In the Marvel universe, you start with a colored Hextech item.

The conference room door had barely closed when a senior advisor pounded on the table, his voice urgent: "Frey, his file is completely blank, the source of his abilities is a mystery, and his methods are utterly unrestrained! We must act immediately..."

Fury raised his hand, stopping him from saying anything more.

He was still staring at the screen, which showed Lynn carrying a money box and walking into the streets of New York.

"Control? How? With the pens on your desks, or with a three-month movement control order that requires parliamentary approval?"

He turned around, his gaze sweeping over the crowd: "He is now a knife, the tip pointing at Kingpin. What we need to do is not argue about whether or not to use a knife, but to make sure the handle is facing the right direction."

Coulson understood and added, "Natasha's 'accompaniment' is the rudder. At the same time, I will activate a four-level monitoring protocol, covering electronic signals, traffic nodes, and... social relationships."

Hawkeye crossed his arms: "What if the knife turns around and hurts our own people?"

Fury: "Then we'll need a faster knife, or... a stronger sheath. Keep observing, Coulson. I need to know every detail of his abilities."

......

Stepping out of the stronghold, Lynn took a deep breath of the not-so-fresh New York air. The weight of the money box gave him a real sense of satisfaction; this was the first reward brought by his power.

Frank, who followed closely behind, showed little emotion; his voice remained muffled as he asked, "Where to?"

"Get this money sorted out." Lynn weighed the money box in her hand. "We can't be carrying millions around and still living in a run-down apartment in Queens, can we?"

Frank gave an address: "There's a bar on Third Avenue. They take a high cut, but they're tight-lipped, and they owe me a favor."

The bar is tucked away in the most chaotic alley in Hell's Kitchen. Its facade is dilapidated, and when you push open the door, a smoky, fiery smell hits you.

An old man with gray hair was sitting behind the bar.

Seeing Lynn and Frank enter, the old man raised an eyebrow and pointed to a booth in the corner: "Friends from Kassel?"

Lynn placed the money box on the table, revealing the US dollars inside: "Three million to be laundered, with a legitimate source."

Old Joe glanced at the cash box and smirked: "Profits from the overseas virtual company, after tax, are deposited into the account, with a 10% commission."

"I'll give you the account details in three days, is that alright?"

"Okay." Lynn didn't haggle. Finding a reliable middleman was far more important than saving that 200,000.

He glanced at Frank with some surprise.

Sure enough, having such a "guide" brings many benefits.

Old Joe took a contract out of his drawer and pushed it over: "Sign it, and leave your account details. Don't ask where the company is, and don't inquire about my rules."

Lynn signed his pseudonym, left a temporary account, and turned to leave. Three days later, a remittance from a "Venture Capital Fund in the Virgin Islands" arrived on time.

The first thing I did after that was to leave the run-down hotel in Queens and buy a house!

The information was provided by a security company that Frank recommended, specializing in "special clients".

The current owner of the penthouse in Tribeca is selling urgently due to security concerns. The price is 20% below market value, but cash is required and no questions will be asked about the previous owner's reasons for moving.

It perfectly met Lynn's requirements, so she paid the full amount upfront.

The penthouse duplex features a private terrace and bulletproof glass, with 24-hour security downstairs.

Push open the floor-to-ceiling windows and you'll see the Manhattan skyline in its entirety, a far cry from the gray rooftops of Queens.

Lynn stood on the terrace, looking at the Statue of Liberty in the distance, and a sudden sense of disorientation arose in her heart.

In the month or so since he transmigrated, he has been either fighting or on his way to fight, and finally he has a decent home.

He then went to the car dealership and picked up a black Ferrari F12 Berlinetta. Of course, he didn't forget to leave a mark on the new house with the blonde, wavy-haired saleswoman.

Sitting in the driver's seat, touching the smooth steering wheel, Lynn stepped on the gas, and the engine emitted a penetrating roar.

He didn't go for a drive in the bustling areas of Manhattan, but simply drove slowly around the streets of Tribeca, and couldn't help but smile as he watched the glances from passersby.

Frank, in the passenger seat, glanced at the car logo and frowned. "It's too flashy. It'll attract Kingpin's attention."

Lynn smiled.

"Don't worry, ask Coulson for their Saaban in a couple of days, and you can take it and drive it."

"Besides, we've endured so much hardship for so long, we deserve to enjoy ourselves a bit."

That being said, he was not truly complacent with the status quo. Lynn knew that Kingpin would not give up easily.

Tombstone was Kingpin's right-hand man; killing him would be like stirring up a hornet's nest.

that's the truth.

……

At the same time.

On the top floor of the Fisk Tower, behind a huge mahogany desk, Kingpin sat in a chair, his face expressionless.

The air pressure was so low it was suffocating, and photos of the tombstone death scene were scattered on the mahogany desk.

Two people were standing in front of the desk.

The man on the left was wearing a black trench coat, toying with several sharp darts in his hand, his eyes sinister.

The man on the right was completely different; he was dressed in a respectable suit, his face was pale, and his eyes held a cold, sinister aura.

One is the bullseye.

One is Mr. Negative.

"Tombstone is dead." Kingpin's voice was low, yet carried an undeniable authority. "He died in the Starlight Billiards Hall, his chest pierced by a burning knife."

"More than twenty bodies were found at the scene. S.H.I.E.L.D. has intervened and classified the case as a gang shootout."

Bullseye licked his lips.

"Who did this?"

Mr. Negative adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

"It's said to be an Asian man wearing a hood, and Frank Cassel."

"It seems like S.H.I.E.L.D. is cooperating with them, trying to use them to weaken our power."

"S.H.I.E.L.D.?" Kingpin sneered, a cold glint in his eyes. "A bunch of rats lurking in the shadows. Trying to use others against me? Not so easy."

He stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, looking at the New York night view outside. This city was his territory, and anyone who dared to act recklessly on his turf would have to pay the price.

"Bullseye," Kingpin said slowly.

"You missed this guy in Queens last time, so don't miss him this time! Remember, he must die!"

"Don't worry!" Bullseye nodded in acceptance.

Kingpin then looked at Mr. Negative: "Go clean up the mess at the tombstone. Replace all the people and clean up the accounts."

"Also, find out if any of the information in Tombstone's possession has been leaked. If so, eliminate all those who know about it."

"clear."

Mr. Negative bowed slightly, a ruthless glint flashing in his eyes.

Kingpin's gaze swept over the two men, his tone chilling.

"Also, tell the people below to tone it down a bit lately."

"If S.H.I.E.L.D. wants to play, I'll play along. But if anyone dares to betray me, their fate will be worse than Gravestone."

"Yes!" they both answered in unison.

Kingpin walked alone to the window and looked down at his empire.

The reflection in the glass was a face devoid of expression, yet brimming with rage. He had lost more than just a subordinate; he had lost his authority, and authority needed to be rebuilt with blood.