The interrogation room felt stifling. Jack leaned back in his chair, his golden eyes lazily scanning the woman sitting across from him. She was composed, professional—even beautiful in a cold, calculated way.
But Jack? He could smell the fear. "Good afternoon, Jack," she said, her voice smooth yet tense.
Jack grinned. "How long did I meditate?"
The woman blinked. "Meditation? I didn't take you for the type who does that."
Jack snorted, resting his chin on his palm. "Huh. Just answer the question, bitch. I'm not myself when I'm hungry."
She visibly tensed. A single bead of sweat rolled down her temple. "It's already 3 PM."
Jack clicked his tongue. "Tch. No wonder I'm starving." His golden eyes flickered toward the one-way mirror. And through it—He saw everything. Behind the one-way mirror, a war was brewing.
General Ross and Nick Fury stood inches from each other, their voices raised in a heated argument. Nearby, William Stryker and his assistant stood between them, attempting to mediate. And across the room? Several world leaders were tuned in through secure video feeds, silently watching.
Fury's expression was one of pure frustration. "I'm telling you, we can't let the military handle him!" Fury snarled. "Every time you people get your hands on something, you fuck it up."
Ross gritted his teeth. "Oh, and S.H.I.E.L.D. has a flawless track record?" he shot back. "Let's not forget, Director, that your little agency has been compromised by the Red Room before. I'm not about to let this psychopath run loose!"
Fury slammed his fist against the table. "You think the military can contain him? Tell me, Ross—how's that been working out for you?" Fury's voice dripped with venom. "Oh, wait. That's right. The last time you idiots tampered with things, we got the fucking Hulk. Where's he now? Oh yeah—vanished. And who lost him?"
Ross's face darkened. Stryker cleared his throat, attempting to defuse the tension. "Gentlemen, if I may—"
But then—Jack's voice rang out from the interrogation room. "How long are you guys gonna argue?"
Ross, Fury, and the others froze. They turned to face the now-cracked mirror.
Inside the interrogation room, the female agent stiffened. "What are you talking about, Jack?" she asked, her voice laced with forced calm.
Jack grinned, flashing his canines. "I'm not talking to you."
And then—Something shifted. It started as a hum. A deep, guttural vibration. Then, the air twisted. The lights flickered. The walls groaned.
And then—It hit them. An overwhelming, suffocating pressure. It was like the weight of a mountain, like the gaze of something far beyond human comprehension. A force of madness. It expanded outward, engulfing the entire base.
Soldiers stumbled in the hallways, clutching their heads. Technicians collapsed at their stations, gasping for air. Even the world leaders watching through the monitors could see it, their screens flickering as their connections wavered.
And then—CRACK.
The one-way mirror shattered into a thousand pieces. Glass rained down like stardust, the shards reflecting the golden glow in Jack's eyes.
But Jack? He wasn't done. The pressure grew. It became heavier, denser. Some of the soldiers outside the interrogation room fell to their knees. It was madness incarnate.
And then, with a voice that echoed through the very walls of the facility, Jack spoke—"I don't like being stared at by hidden figures."
His laughter reverberated through the base. The wailing alarms of the military base screamed through the facility.
But Jack just stood up. With a casual flex of his wrists, the so-called 'mutant suppressor cuffs' shattered like cheap plastic. The reinforced restraints—designed to hold even the strongest of superhumans—were nothing to him. As the last metal fragment clattered to the floor, Jack rolled his shoulders. "Ugh. Finally. Felt like wearing cheap hand-me-downs."
He stepped onto the table, standing above them all like a smug king addressing his subjects. And then—He turned to the interrogator, who was now visibly shaking. "Move. I don't need an NPC to interview me."
The woman flinched. Then, without hesitation, she crawled out of the room, her trembling hands fumbling for the door. Jack watched her go, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. "Smart girl." With a satisfied sigh, he sat down cross-legged on the table, completely at ease.
And then—He pulled his energy back. The suffocating weight, the crushing madness—it all receded in an instant. Like the ocean drawing back after a violent storm.
General Ross, Nick Fury, and William Stryker gasped for air. They looked like drowning men who had finally surfaced. Fury clutched his knees, sweat dripping from his brow. Ross wiped his face, muttering curses under his breath. Stryker remained quiet, but his fists were clenched so tight his knuckles were white.
The monitors broadcasting the world leaders had completely shut down—fried by the sheer pressure of Jack's presence.
The only person in the room who still stood unaffected was—Stryker's assistant. Jack tilted his head, his golden eyes gleaming. "You okay, my love?"
The assistant frowned, confused. "I—yes, I'm fine." She wasn't lying. Unlike the others, Jack didn't let her feel a thing.
