Masquerade of Marvel: Chaos Reborn

The gym's shadowed hush wrapped around them like a worn blanket, Jade's quiet ember a steady glow as Jake stood beside her, the Mask still tucked in his pocket. Its weight pressed against his thigh, Jen's presence a green silhouette against the boarded windows—firm, warm, a tether he didn't need to lean on but couldn't ignore. Jade's dare—"Show me—teach me"—rooted into his chest like a spark he couldn't snuff, her hand resting near his on the bench, a bridge he hadn't meant to build. "Teach," he muttered, voice low, the word tasting heavy—his kid, Jen's kid, not just chaos but a chance.

Flatbush wasn't stirring tonight—the air hung soft and thick, green and emerald pulses dimmed across the skyline, leaving the gym a quiet haven in the city's bruised sprawl. Beyond the cracked boards, Church Avenue stretched silent—brownstones stood like weary sentinels, their stoops bare, streetlights casting faint pools of sodium over the chaos-scarred pavement. Jade shifted beside him, her green skin catching the dim light—steady, not flaring, just there—watching him with those eyes—his eyes—sharp and green, daring him to move.

He didn't rush—no flare, no chaos—just eased back onto the bench, the metal creaking under them, his hands resting loose on his knees. "So," he said, voice rough but soft, glancing sidelong at her. "You're channeling it—smashing what's wrong, fixing with your fists. Courthouse wasn't just noise?" Jade nodded, slow, her jaw tightening—a flicker of Jen's resolve, his wildness tempered. "Yeah," she said, voice steady, not a kid's lilt but something forged—Jen's grit, his fire. "Felt it—your green. Like a hum, telling me what's off. Smashed it 'cause it fit."

The words settled slow—not a jolt, not a blast—just a weight sinking deep, stirring something he'd buried under chaos and quips. "Fit," he echoed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the cracked mat beneath their feet. "You're not just breaking—you're aiming. How's it talk to you—this green?" Her eyes flicked to his—sharp, green, unblinking—a spark there, not wild now, but curious, like she was peeling him back too. "Loud," she said, voice low, deliberate—Jen's law in it, his edge softened. "Like a buzz—gets sharp when something's wrong. Courthouse hummed 'til I hit it—quieted after."

The gym's stillness pressed in—weights racked crookedly along the walls, the punching bag sagging in the corner, Flatbush's quiet a cocoon around them. He tilted his head, really looking at her—past the green, the chaos, to the kid with his eyes, Jen's steel, sitting there like she'd carved a space he hadn't known he'd left. "Quiet," he said, voice quieter now, tasting the word—Jade, his daughter, not just a flare but a hum, echoing his chaos with intent. "Mine's loud too—never shuts up. Didn't know it could hush."

Jade's lips twitched—a smirk, faint and sharp, Jen's shadow in it—her hand flexing beside his, the green glow pulsing faint, then dimming—like she was testing it, not flaunting it. "Maybe you ain't listening right," she said, voice steady, a dare in it still, but softer—Jen's steel, his wildness, waiting. "It's loud 'til you let it out—smash what's off, it quiets. Been waiting to see if you'd hear it—teach me how to aim it better." She paused, her hand inching closer—not grabbing, just brushing—a question in the air.

The air hung heavy—Flatbush's quiet stretched, brownstones casting long shadows beyond the boards, the gym's glow a faint heartbeat in the dark. He exhaled, slow and sharp, running a hand over his face. "Aim," he said, the word tugging something loose—Jade, his kid, not just chaos but a why, a hum he hadn't tuned into 'til now. "Didn't aim it myself—just let it run. Smashed 'cause it felt good—didn't think past the noise." He met her gaze, steady—past the green, the dare, to the kid who'd smashed a courthouse and waited for him to show.

Jen stepped closer from the doorway, her heat brushing him, a quiet smile breaking through—grit and warmth, a steady edge cutting through. "She's got your spark," she said, voice a murmur, leaning against a rusted rack—not pushing, just there. "But she's got my aim—wants to hit what matters. Show her, Jake—let her hear it right."

He nodded, slow, the weight shifting—Jade, his daughter, not just a flare but a hum, a chance to tune the chaos he'd let run wild. "Alright," he said, voice rough but steady, sliding the Mask from his pocket—not sliding it on, just holding it, letting its hum settle into his palm. "Let's hear it—your green. What's it buzzing now?" He set the Mask between them on the bench, a bridge—not a weapon, not yet—just there, glowing faint.

Jade's hand hovered over it—not grabbing, just brushing—the green glow in her palms pulsing brighter, then dimming—like she was feeling it, syncing it. "Buzzing soft," she said, voice low, steady—Jen's law, his wildness, finding a rhythm. "Says you're here—says it's waiting too. Been loud 'til now—smashing quieted it, but it's still there. Wants more—wants you to show me what's next." She paused, her hand settling beside the Mask—not touching, just close—a dare softened into trust.

The gym's hush wrapped them—weights racked crookedly, the punching bag still, Flatbush's quiet pressing in like a held breath. He looked at her, really looked—past the green, the chaos, to the kid with his eyes, Jen's steel, daring him to stay. "Next," he said, voice low, the weight settling—Jade, his daughter, not just a flare but a hum, a spark he'd sparked without knowing. "Guess it's quiet 'til we aim it—together. Smashing's easy—fixing's harder. What's off to you now?"

Jade's lips curled—a smirk, faint and sharp, Jen's shadow in it—her hand shifting closer, brushing his, warm and real. "Out there," she said, voice steady, not a kid's lilt but something forged—Jen's grit, his fire. "City's quiet, but it's wrong—people scared, hiding. Been waiting to see if you'd hear it—teach me how to fix it, not just break it." She paused, her eyes locking on his—sharp, green, steady—Jen's steel, his wildness, daring him to move.

Jen stepped closer, her heat brushing him, a quiet smile breaking through—grit and warmth, a steady edge cutting through. "She's daring you, Jake," she said, voice a murmur, resting a hand on his shoulder—not pushing, just there. "Show her—teach her. She's got your chaos—let her have your why too."

He exhaled, slow and sharp, the weight shifting—Jade, his kid, not just chaos but a why, a hum he hadn't tuned into 'til now. "Alright," he said, voice rough but steady, meeting her gaze—past the green, the dare, to the kid who'd smashed a courthouse and waited for him to show. "Let's hear it—aim it. Fix what's off—together. You're my spark—guess I'm yours too."

The gym's quiet wrapped them—weights racked crookedly, the punching bag still, Flatbush's hush pressing in like a held breath. The Mask hummed, low and smug: "Twenty-six and counting, kid. The spark's channeling—gonna guide it?" He stood, the gym a sanctuary of quiet ruin and glowing shadows, Flatbush a battlefield of green and emerald—his kids, his chaos, simmering low. She-Hulk's fire, Rogue's storm, Carol's radiance—the world trembled under his legacy. Thanos loomed, SHIELD hunted, and the X-Men watched. He gripped the Mask, grin sharp as a quiet spark. "Time to guide the flame."