Departing from the Chinese woman's store, Jerry navigated through deserted alleyways, his dark wizard's robe billowing slightly in the night breeze as he made his way toward a nearby high-crime district. His mind calculated each step of his growing strategy.
Speaking Chinese to the elderly shopkeeper was no accident. It was a deliberate misdirection, part of a carefully constructed false identity.
As Jerry accumulated Little Red Stars and his power grew, his involvement in crime prevention would inevitably escalate. The incidents he tackled would become more significant, drawing increasing attention. Eventually, he would cross the radar of local police, government agencies, and most concerning, S.H.I.E.L.D., with its specialised focus on enhanced individuals.
When that scrutiny intensified, investigators would piece together whatever scraps of information they could find. They would discover that this mysterious wizard who wielded magical powers had, during his first public appearance, spoken flawless, native-level Mandarin Chinese.
People tended to trust conclusions they'd worked hard to reach. An English-speaking figure in wizard's robes and hat, wielding a wand and concealing his face, yet revealing his linguistic background in an unguarded moment? The natural deduction would point to a Chinese child residing in New York.
This false trail would provide a layer of protection, imperfect, perhaps, but a valuable misdirection nonetheless.
Concealing his identity wasn't merely personal vanity but essential protection for those he cared about. Unlike comic book heroes without attachments, Jerry had a loving father and an adorable sister. His power would grow, but they would remain vulnerable. Though not blood relations to his current physical form, eleven years of shared life had made them his only family in this world.
Their unusual family structure sometimes drew curious looks. Three people with three different surnames: Jerry Carmen, Elsa Hathaway, and Haas Witt. The explanation was straightforward but tinged with tragedy.
Elsa and Haas were genuine father and daughter. Shortly after Elsa's birth, her mother had died from medical complications. In memory of his deceased wife, Haas had given his daughter her maternal surname.
Jerry's situation was even more complex. His parents had vanished before he was even a month old, disappearing without explanation or subsequent trace. Haas, who had been close friends with Jerry's father, had stepped forward to raise the orphaned infant as his own son.
That commitment had continued unwaveringly for eleven years. Jerry felt profound gratitude toward Haas; despite retaining memories from his previous life, he had been as helpless as any infant after rebirth, entirely dependent on Haas's protection and care.
At midnight, New York City's streets housed a particular demographic: the homeless seeking shelter, overworked professionals trudging home from late shifts, and young revellers embracing the nightlife. Two other groups also claimed the darkness: criminals exploiting the shadows, and the vigilantes who hunted them.
"Thief! Stop that thief!"
A woman's desperate cry pierced the night's relative quiet. Lucy Bennett, a tabloid reporter, had stayed late organising materials for tomorrow's deadline. Emerging exhausted from the subway station, she'd been deliberately bumped by a passing figure.
Years of city living had honed her instincts. Immediately checking her satchel, she discovered a clean slice through the fabric and her wallet missing. The thief was already sprinting away.
What followed was predictable but no less frustrating. A professional woman in a pencil skirt and heels could not overtake a thief. In desperation, she shouted for assistance, hoping some Good Samaritan might intervene.
The few pedestrians within earshot studiously avoided involvement. No one wished to risk knife wounds for a stranger's wallet.
As Lucy watched the thief's silhouette diminishing with distance, about to vanish around a corner, something extraordinary happened. A strange mist materialised around the fleeing criminal, enveloping him completely.
When Lucy finally reached the spot, breathless and dishevelled, the mist dissipated to reveal her assailant sprawled unconscious on the pavement, her pink wallet still clutched in his limp fingers.
"Almost three o'clock, time to head back," Jerry murmured, checking his watch after neutralising another street thief.
His first night of crime-fighting had yielded modest but satisfying results: four criminal incidents thwarted, earning him nearly 200 Little Red Stars. In the darkened hours, New York harboured countless crimes, from petty theft to serious violence, visible and invisible alike.
Jerry's current limitations were practical rather than magical. Without efficient transportation, his patrol radius remained restricted to neighbourhoods near his home. More significantly, he lacked a reliable method for crime detection, relying on chance encounters rather than systematic intervention.
Unlike Superman, who had superhuman hearing and could detect distress calls across the city, Jerry depended on being in the right place at the right time. Given these constraints, intercepting four crimes in one night represented respectable progress.
Jerry awoke automatically at precisely seven o'clock the following morning. Years of discipline had programmed this biological alarm clock; unless circumstances prevented it, his day invariably began at seven a.m.
He rolled out of bed, donned his exercise clothes, and quietly left the apartment. This early morning excursion wasn't for crimefighting or Little Red Star accumulation, it was for his daily run, the foundation of his physical conditioning.
The muscles that had served him so effectively during last night's confrontations weren't magical gifts but the product of consistent training, developed through daily exertion and countless drops of sweat.
"Good morning, Jerry! Running again, I see!"
"Good morning, Grandpa George!"
Still in the elevator, Jerry exchanged greetings with an elderly neighbour who shared his appreciation for morning activity, albeit at a more sedate pace.
The old man's warm smile reflected the community's general regard for Jerry. A child who willingly rose before dawn to exercise, beginning as early as age four or five, naturally attracted notice. Jerry had cultivated a sterling reputation among the building's residents with his unfailing politeness and readiness to assist with small tasks like garbage disposal or grocery carrying.
Kindness, positivity, optimism, courtesy, helpfulness, academic excellence, athletic dedication, these qualities had become Jerry's public persona over the years. They were also, inadvertently, a source of consternation for neighbouring children whose parents held him up as the exemplar they should emulate.
Forty minutes later, Jerry returned home, his t-shirt damp with exertion. His standard ten-kilometer route had become routine, though at his age and with his shorter stride length, it required more time than an adult would need. The occasional detour to earn Little Red Stars also extended his exercise period.
With his current fitness level, a focused ten-kilometer run would usually take him just under thirty minutes, impressive for his age, but still leaving room for improvement.
He deposited his sweaty clothes directly into the washing machine, activated the automatic cycle, and proceeded to his morning hygiene routine. Ten minutes of efficient showering and grooming later, Jerry emerged refreshed, dressed in comfortable home attire, and wearing a light scarf around his neck to prevent post-exercise chills.
With familiarity, he made his way to the kitchen, ready to prepare breakfast for the household before his father and sister awoke to start their day.