Marvel: Open Up, It’s the FBI

Hell's Kitchen – A Back-Alley Clinic

"You took three bullets? That's no small feat."

The doctor muttered as he injected a local anesthetic into the man's shoulder. The man—Adam—was shirtless, his left shoulder riddled with three bloody holes.

"I thought you could teleport," the doctor added while sterilizing his tools. "How the hell did someone manage to hit you?"

Adam gritted his teeth, rage flashing in his eyes. "Those two bastards weren't ordinary. One kept forcing me to teleport, the other was analyzing my pattern. I don't know how, but they figured out where I'd appear next and hit me mid-jump."

He clenched his fists. "If that guy hadn't run out of bullets when I popped up in front of him, I'd be dead right now."

The doctor raised a brow as he dug a pair of forceps into the first wound. Adam winced and cursed.

"Don't give me that look," the doctor said. "This is a damn black market clinic in Hell's Kitchen, not a fully equipped trauma center. You want sterile ORs and cutting-edge tech? Go to a real hospital."

Adam snorted but said nothing, enduring the pain as metal scraped against bone and sinew.

Eventually, the doctor fished out all three bullets and stitched the wounds. He then hooked Adam up to a blood bag.

"You're lucky," the doctor muttered. "You left a blood type record last time you crawled in here. Otherwise, you'd be a dried husk by now."

"What I'm more worried about is infection," Adam grumbled. "You're doing surgery in a place with no sterile tools or—"

"Cry me a river," the doctor cut in. "Do you know how hard it is to find someone willing to treat mutants without reporting them? You want perfection? Try not getting shot next time."

Before Adam could respond, his eyes snapped toward the wall-mounted TV.

On screen was a news segment—footage of Tony Stark's rescue playing in the background. The camera panned across the crowd at the FBI's New York headquarters. Then the image froze on Lynn Hall's face.

Adam's teeth clenched so hard they audibly ground together.

"That him?" the doctor asked, following Adam's death glare.

"Shit," the doctor muttered. "Tell me you didn't just target the FBI."

Adam didn't answer.

"Are you insane?" The doctor ripped the blood line from the IV bag. "You took a hit on a federal agent?! Get out! You want to die, fine—but don't drag me down with you!"

"He wasn't my target!" Adam barked. "Things went sideways."

He quickly explained what had happened.

"Idiot," the doctor muttered. "You kill your target, and instead of disappearing like a sane assassin, you unload into the crowd like a goddamn terrorist?!"

"Do you have any idea how much heat that kind of attack draws—even if the FBI agent hadn't been there?"

Adam fell silent.

After a moment, his voice dropped, bitter and low. "I lost control…"

He clenched his jaw.

"Why do they get to live normal lives? Why do they get to go to coffee shops, concerts, enjoy life… while we hide in sewers and take dirty jobs just to survive?"

"We're mutants. We're superior. We're the chosen ones. And yet…"

The doctor let out a long sigh. "Once your transfusion's done, get out. Don't tell me where you're going. And don't come back."

"Trust me," he added grimly. "If those 'hyenas' sniff out you were here, there won't be anything I can do."

Adam didn't respond. His rage dimmed slightly, replaced by silence. Then he nodded.

"…Thanks."

---

Later That Night – Crime Scene, New York City

"Uncle George, Gwen's fine. She's just… shaken up."

Lynn stood beside George Stacy, supporting a trembling Gwen. Her knuckles were white where she clung to his sleeve.

"Thank God…"

George let out a sigh of relief when he saw his daughter safe.

But his expression hardened again as he glanced at the chaos around them—bodies, blood, screams.

"What happened?" he asked Lynn quietly.

"It was a mutant," Lynn replied bluntly.

He explained what he'd seen, quickly but clearly. Then he turned and waved over one of his field agents—Sean.

"Uncle George," Lynn continued, "given the nature of the attack, it qualifies as a terrorist act. The FBI will be taking jurisdiction."

George looked around the blood-soaked venue and nodded slowly. "Honestly, that might be for the best."

It had already made a massive public splash—no way to sweep it under the rug. If NYPD handled it, the political fallout could burn him personally. With the FBI taking over, it could be resolved quickly… at least on paper.

"You sure this won't blow back on you?"

Lynn shook his head. "Don't worry. We've handled worse. Plus, S.H.I.E.L.D. had an agent on site. If things get sticky, we'll lean on their resources."

George understood the subtext immediately.

With that, he began directing NYPD officers to assist FBI agents while preparing to head home.

Lynn stepped forward again.

"Uncle George," he said, "I'd like Gwen to stay with me tonight. I've already arranged for one of our agency psychologists to meet us at my place. It'll be better than bringing her straight home."

George glanced at his daughter—clinging to Lynn's arm, visibly shaken, lips pale, eyes hollow.

He sighed. "Alright. Take care of her."

"I will," Lynn promised, and ushered Gwen into his Chevrolet.

---

In the Car

"Alright, drop the act."

Lynn glanced sideways, one hand on the wheel.

In the passenger seat, Gwen was still clutching her arms, trembling like a leaf.

But at Lynn's words, the facade cracked.

"…You could tell?"

The fear slowly drained from her expression, replaced by a sheepish smile.

"I taught you how to handle a firearm," Lynn said. "The last time you claimed to be scared, you still had the presence of mind to sneak into my bed."

"You're definitely brave enough not to freeze like that."

"Ugh. Then… did Dad notice too?"

Gwen deflated, disappointed. "I thought I was convincing. Though, to be fair, when the gunshots first rang out—I was scared."

Lynn didn't respond.

He merely smiled faintly and focused on the road.

But he noticed—behind Gwen's relaxed expression, her hands were still trembling.

She wasn't pretending—not entirely.