Marvel Template System:Spectrum

After seeing Jessica off with an awkward glance, Chris once again stared at the collectible card with an almost X-ray-like intensity. But no matter how hard he tried, "James Howlett" didn't return to the card.

Of course, he pretended to buy into Jessica's reassurance, but deep down, he didn't believe a word of it.

Chris had definitely seen a new character on his card. And no one could convince him otherwise. It was as real as the old scratches on his door.

Maybe it was some kind of ghost? I mean, it's not like this "phantom" had a specific name for no reason, right? Maybe it was trying to tell him something?

Sighing and stuffing the card into his pocket, Chris hesitated before turning back toward his apartment. Any desire to sleep had long since left him. Well, it had vanished the moment an uninvited guest appeared on his favorite possession. After something like that, all you'd want to do is go to the bathroom...

Anyway, deciding that a walk—his third attempt that day—wouldn't hurt, Chris figured he might as well head to his workplace. It wasn't far, just a couple dozen meters. Maybe Mr. Kramer was still there? In his current state, he probably couldn't carry much, but dealing with the cash register shouldn't be a problem. Maybe it would distract him. After all, it had been a really tough day.

---

- Three hundred bucks, - the sleepy orderly yawned barely audibly. - No less.

- Hey, - Jessica narrowed her eyes, suppressing the urge to just beat the guy in front of her. - I'll give you a hundred. That's enough for you.

- No way... - The orderly abruptly stopped and leaned back slightly when Jessica crushed the bell on the reception desk. With one hand, she turned the metal object into scrap. The clerk swallowed nervously, impressed but not willing to argue. - Payment upfront.

Gritting her teeth, Jessica handed over the crumpled bill and watched as the orderly disappeared into the back rooms with a glare.

Another hundred bucks spent on... well, basically a random stranger.

Jessica Jones never considered herself an altruist or someone who'd help just anyone. "Out of the goodness of her heart" was definitely not her style.

Sure, there might have been moments in her life when she genuinely wanted to help people, but...

It never led to anything good. You could say her ship of "youthful naivety" had crashed into the rocks of harsh reality.

From that moment on, Jessica vowed never to help anyone... ever. Not for free, at least.

So why was Jessica spending her last paycheck, which she had planned to turn into whiskey, on some... random guy?

Jessica couldn't even answer that question herself.

Though, even here, she was lying to herself.

Christopher Wallace was just... like her. Not in his "puppy-like" personality, but in his circumstances.

Jessica's childhood was far from carefree, but Chris had it worse. And yet, he hadn't turned out rotten.

In Chris, she saw... the same ship she had been, full of raging energy. And she also saw the rocks he was inevitably going to crash into, painfully and irreversibly. That's just how their damn world worked.

Jessica really wanted to close her eyes to it. To ignore his hopeful gaze. To just drown her conscience in whiskey, like she always did. But...

Jessica, no matter how she seemed to others, was an incredibly weak person.

And this time, she couldn't overcome herself.

The returning orderly with a folder in his hand snapped her out of her usual depressive thoughts.

- Read it here, in front of me, - he tossed the folder in front of her and sat back down at his desk, returning to his computer game. - You can't take it with you.

- Got it, - Jessica nodded and picked up the folder.

Despite being a pathological alcoholic, Jessica prided herself on her "detective" skills. To really get to know someone, you had to understand their past, their core...

Of course, her conscience didn't bother her about reading "personal" stuff. She'd spent her last savings, meant for booze! You could say she'd sacrificed a piece of her soul! She deserved a reward!

So Jessica, under the guise of going out for a drink, had come to the Manhattan Psychiatric Clinic. All for the sake of one very curious patient.

- Well then, my Biggie Smalls, - Jessica muttered to herself. - Show me what you're hiding from me...

Medical Record No. 1128

Name: Christopher George Latore Wallace...

---

- Who the hell are you? - Chris, deeply annoyed, addressed the group of movers at his workplace. - What the hell are you doing?!

The end of his spontaneous walk was turning into something extraordinary, which was probably becoming a new and integral part of his life. Otherwise, Chris couldn't explain the group of movers busily unloading everything from "his" store.

Of course, Chris couldn't just walk past or stay silent.

- Kid, - the "foreman" or "crew leader" of the group, a cigarette dangling from his lips, frowned. - Don't interfere with us unloading "our" property.

- What are you talking about?! - Chris was getting seriously irritated. - This store belongs to Mr. Kramer!...

- Not anymore.

That last word hit Chris like a bucket of cold water. Now he started paying closer attention to the "movers"...

First of all, they were all white and pretty "intimidating." Stubbled chins, scattered tattoos, and scars. That meant this group was likely tied to the "underground" world. And white gangsters in Harlem were a rare sight. That meant the Irish were back.

- Got it, - Chris tried to keep the tremble out of his voice as he slowly turned around. Maybe he could retreat without losses and regroup with Jessica later…

But only in movies do dumb villains...

- Stop.

That familiar, bone-chilling voice made him freeze in place. Like a puppet, Chris turned his head and saw the face that should've haunted his nightmares. If he'd managed to sleep tonight, that is...

