Marvel: My Warhammer Simulator

Rory pedaled his bicycle at high speed.

Whether on TV or on the Internet, the news about Stark Industries continued to stir. Even the street-mounted TV and the electronic display signs high above were broadcasting reports—on every mobile screen, Tony Stark was the sole protagonist. But, none of that mattered to Rory.

He crossed several familiar streets and arrived at the door of a Chinese restaurant called "Delicious." The restaurant was small and exquisite, and after years of hard work by his aunt, the Chinese Restaurant was pretty renowned throughout Manhattan.

Rory stepped inside, navigated the neatly arranged tables and chairs, and made his way to the counter—even though lunchtime had long passed. In one corner, a group of rednecks dressed as cowboys still feasted. His aunt's superb cooking was legendary; for many Americans with monotonous diets, her food was nothing short of a revelation.

"Good morning, aunt," Rory said as he quickly approached and leaned on the counter. His aunt was seated there with a calculator crackling under her fingertips, sorting through the accounts. Without looking up, she replied sarcastically, "It's one o'clock in the afternoon, Rory—you're late again."

Not very old at all—only about thirty-five—she sported short hair and a crisp white chef's uniform. Her slightly round chin highlighted the neat, determined air of a strong woman. Pausing her calculations, she rolled her eyes at Rory's bright smile.

"Our tool man, Mike has taken a week-long vacation," she explained, pointing to a takeaway box nearby. "So I'm suspending the takeout orders until you deliver these."

Rory's memory flashed to the image of a thin but gluttonous young man he knew from before. "Didn't he always say he wanted to work overtime to learn cooking? Why did he suddenly take a vacation?"

"A few days ago, Mike's seven-year-old brother disappeared…" his aunt sighed, a trace of sarcasm in her tone. "You know how the police operate in the poorer communities. Rich people like Tony Stark are their service objects; Mike can only rely on his relatives and friends."

"If I have time, I'll contact him to help," Rory replied earnestly, then picked up the helmet on the counter. "Aunt, I'm off to deliver the food now." With one hand, he easily hefted the heavy takeaway box and headed out.

"Little rascal …" his aunt called after him, watching his broad, powerful back as she blinked in confusion. "Is it a growth spurt? Or have you been secretly working out? You look stronger!"

- - -

Within 20 minutes Rory delivered most of the orders to regular customers. Who couldn't forget his aunt's cooking.

Now he only had one order left.

After a swift ride through crowded streets, Rory arrived at a recently renovated apartment building. Finding the entrance restricted to residents only, he pressed the call button.

"Excuse me, Mr. Eugene? Your takeout has arrived. Could you please come downstairs to get it?" he said professionally.

"Damn it! Room 403! Bring it to the door!" a slurred male voice barked from the device.

Shortly after, the door opened with a chime.

Rory shook his head and sighed. Based on past experience, he guessed the customer was intoxicated. With a shrug, he entered the building with the takeaway box.

knock knock knock!

Soon footsteps approached, and the door swung open with a bang.

An unpleasant mix of alcohol and the musty scent of weed hit him, prompting Rory to frown.

"Your takeout, sir," he said, maintaining a professional smile as he extended the order.

"Hurry... Thank you," mumbled a drunk blond man as he reached out. Before the man could close the door, Rory abruptly pressed his palm against it.

"Sir, takeout is paid upon delivery—you haven't paid yet," Rory explained calmly.

The blond man paused blinking in confusion, then shouted, "Hey, Eugene! Come pay!"

"Pay? What do you mean, pay for takeout?" the man slurred.

Not long after, a towering figure appeared and roughly shoved the drunken man. His eyes were blood red, and he growled fiercely at Rory.

"Hey, kid, you better get out of here…" he threatened.

Rory narrowed his eyes and calmly retrieved his cell phone from his pocket. After a few button presses, he showed it to the imposing, bald man. "Eugene Paul, if you refuse to pay the fee, I'll call the police."

"How do you know my name?" Eugene demanded, his eyes widening. "Who sent you here?!"

Under the dual effects of alcohol and the lingering smell of weed, Eugene's mind was a mess. After looking at Rory closely,

"Rory?" he finally asked. It turned out Eugene Paul was Rory's former high school bully—the one expelled for his past actions.

"The set meal for two is fifty bucks, and the delivery fee is ten," Rory stated, not intending to get engaged with the drunken bully.

"Sixty bucks in total. Thank you for your patronage."

"You... your takeout is late!" Eugene's expression darkened suddenly. "I've been waiting for over an hour!"

"Eugene…" Rory sighed. . "This is just a takeaway. If you're having a hard time, I can treat you to it…"

"Your obviously just looking for trouble, aren't you?" Eugene's face twisted.

Rory narrowed his eyes and tilted his neck, his hands hanging loosely, fingers twitching..

This was starting moves of Catachan combat techniques.

"I just don't plan to pay. What can you do—call the police?" Eugene sneered, his muscular shoulders tensing as he prepared to lunge.

Still the same bully from high school who resented everything about school and those sanctimonious good students.

He now had a convenient punching bag in front of him.

The confrontation hung in the air, as both parties braced for a clash.