Marvel's whitewashing cop, you want me to save the world?

New York is bustling at night.

The lights of Manhattan stretch from Lower Manhattan to Upper Manhattan, with ribbons of light weaving between buildings.

The subway vibrated as it rose from underground, and the sound of police sirens drifted from a block only to be torn apart by the wind.

People lining up outside the bar smiled at their phone screens, their faces reflecting blue and white light.

Hell's Kitchen is more lively than anywhere else.

Sporadic gunshots could be heard from the port, and could be heard several blocks away.

Tonight, it's not just Port 12 and Port 10 that are bustling.

At Port 8, someone threw two bags of flour into the water.

At Port 6, someone dragged a body out from behind a shipping container. The body was wrapped in plastic sheeting and taped three times.

But only the 10th port saw deaths.

After the shooting, no one collected the body; it lay there until the police arrived. Blue and red lights spun around the dock for most of the night.

The top floor of a high-rise building on Fifth Avenue.

The carpet absorbed all the footsteps.

The office door was suddenly pushed open, slamming against the buffer behind it with a dull thud.

A bald man rushed in.

He was tall and robust, his shoulders stretched the black suit's shoulder line, his tie was neatly tied, and the top button of his shirt collar was fastened.

But his posture when he entered didn't match his physique.

He leaned forward, tucked his chin slightly, and scanned the floor before raising his head.

A desk sits in front of the panoramic floor-to-ceiling window, its surface so spacious you could play billiards on it.

There were several stacks of cash, a half-finished energy drink, and a small mirror on the table, with white powder residue on its surface.

Frank Amick was bent over, his nose pressed against the table.

He suddenly raised his head, his upper body jerking backward.

His nostrils flared twice, he rubbed his nose with his fingers, his eyes were half-open, his pupils were wide open, and the surface of his eyeballs was covered with a layer of moisture.

He glanced towards the doorway, his lips twitching slightly before relaxing.

"Boss." The bald man stood at the door, not stepping in. He crossed his arms in front of him, his fingers interlocked, his body ramrod straight, and his chin tucked in.

He was a size larger than Amick, with broader shoulders, a thicker neck, and a larger fist.

But his eyes betrayed him.

The pupils trembled slightly in their sockets, like a string that had been stretched too tight.

When he looked at Amick, he dared not look directly into the other's eyes, his gaze always shifting between his chin and chest.

"The port is bustling today."

The bald man's voice wasn't loud, but the last syllable rose slightly.

Amick did not respond immediately; his body was still trembling slightly.

He unconsciously traced two lines on the table with his fingers, then clenched his fist and then relaxed it.

He turned the small mirror on the table upside down, patted the remaining powder off his palm, and looked up.

"Boss, Port 10 has been attacked." He spoke faster than usual.

"All of today's goods have escaped; they've suffered a significant loss." The bald man's back straightened.

Amick's eyelids twitched, and he turned and walked towards the window.

The city lights outside the floor-to-ceiling windows cast a long shadow on the floor behind him.

A leather golf bag stood in the corner, with a small gold ball pendant hanging from the zipper.

The Tenth Port was the territory of the Razor Gang and a gathering place for black people who did dirty business.

Human trafficking, ugh.

Only trash like them would do such inhumane things.

He's in a business that provides a source of joy for New York, far more sophisticated than those Black people.

He unzipped his jacket, pulled out an iron bar, and weighed the bar in his hand a couple of times.

Hold the end of the grip and gently swing the club in a half-circle through the air.

"Who did it?"

"It's that masked man wearing a headscarf."

Amick gripped the cue stick with both hands, turned around to look at the bald man at the door, and rested the cue stick head up on his shoulder.

"This isn't something worth discussing."

It's been more than half a year.

The masked man with the black headscarf would appear from time to time, disrupting several transactions and overturning several batches of goods.

The technique is the same every time.

They appear at night, beat up a few people, dump them at the police station entrance, and then disappear.

These kinds of lunatics pop up in New York from time to time.

After a while, it will either die, disappear, or become something else.

Nobody bothers to deal with them; it's not worth it.

The bald man swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.

His gaze moved from Amick's face to the tip of the club, and then back again.

"Boss, our port has also been attacked." He lowered his voice even further.

"One of his men died, and the black boy ran away."

boom.

The cue stick swung out and hit the vase next to the desk.

The vase shattered into more than a dozen pieces. The white porcelain shards flew out, bounced a few times on the ground, and one piece bounced off the bald man's leather shoe.

Water flowed out and slowly trickled along the cracks in the floor. A few lilies lay fallen among the broken porcelain shards, their petals covered in dust.

Amick's arms were bulging with veins, stretching from the back of his hands all the way to his sleeves.

His pupils dilated again, the black part almost filling the entire eyeball, leaving only a thin, dark brown edge.

"Investigate," he forced out through clenched teeth. "Find this person for me."

"Boss, the people who attacked us and that masked man might not be working together."

The bald man finally blurted out those words, speaking very quickly, as if afraid he wouldn't be able to say them if he spoke too slowly.

"That guy never kills anyone, but this time someone died."

Amick walked toward the bald man.

The leather shoes crunched on the broken porcelain shards, each step firm and deliberate.

He walked up to the bald man and stopped.

He was about half a head shorter than the bald man, but the bald man slightly bent his knees as he approached, making his line of sight level with the other man's.

Amick slightly raised his chin and stared into the bald man's eyes.

His lips started twitching, once on the left, once on the right, as if something was crawling under his skin.

What do you mean by "not part of the same group"?

He put down his cue, leaned against the wall, and stretched out his left hand. The tip of his index finger touched the center of the bald man's chest, and through the shirt and suit, his fingernail pressed a dent into the fabric.

"Whoever it is," he pointed forward, "find them all and throw them into the sea."

His eyes were fixed on the bald man's pupils, his lips stopped twitching, and he suddenly became quiet.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes, boss."

The bald man turned around, opened the door, and walked out.

As the door closed behind him, he gripped the handle with both hands and pushed the latch back into the door frame without making a sound.

The moment the door closed, a muffled thud came from the room behind.

It felt like a golf club slamming onto a desk, or a fist pounding on a wall.

Then came a crashing sound as things on the table were swept to the floor—metal, glass, plastic—each material making different sounds as it collided on the ground.

The bald man's lips twitched down slightly, then he lifted them up and twitched them down again.

He reached up and wiped the sweat from his forehead, rubbing the back of his hand against his forehead twice; it was wet.

He stood there for a few seconds, waiting for his breathing to catch up, then turned and walked toward the elevator.

The lights in the corridor turned on one by one as he passed by, and went out one by one behind him.

He took out his phone, found a number, and dialed it.

"Release the message and find the person."

"Stop talking nonsense, you know the consequences if we can't find them!"

……