- Johnny, - the gang leader addressed Chris's recent killer. - You know him?

- Yeah, - Johnny shook his head in disbelief, looking Chris up and down. - I shot him...

- In the arm? - The leader glanced pointedly at the cast.

- I'm not sure, - Johnny frowned. - You're coming with me...

- I d-don't w-want any t-trouble... - Chris stammered.

- I don't give a damn, - Johnny roughly grabbed his arm and dragged him into the store.

---

Name: Christopher George Latore Wallace...

Age: 18 (at the time of discharge)

Gender: Male

Date of Birth: August 22, 1988

Residence prior to hospitalization: "Ray of Hope" Orphanage, New York, USA

Period of hospitalization: From age 14 to 18

There was nothing particularly surprising or extraordinary in this data. Well, except for the "loud" name, of course. Jessica still chuckled to herself about that.

But the next section demanded closer attention...

Medical History

Early Symptoms:

From an early age, Christopher Wallace exhibited excessive imagination and fantasies, as noted by the orphanage staff. He often spoke of an "imaginary father" who, according to him, gave him advice and supported him. However, this "father" never existed in reality, as Christopher had been in the orphanage since birth. No figures who could have served as a "prototype" for the "father" were observed.

"An imaginary father born out of loneliness?" - Jessica pondered, analyzing the data at full speed. - "Weird, sure, but not enough to lock a kid in a psych ward."

Honestly, Jessica was trying to find traces of... some kind of injustice. Some form of abuse or excessive overreach. But so far, everything seemed pretty straightforward...

Adolescent Issues:

In his teenage years, the patient's condition worsened. He began experiencing severe and frequent headaches accompanied by visual and auditory hallucinations. Christopher complained of "unreadable" inscriptions that he saw before his eyes and heard in his head. These hallucinations often led to intense emotional stress and anxiety.

"That's it!" - Jessica thought with excitement. - "This is the start!"

Jessica started recalling all the strange moments in Chris's behavior...

"Let's say Chris's ability to 'resurrect' is a clear sign that absolutely ALL his psychological issues have a real basis..." - Jessica closed her eyes, trying to imagine Chris during a panic attack and his reaction to her questions about his resurrection ability. - "He definitely knows where the number 'ten' in his life count comes from. Sometimes his gaze wavers or loses focus, especially when asked about his remaining lives. Maybe the 'hallucinations' are the answer to that? The number just... appears in his head or before his eyes. Though... in his teenage years, he couldn't decipher them. Some kind of 'maturity' limitation? Unclear..."

But the next part of his "biography" made Jessica frown with concern.

The situation worsened with uncontrollable outbursts of aggression. The patient exhibited sharp and unpredictable mood swings, often flying into rages for no apparent reason. In moments of anger, he became uncontrollable, causing physical harm to himself and others. These outbursts were the reason Christopher Wallace was transferred to the Manhattan Psychiatric Center. In such cases, medical intervention was necessary to calm him down.

"Chris wasn't locked up for no reason... And government experiments have nothing to do with it, if the medical record is to be believed." - Jessica bit her lip. - "Chris is dangerous. Truly dangerous to others..."

---

- Hmm... - The leader of the Irish gang eyed Chris skeptically. - I thought he was supposed to be dead.

- Me too! - Johnny chimed in, relieved that the second person involved in "that" incident confirmed his suspicions. - The bullet definitely didn't hit his arm!

And Chris... Chris couldn't care less about their little dialogue deciding his fate.

Because in the corner of the storeroom, which also served as the only office, lay a body wrapped in garbage bags. Most of the torso and head were covered in black bags, but the leather shoes—one of the few things Mr. Kramer never skimped on—were visible.

- You... - Chris whispered hollowly. - You killed him.

- Correct, - the gang leader nodded. - And you're going to join him...

He raised his gun and pulled the trigger...

BANG!

God's Hand: Twelve Great Feats [9/12]

- WHAT THE HELL?! - The gang leader jumped to his feet. - How the hell did this loser come back from the dead?!

SYNCHRONIZATION: 9%

Phantasm [Rank: C]: Mad Enhancement

RESONANCE!

SYNCHRONIZATION: 11% (PHASE II)

- I'll turn you into fucking pulp! - Chris roared furiously, trying to stand. - I'll kill you all, you bastards!

- Johnny!...

- Got it, boss!...

BANG!

The gunshot echoed through the narrow space once again. But this time, the gang leader and his right-hand man were left gaping at the result. Because...

The bullet, embedded an inch into Chris's forehead, just hung there. A second later, it fell to the ground, leaving behind a not-so-pretty wound.

- Die! - Chris roared and in one lightning-fast move, closed the distance to Johnny, his first killer.

This time, the swing was perfect. Almost on an instinctive level, his fist followed the most optimal trajectory.

A fraction of a second and...

BANG!

Johnny's head exploded like a watermelon, and his body instantly collapsed.

- Th-this... - The gang leader slowly backed toward the exit. - Th-this...

- THIS! IS! YOUR! - Completely unhinged, Chris roared at the top of his lungs. - DEATH!

SYNCHRONIZATION: 13%