Chapter 134: The Vongola Family Makes Their Move
The Hell's Kitchen residents who'd just been pulled back from the edge surged forward like a tide — and dropped to their knees.
Their faces were streaked with gratitude and awe, even as Ethan had already launched himself up the building and out of sight. It didn't matter. His image was burned into them now. The man who'd come for them when no one else would.
Their eyes stayed fixed on the spot where he'd disappeared, as if holding that image was the only way to express what they felt.
From somewhere in the crowd, an older man pushed himself to his feet.
"Let's go," he said loudly.
"Go where?" The others looked around, lost. They didn't know where they had left to go.
"Back to Hell's Kitchen."
The words landed like a stone in still water.
"We already turned our backs on the place that raised us once," the old man said, his voice hard and certain. "And the Lord of Hell's Kitchen came and saved us anyway. If I'm going to die — " he paused, then set his jaw — "I'm dying at home."
He turned and started walking.
Nobody spoke for a long moment.
Then one by one, they stood. They looked at each other. They thought about the man who'd appeared out of nowhere in blue-and-white armor and decided their lives were worth saving.
They followed the old man home.
Their steps were heavy. But for the first time all night, they felt something other than fear.
Up on the rooftop, Ethan was watching the chat.
The comment feed had split in two directions. Half the viewers were frantically trying to tip off the Justice Envoy operatives at the other eight locations, flooding the screens with warnings. The other half were screaming variations of you're alone, you can't stop all of them.
A few outliers — mostly women — had apparently found the Kamen Rider Eternal aesthetic compelling and were leaving their numbers.
Ethan noted that and moved on.
The other Justice Envoy operatives had noticed something was wrong. One by one, across all eight remaining feeds, they started moving toward their targets.
The chat loved it.
Doesn't matter if you're the Lord of Hell's Kitchen — you can't be in nine places at once!
Hurry up and finish them off!
What are you going to do now?
Ethan looked at the camera.
"Who said I was alone?"
The words had barely landed when all eight feeds changed at once.
Every remaining operative was down. Clean, fast, no struggle. Like someone had simply switched them off.
The chat went absolutely silent for about three seconds — and then detonated.
Where did they come from?
Who are these people?
Are they all with him?
Then one of the feeds came back up, and a man stepped into frame.
Blond hair. A bearing that made the camera feel small by comparison. He smiled at the livestream audience like he had all the time in the world.
"Good evening, everyone. I'm Vongola Primo, from Hell's Kitchen."
The other feeds lit up one after another, each showing a figure stepping forward to introduce themselves.
"G."
"Asari Ugetsu."
"Knuckle."
"Lampo."
"Daemon Spade."
"Alaude."
Together: "We are the Vongola Family. From Hell's Kitchen."
The chat had been expecting gangsters. Killers. The kind of people who belonged in a place called Hell's Kitchen.
What they got was something that didn't fit any of their categories. These people didn't radiate menace. They radiated something else entirely — something that made you want to stand up straight.
One viewer recovered first: Someone that good-looking should be the Lord of Hell's Kitchen, not the guy in the mask.
Primo caught that one and smiled. "I'm afraid not. He's our closest friend. We just work for him."
The chat chewed on that. This man — this — was just a subordinate? Then what exactly was the Lord of Hell's Kitchen?
Before anyone could ask, Primo looked off-camera. "My friend — your assignment is complete. We'll take our leave."
Seven feeds cut to black.
The chat started counting almost immediately.
Wait — wasn't there one that nobody went to?
Why is that one dark too?
Ethan answered by appearing in both remaining feeds at the same time.
Two locations. Same face. Looking directly at the camera.
That's impossible. He can teleport?
He can be in two places at once??
Someone in the comments, apparently emboldened by watching through a screen, posted their home address and challenged Ethan to a fight.
Ethan looked at it.
The feed cut briefly to black.
When it came back, the camera was in a room — an apartment, messy, lit by monitor glow. A heavyset man in a gaming chair was typing furiously with headphones on, completely absorbed in the chat he'd just posted to.
He looked up at his own screen.
Something about the feed seemed familiar.
Then he heard a voice directly behind him.
"Were you looking for me?"
The man did not turn around. He could not make himself turn around. The chat was screaming at him: LOOK BEHIND YOU. HE'S RIGHT THERE.
His heart was doing something medically inadvisable.
A hand landed on his shoulder — light, almost casual.
"You wanted to fight, didn't you?"
The man's chair may never recover.
The chat had been careening between fury, disbelief, and something approaching genuine terror for the last ten minutes. Now it tipped fully into the last one.
He's a mutant. He can teleport anywhere he wants.
If he wanted someone dead, they'd just be dead. No warning.
No wonder the feds want Hell's Kitchen leveled.
Ethan let the reactions scroll for a moment. Then he spoke — not to the man still frozen in his chair, but to the camera. To everyone watching.
"So. Keep that in mind before you start talking."
He kept his voice even. Conversational, almost.
"Look at the Justice Envoy. They came after us. See how that worked out for them. Hell's Kitchen doesn't go looking for trouble. But if trouble finds us — " he paused — "come ready to pay for it."
He looked directly into the lens.
"Eye for an eye. That's how we do things here."
Then he was gone.
The feeds went dark.
The chat kept moving for a long time after — quieter now, more uncertain. People who'd spent the evening waiting for a bloodbath were logging off without saying much. A few stayed, typing things they'd probably think better of by morning.
Somewhere in Manhattan, a bar had gone very quiet.
The Lord of Hell's Kitchen was real.
And he'd just introduced himself to the whole city.
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