A Red Coat in Hell's Kitchen
In the bustling city, this kind of outfit—casual yet stylish—would barely draw attention. Maybe a few curious glances thanks to the boy's good looks and refined aura.
But in Hell's Kitchen?
A mysterious young man speeding through the streets on a gleaming Ducati motorcycle in the middle of the night?
That was practically an invitation to get robbed.
VROOOM—!
As Sanjid sped toward his destination, the silence behind him was shattered. A pack of roaring motorcycles burst onto the street—dozens of them, howling like wolves.
Their riders wore black and white retro leathers, their bodies covered in tattoos, their hands clutching guns, chains, or iron bats.
They whooped, cheered, and locked eyes on their new prey.
"Heh, only five minutes in and I'm already being targeted. What a warm welcome~"
Sanjid glanced at his rearview mirror, lips curled into a smirk. "Ants."
Meanwhile, Skye, listening in through her headset from afar, let out a low whistle.
She didn't feel sorry for the boy—not at all. She pitied the gang.
Of all the people to mess with, they chose a superhero—worse, one of the Knights of the Round Table.
She knew the boy's demeanor well.
Just like the idol she admired most—the Goddess of Judgment—he had zero tolerance for criminals. His justice was swift, cold, and often fatal.
Not that Skye was some naive do-gooder. She had seen the ugliness of the world.
That's exactly why she idolized Judgment.
Sanjid had no interest in entertaining the trash behind him.
But to the bikers, the boy was already dead meat.
---
"Yo! Check out the little punk up there. Riding a Ducati through Hell's Kitchen? He's just begging for it!"
"Haha! You picked the wrong street, kid—you just rode into hell!"
"Boss! Dibs on him tonight—I like this kind the most!"
"Screw that, I'm first!"
"Shut up, you animals! We're gonna sell this one. You see that skin? That face? That's organ-harvest-grade right there! Prices have gone up too!"
Their twisted laughter echoed down the street, cutting through the night like a blade.
RAT-TAT-TAT!
Someone high on adrenaline fired a burst from an AK, drawing furious curses from the gang's leader.
"YOU IDIOTS! Stop shooting the damn car! It's worth more intact!"
Luckily, the shooter missed—just noise and bravado.
The real hunt hadn't started yet.
---
Sanjid's Ducati pulled to a stop in front of a run-down building on the edge of the district. It looked like an abandoned repair shop: weeds overgrown, plastic sheeting flapping in the wind, and nearby buildings long since deserted.
He swung a leg off the bike, straightened his red coat, and stared at the factory ahead. A cold smile touched his lips.
VROOOM—!
The bikers caught up fast, forming a half-circle around him with their engines snarling. Over a dozen bikes, each with two riders—some with guns drawn, others twirling steel pipes.
One particularly large man—black, muscular, with three silver rings piercing his bottom lip—leaned forward on his handlebars and grinned.
"Well, well. Why'd you stop, pretty boy? Run out of gas? Or just too scared to keep going?"
"Haha! Look at him—scared stiff already. Damn, he's a looker though. This one's prime meat."
"Boss, I'm drooling over here!"
"Shut up and strip the kid already!"
They jeered and howled with laughter.
To them, a teenager surrounded by thirty men with weapons didn't stand a chance. No one ever escaped Hell's Kitchen—not from this deep in.
But as the crude words filled the air, Sanjid's eyes turned icy.
A flicker of cold light danced across his pupils.
---
"Amen," he murmured.
Back in her cramped RV in Central Park, Skye heard the line through her headset and instinctively made the sign of the cross, mock-praying.
Then she grinned.
Those bastards have no idea they just pissed off a literal angel of death.
---
Sanjid turned slowly, unfazed by the dozen weapons pointed at him.
He met the leader's eyes—calm, unblinking, lethal.
A single, flickering streetlamp cast a dim glow over the scene.
But oddly, the light bent around Sanjid, as if drawn toward him.
The air thickened.
The pressure around them dropped like a stone.
It felt like the world itself had paused.
A heavy weight settled on the hearts of every gang member present.
It was as if an invisible hand had gripped their throats.
The laughter stopped.
The bravado drained from their faces.
In that moment, the "prey" looked like something far worse than a predator.
Sanjid's face was half-covered in shadow.
Those glowing ice-blue eyes were no longer human.
They were death.
"You… y-you…"
The gang boss stammered, body trembling violently. He couldn't even finish a sentence.
The others were frozen, guns shaking in their hands.
Then—desperation.
"FIRE—!!" the leader howled, his voice cracking with panic.
But it was too late.
No one could move.
Terror paralyzed their minds and limbs.
They wanted to shoot, but their bodies refused.
Their thoughts drowned in fear and helplessness.
---
"Hell suits you better," Sanjid said softly.
No more talk.
No more mercy.
He raised his hand.
A glowing ice-blue magic circle bloomed in his palm—elegant, intricate, deadly.
In the space of a breath, frost exploded outward.
WHOOSH—!
A wave of pure, freezing energy surged across the street.
In an instant, every person, every bike—everything—was frozen solid.
The entire gang turned into ice statues mid-scream, forever frozen in horror.
The sculpture that remained was titled by fate: "Fear and Despair."
---
Sanjid stepped over the corpses without pause.
There was no emotion on his face.
No guilt.
No satisfaction.
Just another day.
Another dozen scum erased from the world.
Just like ants.
And ahead of him—his real target waited.