But sometimes, trouble doesn't wait for you to find it—it comes looking for you.
Just as Cloud was enjoying this rare investigative downtime, screeching brakes and intense gunfire shattered the street's quiet.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Several black sedans careened to a halt in the middle of the street.
Doors flew open as over a dozen muscular men in black suits and sunglasses, wielding automatic rifles, piled out and opened fire on a red figure sprinting across the rooftops in the distance.
"Get him! The boss wants him alive!" bellowed a bald man who appeared to be the leader.
Bullets rained toward the red figure like a storm.
The vigilante known as "Daredevil" was remarkably agile.
He weaved through rooftop obstacles like a phantom of the night, narrowly dodging most of the bullets.
The gunfire detonated this already fragile street. People screamed and scattered, diving for cover.
Cloud sighed and shook his head.
"Such inefficient combat. If our Leona were here, this would be over in three seconds."
He was about to relocate somewhere quieter to continue his observation when a stray bullet ricocheted from somewhere with an extremely unfortunate trajectory, and—
Pshhht—
—pierced with pinpoint accuracy through... the can of cola in his hand. The one he'd just opened. The one he hadn't even gotten to drink yet.
The can exploded on the spot. Brown, fizzing liquid splashed all over his hand.
Cloud looked at his right hand, now holding only a pull-tab. Then he looked at the puddle fizzing on the ground.
He was silent.
The lazy smile that had perpetually adorned his face disappeared.
He wasn't angry about nearly being hit by a bullet. With his current physical resilience, even a direct nuclear strike might not cost him a single hair.
His anger was pure and simple:
—His rare peaceful moment had been disturbed.
—His beloved fizzy happiness water had been wasted.
It was like waiting in line for three hours to finally buy the newest phone, only to have a bratty kid smash it the moment you try to turn it on.
Or grinding a game all night, the final boss down to a sliver of health, and then—blackout.
That feeling was an anger beyond words.
On a distant rooftop, the S.H.I.E.L.D. secret observer who'd witnessed everything through high-powered binoculars felt his heart about to leap from his chest. He spoke into his communicator with a trembling voice, issuing the highest-level alert:
"Calling HQ! Calling HQ! Target... target is experiencing severe emotional fluctuation! Repeat! Target is experiencing severe emotional fluctuation! Cause: one can of cola!"
Meanwhile, the gangsters on the street, still firing wildly, had absolutely no idea what kind of existence they'd just provoked.
Cloud slowly rose to his feet.
He simply dusted off his pants, then looked up at the guys still going bang-bang-bang.
His expression was calm.
Then he blew gently in their direction.
Whooo—
It was the most ordinary breath imaginable, barely making a sound.
But the instant that breath left his lips—all of Hell's Kitchen transformed!
The previously still air seemed to gain a soul, beginning to spin and howl in complete defiance of natural law!
A cold wind carrying the weight of divine judgment erupted without warning on this narrow street!
WHOOOOSH!
The wind's roar was like a god's fury, or a demon's whisper.
The gangsters who'd been firing suddenly felt an irresistible force sweep in from all directions!
"Wh-what the hell?!"
"My gun! My gun's flying away!"
"Help! My feet are off the ground!"
Amid their terrified screams, that gale transformed into a visible, grayish-black tornado, sweeping every single one of them—along with their weapons and vehicles—into the air!
On the rooftop, Daredevil Matt Murdock—having just dodged another volley—also stopped in his tracks.
His extraordinary hearing let him "see" an even more terrifying scene than ordinary people could perceive.
He could hear that the wind's movement was no longer chaotic. It had become a disciplined army, efficiently and precisely peeling every enemy off the ground.
He could hear the gangsters' heartbeats transform from arrogant frenzy to extreme terror, finally becoming despairing wails.
He could even hear that at the tornado's core was an undeniable will.
That will said: Silence.
The tornado swirled in the air for several seconds, like a master bartender shaking his cocktail mixer.
Then the wind stopped.
But the nightmare wasn't over.
The gangsters who'd been swept skyward weren't dropped.
They—along with their now-twisted black sedans—hung suspended like strings of sausages fresh from a slaughterhouse, dangling in various artistically challenging poses from every lamp post, power line, billboard, and even residential building clotheslines lining the street.
A lead thug hung from a pizza shop sign, his sunglasses askew, a sneaker of unknown origin stuffed in his mouth.
One black sedan had been crumpled into an iron ball and wedged precisely between two buildings.
All the automatic rifles lay piled neatly beside the central garbage can like scrap metal, arranged with perfect symmetry.
The entire street was a wreck, yet possessed a bizarre sense of order and artistic installation.
Apart from the pig-like wails echoing from all directions, the world was finally quiet.
Cloud surveyed his handiwork and nodded with satisfaction.
He'd used Goenitz's wind power. Rather than employing a large-scale destructive technique like the Dark Tornado, he'd accomplished this "urban management task" in a more refined, eco-friendly manner.
He walked to the corner store, pulled a few more coins from his pocket, and placed them on the counter in front of the thoroughly stupefied shopkeeper.
Then he retrieved another can of cola from the freezer.
He popped the tab and took a sip.
"Mm, that's the stuff."
He turned and walked away, thoroughly satisfied.
...
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