirmative. The genetic value of the ancient Kryptonian Highblood line far exceeds that of the vampire template. The balance is returned as origin material."
Heisenberg blinked.
So that's what being rare really means.
The value was astronomical.
> "All right, next hypothetical. How much would it cost to summon Audrey Hepburn, circa 1953, during the filming of Roman Holiday, to Earth-199999?"
> "Temporal extraction of Audrey Hepburn from 1953 Rome to this universe will cost 163 square meters of origin material."
Silence.
Heisenberg stood quietly for a moment.
This system… it could actually grant almost any wish.
That was all the motivation he needed.
To see more. To try more. To become more.
And to gather enough origin material to do it all — no matter what chaos he had to cause in this strange Marvel world.
From now on, he would move with purpose.
But first...
He turned his face toward the sky, soaking in the moonlight.
> Sunbathing came first.
He chuckled at his own thought, then gave his head a little shake to scatter the intrusive fantasies.
There was still work to do.
If He Really Likes Audrey Hepburn...
If he really liked Audrey Hepburn, he could just hop into the universe of Roman Holiday.
Or whatever alternate-reality Europe circa the 1960s had going on.
There'd always be some wild Audrey waiting to be caught.
That—that was his real goal.
Accumulate at least 40,000 square meters of Origin Matter.
Why? First, to permanently neutralize his vulnerability to Kryptonite.
Then, to counteract the effects of red, green, purple, black suns—you name it.
Then stockpile enough Origin Matter to build resistance to elemental and magical damage.
Only then would he start to feel secure.
But even that kind of security? Ridiculously hard to come by.
The stronger he got, the more his weaknesses seemed to multiply.
Maybe it was the overthinking, or maybe S.H.I.E.L.D. was getting antsy—but Heisenberg, frowning hard, was pulled out of his thoughts by the voice of Barbara.
He'd heard her from seven kilometers away.
Kryptonians had super hearing dialed up to insane levels. If they didn't actively tune it, they'd drown in the sheer volume of noise.
Once acclimated to Earth's frequencies, they could tag individual voices—lock onto them like sonar.
No matter how far the sound was, once it echoed within their range, they could home in instantly.
It's the reason Superman always knows when Lois Lane is in danger.
There's even a scene in Batman v Superman: no one can find him, he's in hiding—but the moment Lex Luthor throws Lois off the LexCorp roof?
Superman's there before she even finishes the scream.
That's how deep Kryptonian auditory tagging goes.
And what does that tell us?
Simple: strength, real strength, doesn't isolate you. It paints a target on your back—and on the backs of everyone you care about.
Heisenberg understood that well.
Whether you hide your power or flaunt it, the danger stays the same. Envy, fear, greed—they don't care about your PR strategy.
So what's the play?
Be terrifying enough that nobody dares make a move...
...or get allies who are just as untouchable as you.
As Barbara's voice continued, Heisenberg shook his head, refocused, and tuned in.
---
Where Hell's Kitchen brushes up against Queens...
That patch of turf, sectioned off by gangsters as a no-go zone.
Barbara was inside a mansion, finishing up a conversation with a thickset man—Wilson Fisk.
The Kingpin of New York.
"Mr. Fisk, thank you for cooperating. The No. 2 Bazaar Nightclub under your name will now serve as our base of operations," Barbara said coolly.
"We expect you and your men to completely stay out of the premises."
"No problem," Fisk replied, nodding with mock sincerity. "At three times market value? I'd be a fool to say no…"
CRASH!
Glass exploded inward. Shards rained down as Heisenberg dropped in through the broken panoramic window, touching down beside Barbara.
Three stunned faces stared back at him.
With a lopsided smile, he turned to Barbara.
"You got the bar I wanted? Second Bazaar?"
He grimaced.
"Terrible name. Let's rename it... 'The Academy of Sciences.' Give those drunks the illusion they're bathing in knowledge."
Kingpin's composure shattered. "Who the hell are you? Bullseye—kill him!"
Fisk didn't care if this guy was FBI, CIA, or someone else. You didn't crash his party and walk away.
He wanted the whole city to know—cross Fisk, and you're done.
Bullseye was already moving, a blur of muscle and precision. Six throwing knives launched toward Heisenberg's face.
Heisenberg didn't flinch.
The blades bounced off his skin like rubber darts.
Ding-ding-ding…
Bullseye didn't pause. He switched to something sharper: a high-voltage blade from a hidden sleeve.
But before he could flick his wrist, Heisenberg floated forward.
He gently pushed Bullseye's shoulder.
The man collapsed to his knees like a puppet with snipped strings.
"You've got some head trauma, clearly," Heisenberg mused, glancing at the Bullseye tattoo on the assassin's forehead. "But you follow orders. Instantly. That's rare."
He turned to Fisk.
"Barbara tells me you and I had a deal. I wanted to see the previous owner of my new favorite bar."
He cocked his head. "But now that I'm here? Not impressed. You're impulsive. Cruel. You try to kill people before they even introduce themselves."
He patted Bullseye's shoulder.
"Your guy, though? He's loyal. Obedient. Tactical. I like him."
He turned to Fisk again, eyes glowing faintly.
"So how about this? You give me Bullseye... and in return, I leave your corpse intact."
Fisk laughed, full and booming.
"You think you can steal my empire and my men? You're a lunatic. I've ruled this city for fifteen years."
He pointed at Bullseye.
"You want him? Ask him yourself!"
Heisenberg shrugged.
"Fair point."
He looked Bullseye dead in the eye.
"You in?"
Bullseye paused... then nodded.
Heisenberg grinned.
"See? That's—"
CLANG!
A hidden dagger struck Heisenberg's torso, bouncing off without leaving a scratch.
Bullseye gaped.
Heisenberg looked down at his now-ripped trousers and sighed.
"Loyal and persistent. Nice."
Then he said calmly:
"Since betrayal doesn't sit well with you... let's remove the betrayal part."
He disappeared in a blur—
SNAP.
He reappeared next to Fisk.
One slap. That's all it took.
Fisk's head separated cleanly from his neck, disintegrating against the far wall.
The Kingpin's blood sprayed like mist.
Heisenberg stood silently for a moment.
Then turned to Bullseye and said,
"Welcome aboard."