"I have multiples girlfriends in Marvel."

Ten minutes. A raging beast of a man. A steel cage.

How should someone spend that kind of time?

Ethan Cole thought for a moment—then decided to read a comic.

Smartphones weren't widespread yet; if they were, he could've killed time with novels or short videos. But here he was, ten meters above the cage floor, flipping through the pages of Iron Man vs. Captain America.

Below, Big Mac McGregor clumsily jumped a few times, trying to reach him. But the crowd could clearly see—he was just making a fool of himself.

Ten meters? Even Captain America couldn't jump that high.

"Get down, you bastard! Get down here!"

"You coward! All you know how to do is hide? If you've got guts, come down here and let me turn your head into a soccer ball!"

"Stupid monkey! You'll come down sooner or later—and when you do, it's over!"

Helpless, McGregor could only rage from below.

The organizers hadn't prepared for this. No one had expected someone to actually climb to the top of the cage, and now they were scrambling to decide what to do.

But the crowd reacted first.

They didn't pay to watch a monkey hanging upside down while a gorilla bounced around under it. They came for a fight. Blood. Violence. Chaos.

And since Ethan was just hanging there, easy to see, but too far to reach, they turned to what they could do—throw things.

Popcorn. Soda cans. Beer bottles. Bras.

They hadn't been able to throw anything earlier because of the distance. Now, with Ethan high up and in plain view, it became open season.

It didn't count as interfering with the match.

And just like that, a storm of trash rained down on him from all directions.

But ten meters was just too high, and the audience struggled to throw that far. Most of the trash either smacked against the cage and bounced off or flew too high and landed back in the ring.

Bang! Crash! Boom!

For a while, the cage echoed with the sound of impacts, and the ring turned into a garbage pit—shattered beer bottles, bits of food, soda splashes everywhere.

In the center of it all, the once-mighty Big Mac McGregor now had a sanitary pad stuck to his head, popcorn down his shirt, and hamburger lettuce clinging to his shoulder.

He looked like a homeless man who'd just lost a fight to a trash compactor.

And by this point, only two minutes had passed since the match began. Eight whole minutes still remained.

The organizers realized the chaos couldn't continue, so after some scrambling, they announced a new rule:

> "If the two fighters go more than two minutes without physical contact, it will be declared a passive match—and neither of them gets the prize money!"

Time was ticking down—less than ten seconds left to hit that two-minute mark. The crowd cheered, clearly aware this rule was aimed straight at Ethan Cole.

"You're not getting out of this one, Ironhead! We'll void your payout if you keep hiding!"

The crowd was thrilled by the announcement, but Ethan was unimpressed.

Changing the rules mid-match? That's how you want to play?

In one fluid move, Ethan dropped from the top of the cage, used McGregor's head as a springboard, flipped off it, stepped onto the railing, and vaulted back to the ceiling—once again hanging upside-down and flipping open his manga.

Fine. If you're going to cheat, then I'll cheat with style.

Dropping down every minute wasn't that hard.

McGregor, now even more humiliated, stomped and raged below. He couldn't do a thing but curse up at Ethan, who was calmly reading above.

The organizers panicked and began whispering again, clearly trying to come up with another rule to stop Ethan's antics.

But Ethan, hanging from the cage and feeling bored, decided enough was enough.

He'd only wanted the $3000 for the three-minute challenge to cover his date with Gwen. The ten-minute extension and massive payout was just something he'd blurted out without thinking.

But he hadn't expected the organizers to keep changing the rules mid-match. That just killed the fun.

Before the referee could even open his mouth, Ethan Cole dropped down again, landing silently behind McGregor.

Before the towering man could react, Ethan struck with the edge of his hand, a sharp chop to the neck.

The impact made McGregor's thick neck muscles spasm—and with a heavy thud, his body crashed to the mat like a felled beast.

The referee froze, mid-breath, unable to finish his announcement.

And just then, exactly three minutes had passed.

> "Alright," Ethan said flatly, dusting off his hands. "Forget your shady extra rules. Time's up. Open the cage and hand over my prize money."

The crowd erupted—and not with cheers.

> "What the hell?! Is this rigged?"

"A guy that size, dropped by one hit?"

"What is this, Captain America fanfiction?"

"REFUND!"

"You fix matches now?! I'll sue you, you scammers!"

Most of the audience had bet big on McGregor. Seeing him flattened by a single blow was too much to take.

The place was chaos. And the poor referee just stood there, completely stunned.

But Ethan didn't wait around.

Grabbing the nearest cage railing, he pulled with one arm. Creak—he pried open a gap wide enough for a person to walk through.

He stepped out calmly and patted the dazed referee on the shoulder.

> "Where's the office? I'm here to collect."

Still dumbfounded, the referee pointed down a hallway. Cold sweat trickled down his back.

Who was this guy in the Iron Man helmet? Could he really be…? No, that strength—it wasn't normal.

Ethan, unbothered by the suspicion or the chaos erupting behind him, walked away toward the office.

Along the way, the angry crowd—bitter from their losses—ignored Ethan Cole's performance and hurled whatever they still had in hand: popcorn, soda cups, empty bottles.

This time, instead of taking the hits, Ethan relied on his heightened reflexes.

His senses tingled before each throw, and with casual finesse, he deflected every object using the comic book still in his hand.

It looked effortless—almost artistic.

A few onlookers even started to cheer for him, impressed by his calm and skillful reactions.

But most of the crowd, still bitter over their bets, weren't so easily won over.

Hidden in the chaos, a woman with long hair tucked under a baseball cap quietly watched the scene unfold. Dressed casually, she stood near the back, holding up her phone.

Click. She took a photo of Ethan and glanced down at her screen.

Then, fingers moving quickly, she typed out a message:

> "Sir, I've found someone showing signs of enhanced strength. Continuing surveillance."

She paused, checked it again, then sent it off—to Mr. Coulson.