Jack chuckled. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze playful yet unreadable. "Call me if you ever wanna go on a date." The assistant adjusted her glasses, her expression unreadable.
Jack waited patiently as the three men slowly regained their composure. Ross, still catching his breath, grabbed his walkie-talkie. "Tighten the perimeter. No one gets in or out."
Jack clicked his tongue. "Tch. Rude. Not even offering me a drink before we talk?" He stretched his arms behind his head. "Okay then. Now that we're all feeling better—let's talk mano a mano. Like gentlemen."
His smirk widened. "Shall we start?" His golden eyes flicked toward Fury. "You first, Fury. Out of courtesy, since I gave you extra work."
Fury slowly stood up, his one eye narrowing. The room fell silent. Then—Fury spoke. "Who the hell are you really, Jack?"
Jack laughed. And the interrogation truly began.
Jack leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, smirking at the three men before him. "Who am I?" His golden eyes gleamed with mischief. "I'm just a monkey who reached enlightenment through rough-and-tumble training and daily abuse from my master."
Fury, still steadied his breath, felt a twinge of frustration. This lunatic. He had heard Jack say this before. And yet—It didn't sound like a lie. It made no sense. But Jack spoke with the certainty of a man who knew something they didn't.
Fury exhaled through his nose, keeping his composure. Then, he asked—"Why did you kill Kingpin? I thought, at the very least, I could take your word."
Jack's shoulders shook. Then—He laughed. "Kekekeke…" His cackling echoed in the interrogation room, sending an eerie chill through the men before him.
"Fury, Fury, Fury... I'm not Batman." He grinned, sharp like a blade. "I'm not smart enough to make contingencies upon contingencies. And mostly? I just can't be bothered to NOT kill them." Jack tilted his head. "I just t-bagged him."
The room fell into a tense silence. Ross, fists clenched, muttered—"Cruel motherfucker."
Jack's expression shifted instantly. His smirk vanished. Then—
"MERCY TO THE GUILTY IS CRUELTY TO THE INNOCENT!" His voice BOOMED. A shockwave of sheer force rattled the walls.
Ross, Fury, and Stryker instinctively took a step back. Their bodies screamed at them to retreat.
Jack's gaze burned like fire. "Don't you dare lump me in with your kind." Ross gritted his teeth but said nothing. Jack scoffed. "You just lost the privilege of interviewing me, Streaker."
Stryker blinked. "It's Stryker."
"Whatever."
Stryker adjusted his tie, regaining his composure. Then, he asked—"Why didn't the mutant suppressant cuffs work on you? Are you some new type of mutant?"
Jack's golden eyes flickered. And then—He saw it. The sins buried deep in Stryker's soul. Memories of experiments on mutantkind. Torture. Manipulation. Indoctrination. Jack didn't say anything. But his smirk changed. It wasn't amusement anymore. It was disgust.
Stryker, unaware of what Jack had just seen, Jack exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Then, with a wide grin, he declared—"Well, I'm Jack Hou. The one and only."
Jack's hand reached for his earring. And then—RUYI JINGU BANG materialized in his grip. A massive staff, humming with raw power. He spun it once, effortlessly. And then—He hopped onto it, perching like a king sitting on his throne.
The soldiers rushed in, alarms still screaming. "STOP HIM!" Jack grinned wide, golden eyes burning with madness. "One last thing!"
Then—BOOM. With a mighty thrust, he extended his staff, rocketing through the ceiling. Concrete and steel shattered. And in an instant—Jack Hou was gone. Leaving behind nothing but chaos.
…
One month had passed.
And in that month—The world had changed. The Golden Peach had taken root in New York City. No one could ignore it anymore. A towering, glowing peach tree stood like a monument, its branches stretching over the city skyline, its golden fruits pulsing with an eerie but undeniable vitality.
Some called it a miracle. Some called it a curse. But the people of New York? They just did what they always did. They adapted.
Several news stations desperately tried to make sense of it all. They sent out reporters, shoving mics in the faces of everyday New Yorkers. And as expected—New Yorkers had their own way of reacting.
A middle-aged man in a cheap suit, carrying a coffee and a bagel, didn't even slow down when the reporter approached. "Sir, sir! What do you think about the Golden Peach growing in Hell's Kitchen? Are you concerned about its effects?"
The man rolled his eyes and took a sip of his coffee. "Lady, I got a meeting in twenty minutes, I got rent due, and my ex-wife is taking my kid to Disneyland without me. You think I give a shit about some magic fruit?"
He walked off.
A short, elderly Puerto Rican woman in a floral dress was pushing a shopping cart filled with groceries. "Ma'am, do you feel safe knowing Jack Hou has taken control of Hell's Kitchen?"
