The Perfect Answer

"What sort of sorcery is this, damn it, what is this?!" A bodyguard yelled in panic, the loud gunshots already attracting attention. People scattered, fleeing the dark alleyway, while others, lured by the prospect of promotion and pay raises, cautiously approached. The allure of advancement always drew the paparazzi, no matter the risk.

Everyone reacts differently to the supernatural. When their lives were threatened, the usually composed bodyguards lost their cool completely.

After all, this was the world of the Avengers, not a surge of mutants. Apart from Aiden, there were no mutants here. Perhaps, in the future, Scarlet Witch and Quicksilver might count as two non-mutant mutants.

The remaining seven bodyguards retreated, urging their boss to hurry into the car. One risked his life to check on a comrade who had been impaled through the heart by an iron rod, only to see another deeply embedded in Dale's thigh. He dared not move it, hurriedly pushing his boss into the vehicle instead.

The bodyguard who had noticed Aiden slowly approached the dumpster.

In the dark corner, Aiden saw the looming figure drawing near. Exhausted, he mustered all his strength. The bodyguard behind, protecting his advance, had his arm uncontrollably rise, his finger touching the trigger without pressing, yet the gun fired. His comrade fell forward, dead.

"He's here! The devil's here!" The bodyguard's panicked shout didn't bring aid from the others. They sped off in the Lincoln, not willing to risk their lives, leaving behind only the foolhardy.

The remaining five bodyguards flung open the car doors and scrambled inside the stretch Lincoln and SUV.

Through a gap, Aiden saw everything, forgetting his own peril. The rage in his mind had incinerated his reason. Clenching his left fist and opening his right hand, he pulled upward. The iron rod in Dale's thigh jerked out, much to the horror of the bodyguard attempting to board the vehicle.

"No, please, don't do this, I beg you. I can give you anything, everything you want," Dale screamed from the car, cold sweat on his brow, blood gushing from his thigh, the pain and the bizarre scene overwhelming him.

"Boss!" The bodyguard slammed the car door shut, his hand on the floating iron rod, unable to move it. The tip of the rod pierced Dale's jaw, moving forward with unyielding force.

Dale scrambled backward, crawling to the far left window, fumbling with the door in panic, unable to open it.

The black-clad bodyguard roared, pulling the iron rod suspended in mid-air. Ultimately, he lost control, driving the rod inch by inch into Dale's jaw, slowly at first, then with great force, lifting upward, skewering Dale's head like a candied haw.

Dale's once proud face was now disfigured, eyes split with tears mixed with blood, a tragic death face.

Such were the rules of Hell's Kitchen, where countless lives were lost in its dark alleys. Rich men had no exemption.

Aiden sat down hard on the ground, gasping for air, his back against the wall, his nose filled with the stench of garbage, panting heavily, soaked in sweat as if he'd just taken a bath.

It seemed the rules of Hell's Kitchen suited Aiden well.

Before Aiden could revel in his triumph, the cautious bodyguard who had been tracking him emerged from behind the dumpster. Stunned at the sight of the child, he couldn't fathom that a kid could be behind all this. Could it all have been an illusion? Yet the corpses behind him were real.

And there sat Aiden, drenched in sweat, pale as death, invoking a protective instinct.

"I heard gunshots, I'm so scared," Aiden stammered, hands raised, voice breaking, tears streaming down his face as he faced the dark barrel of the gun.

Aiden was no Oscar-winning actor, but his exhaustion from overusing his abilities made his terror seem genuine.

The bodyguard swallowed hard, his gun hand trembling. His fingers straightened and flexed, wrestling with his conscience. Finally, he shut his eyes tight and aimed the gun at Aiden's forehead.

The gunshot shattered the night.

The bodyguard relaxed as if relieved, opening his eyes to see Aiden rolling away. The frail body used its last strength, and with a swift wave of his thin hand, the dazed bodyguard's gun flew from his grasp.

It was the child! The bodyguard's face showed shock, but his next move surprised Aiden. Instead of reaching for the gun, he stepped forward and kicked Aiden in the stomach with brutal force.

The 5- or 6-year-old child flew like a kicked ball, crashing against the wall and tumbling to the ground, blood trickling from his lips, staining them crimson.

The bodyguard, eyes filled with malice, charged, kicking Aiden mercilessly. His actions were no longer those of a bodyguard seeking resolution, but of one venting rage. The terror Aiden had instilled would never be forgotten.

"Freak, mutant, you monster!" The bodyguard's fury, the feeling of life and death hanging by a thread, needed an outlet.

The flash of cameras lit up the alley like lightning, capturing the bodyguard's rage and Aiden's battered state, his little face bloodied and bruised.

"Get out of here! Are you looking for death?" The bodyguard lunged at the paparazzi, intent on seizing their cameras, the evidence of his crime.

As the bodyguard scuffled with the paparazzi, Aiden lay on the ground, his right eye bloodied, his cheek against the cold pavement, his left eye hazy, fingers twitching. The discarded gun on the ground slowly righted itself, the barrel rising, aiming at the bodyguard ripping apart the film.

The bloom of blood and the collapse of the body gave Aiden the perfect answer.