American comic book: Absolute Spider-Man

Marcus sat under the bridge pier, wearing tattered, smelly clothes that looked like they hadn't been washed in ages, his back against a concrete wall covered in graffiti.

His left leg was bare below the knee, his trousers were rolled up and tied in a knot, and there was a paper cup in front of him containing a few coins that jingled in the wind.

He wasn't asleep; his empty, numb eyes were wide open, staring at the graffiti sprayed layer upon layer onto the bridge piers.

Suddenly, a footstep approached him.

Hearing footsteps, he didn't turn around: "There's someone here."

Peter crouched down and gathered the coins in the paper cup to keep them from being blown away by the wind: "I know."

Peter pulled a paper bag out of his bag, inside which were two steaming hot cheeseburgers.

He handed one over, and Marcus took the hamburger without even asking Peter's purpose.

"I don't know you." Marcus picked up the hamburger, tore open the wrapper, took a bite, chewed twice, and swallowed.

"You may not know me, but I know who you are."

"Do you know who I am?" he asked, mumbling as he wolfed down his hamburger.

As a homeless man, one of the worst off among homeless people, he hadn't had a decent hot meal in a long time.

"Marcus Foster." Peter sat down next to him, tearing a small hole in the paper bag of another hamburger to let the steam escape. "Former Delta."

"Afghanistan, Kandahar province, second deployment. IED blew up your Humvee, and one of your legs."

Marcus slowed his chewing: "What else do you know?"

"After you returned to China, your wife told you that she had been struggling on her own for two years and was exhausted. You felt guilty, so you gave her all the compensation money. You thought she just needed time to adjust to your disability, but you only found out after that man had lived in your house for a month."

Marcus put down his hamburger and looked at the graffiti covering the bridge pier: "I hit him, broke three of his ribs with my still-present leg. That bitch called the police, and the judge ruled it domestic violence. The house was awarded to her by the court. Custody of our daughter was also awarded to her because I'm 'violent.' Ha, what guy who's killed doesn't have violent tendencies?"

"What's your daughter's name?" Peter asked, feigning ignorance.

Marcus's throat bobbed. "Lily is six years old and in first grade. I pay two thousand dollars a month in child support, but my pension is only eighteen thousand. The pension that the military deposits into my account every month is immediately deducted from my account."

So, as you can see, I have nothing left, just waiting to die in this godforsaken place. Haha, I gave my youth to this country, carried out missions amidst gunfire, and even lost a leg, and this is the end result I get.

He pulled a photo out of his pocket; it showed a little girl with a ponytail, missing a front tooth, and a bright smile.

Peter took it, glanced at it, and handed it back to him.

Marcus finished his hamburger, squinted, leaned against the cold concrete bridge pier, licked the crumbs from between his teeth, and asked, "So, what brings you to this homeless man like me? I don't think there's anything worth paying attention to in a broken-legged delta."

Peter casually tossed the hamburger wrapper into a nearby trash heap: "I need people to work for me."

Marcus laughed as if he'd heard a joke: "Hahaha, bro, are you making fun of me? There are tons of retired special forces soldiers who are more capable and healthier than me."

He patted the pants on his broken leg: "If you said you were here to capture a nobody like me to do human experiments, I'd believe you."

Then, as if he had just realized something, he looked at Peter warily: "You wouldn't actually be one of those human traffickers who kidnap homeless people and sell them to those unscrupulous companies for human experimentation, would you?"

Peter was amused by him: "If I really did that, wouldn't you faint after eating my burger?"

Marcus lowered his guard: "True, if anyone really wanted me, I wouldn't be alive today. But I still don't understand why you came looking for me, a homeless man with only one leg. In this country, you can find anyone if you have the money. Wait, you didn't come to me because you're poor, did you?"

Peter glanced at the burn marks on Marcus's bare arm: "Your file shows that after the vehicle caught fire, you dragged three people who had been knocked unconscious by the explosion to safety, despite having a nearly severed leg. I admire that quality of not abandoning your teammates; I believe a person's character is more important than their ability."

Marcus still thought Peter had lost his mind: "What can a one-legged veteran do? Train your soldiers? You might as well find retired instructors from special forces units instead of a regular soldier."

"If I told you I could heal your leg—not a prosthesis, but a real one—would you believe me?"

Marcus turned and looked at him. His eyes seemed to say, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I don't believe it."

Peter picked up a stone from beside the bridge pier and held it in his hand.

A sickening cracking sound escaped from between Peter's fingers as the entire stone was slowly and evenly ground into powder in his palm. It was as if an invisible hydraulic press was compressing his fist; the hardness of bone clashed silently with the hardness of mineral, and the stone was defeated.

Marcus stared wide-eyed at this world-shaking scene, while Peter said in a casual tone, "Genetic modification, nothing surprising."

Marcus swallowed hard, his gaze shifting between his broken leg and Peter's well-muscled hand that had crushed the stone.

He excitedly said, "From now on, you're my boss. You can tell me who to kill, and I'll kill them."

"Working for me is a very dangerous thing, and it might even harm the interests of the country. Have you really thought this through?"

Marcus nonchalantly patted his empty trouser leg: "I don't know if you can understand a disabled person's longing for a healthy body, which is enough for me to sell my ridiculous, pathetic, and worthless life."

As for harming national interests, you've probably seen what I've given to the United States, and what it has given me in return. Such a country is not worthy of my loyalty.

Peter nodded. "Then let's talk about compensation. The monthly salary is $50,000 after tax, plus bonuses. As a part-time offer, I can use some of my resources to help you win custody of your daughter from your ex-wife."

Upon hearing this, Marcus abruptly stood up, propped himself up on one leg, and saluted Peter: "Onion! Orange!"