She stopped, squinted at the camera, then snorted. "Chico, you askin' the wrong questions. Safe? Hah! That boy cleaned up the block better than the NYPD ever did. I walk home at night, ain't no junkies tryna rob me. You kiddin' me? I feel safer than ever!"
She pulled a bright golden peach out of her cart. "Also? These peaches? Delicioso. I ain't paid for groceries in weeks!"
She gave the camera a wink and walked away.
A big black guy with a thick Brooklyn accent was sitting on a park bench, eating a peach like an apple. "Excuse me, sir! How do you feel about Jack Hou claiming parts of New York?"
He wiped his mouth and shrugged. "Listen, guy claims my block to maainn—I ain't complainin'. I need that free peach you golden motherfuckers be havin' on!"
He took another big chomp out of the peach. "Ain't never tasted somethin' this good in my life. Shit cures my hangovers, too. You kiddin' me? Jack can have the whole city for all I care."
A scrawny dude in a tinfoil hat and cargo shorts grabbed the mic aggressively. "You don't get it, bro. This is just the beginning. Jack Hou ain't just some random dude! This is an ancient prophecy unfolding before our eyes! The monkey god shit in my dream is real! I been sayin' this for YEARS! Y'all just ain't listening!"
The reporter tried to pull the mic back, but he held on tight. "They don't want you to know! The Golden Peach is a gateway to another dimension! The government is tryna cover it up! The FBI been followin' me since I posted my thread on Reddit!"
The camera cut away.
A cool old man in a purple suit, shades, and a fedora leaned against a lamppost, cigarette between his lips. "Sir, do you think the Golden Peach is dangerous?"
He exhaled slowly, then smirked. "Dangerous?" He took off his shades and looked directly into the camera. "Man, everything in New York is dangerous. The traffic? Dangerous. The rent? Dangerous. Cops? Dangerous."
He put his shades back on. "At least this time? The danger tastes sweet."
He took a bite of a peach and walked away, saxophone case in hand.
Despite the chaos, despite the endless debates on news channels—New York just kept moving. Because that's what New York does. They didn't have time to sit around questioning things.
Jack Hou? He was just another crazy thing in a city already full of crazy things. And honestly? Most of them didn't care. As long as life kept moving, as long as they could go to work, get a drink, and not get stabbed—They could live with a giant golden tree in the middle of Hell's Kitchen.
Hell—Some of them even liked it.
…
In the heart of Golden Peach, Fisk Tower stood transformed. Once a monument to corruption, a criminal empire's fortress, it was now something else entirely—A sanctuary. A temple of power. A monument of defiance.
The Golden Peach Tree had wrapped itself around the entire skyscraper, its massive roots gripping the foundation, its branches weaving through shattered glass and steel, as if nature itself had claimed dominion over the once-despised structure.
The people called it the God Tree.
It had taken Nick Fury a long time to iron out the legal mess. But—With the undeniable evidence of Kingpin's atrocities flooding the internet, the cleanup had become almost effortless.
Even the government, as slow as it was, couldn't ignore it. A lot had changed in a month.
News networks scrambled to revamp their images. Anchors were fired left and right as networks desperately distanced themselves from their past lies. The NYPD was forced into overdrive, but the public trust in them was shattered. Protests continued, debates raged, but Jack Hou's supporters only grew louder.
Yet—No one suffered more than the Daily Bugle. And no one suffered more than J. Jonah Jameson. The Daily Bugle News Program was gone. Bankruptcy had claimed it. All Jameson had left was the paper.
And in that paper—He dedicated every single front page to Jack Hou. Every move Jack made, Jameson criticized it. Every action, Jameson spun it into a crime. Every victory, Jameson painted it as a disaster.
The man was on a personal crusade. Even if the world moved on, even if the people embraced the change—J. Jonah Jameson refused. Jack? Jack didn't even read the paper.
God Tree's top floor—Jack sat cross-legged on the balcony, meditating. His breathing was steady, his energy pulsed through the air. This city—his city—buzzed beneath him. He could feel it. Every street. Every alley. Every block he claimed, every soul he protected.
This was it. This was what he missed. He smiled. 'I did better than my past self.' The soft ding of an elevator broke his focus.
The doors slid open. A woman stepped out. Natalie. Now she is his right hand.
She moved with purpose in a clean, tailored black suit, her posture straight, her expression cool, her presence commanding. She carried herself like a queen. She folded her arms. "Boss," she said. "Madam Gao is here."
Jack cracked his neck, rising to his feet. "Alright," he said. "Let her in."
As Natalie turned to leave, Jack walked toward the balcony's edge. His golden eyes scanned his empire. The towering God Tree, its leaves shimmering in the setting sun. The streets of Golden Peach—his streets. The people walking without fear. This was real. This was his. And soon—It would be more. Much more.
**A/N**
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~🧣KujoW
**A/N**