The penthouse was silent, the soft hum of the city outside sounding like white noise to John's ears. He sat at the edge of his bed, face bathed in blue light from the glowing [System] screen hovering in front of him.
[System Notification]
Quest Issued: Cleanse the Streets
Objective: Eliminate 10 street-level criminals
Bonus Objective: ???
Reward:– Spin Mastery +5% Bonus Reward: ???
Status: Active
He stood and went to the mirror. His bruises were fading. The haunted look in his eyes wasn't. But there was something harder there now. Something sharper.
From his closet, he pulled out a simple cap and dark aviator sunglasses. A navy scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face. Nothing special, just enough to make him a shadow.
He slipped on a dark hoodie, black jeans, and worn boots. Low profile. Silent movement. Urban camo.
He took one last look in the mirror.
Not a hero.
Not a symbol.
Just a blade sharpening itself in the dark.
Hell's Kitchen
11:46 PM
The rain had stopped, but the streets still shimmered under the streetlights like an oil-slicked mirror. Trash clung to the corners of alleys. Sirens murmured in the distance, but no one was coming.
Hell's Kitchen had always been like this. Like the underbelly of a corpse.
John moved in silence, sticking to the edges. Listening. Watching.
He found his first test near an alley off 45th. Three men were pushing someone against a wall. The victim—a teen in a delivery uniform—was being patted down while the largest thug waved a crowbar.
John stepped into the mouth of the alley. One step, deliberate.
The men turned. The kid's eyes widened.
"Get lost," the one with the crowbar snapped. "This ain't your business."
John didn't speak. He raised his left hand. The air around his index and middle finger shimmered. A faint pink ripple vibrated outward as Tusk Act 1 manifested beside him—a small, floating, genie-like stand with rotating, spinning pink halo of energy whirling below it.
The thugs flinched. They didn't know what it was, but they felt the pressure.
John pointed forward. A whirling pulse of bright blue energy sparked at his fingertips.
CRACK!
The Spin Bullet launched, fast but not perfectly aimed—it hit the wall near the crowbar thug's head. He ducked, shouting, "What the hell?!"
He readied a second nail, spinning with violent neon blue energy as John directed it. Another shot—this one bored through the shoulder of the second thug, sending him stumbling and screaming as blood spurted like a geyser.
The third rushed him with a snarl, pulling a chipped knife.
John side-stepped, narrowly avoiding the blade, but his footing on the wet alley floor slipped. The thug used it, slamming him into the wall. Pain jolted through his ribs. The knife came up again.
John's hand shot forward, gripping the attacker's wrist—and twisting.
Spin.
The rotation surged through his palm into the thug's arm. The man screamed, dropping the knife as his forearm twitched violently. John followed up with a kick to the stomach, sending the man crashing into trash bins.
But the first thug was already charging, crowbar raised.
John rolled away, breathing hard. Too slow. Too weak. Too unfocused. The Spin helped, but it wasn't enough to dominate a fight yet.
He scanned the alley, mind racing—and his eyes locked on a circular manhole cover lying near a dumpster, halfway dislodged from the recent rain.
His heart beat faster.
Could I…?
He dashed for it, fingers wrapping around the rough iron rim. It was heavy, but liftable.
He focused. Let the rotation build in his arm, coiling from his shoulder to his wrist like a spring winding tighter and tighter.
Spin: Golden Rotation!
"Let's try this."
He hurled it.
The manhole cover left his hand whirling like a disc, edges vibrating, humming with centrifugal force, like a mockery of Captain America's iconic shield. The Stand's energy twisted into it mid-flight, enhancing the spin until the air around it screamed.
THWUNK!
The cover slammed into the crowbar thug's chest, knocking him flat against the alley wall. He didn't move after that.
The cover ricocheted, spinning to a stop at John's feet.
The final thug, the one who'd been twisted earlier, staggered up and ran.
John didn't chase.
He turned to the delivery guy, still frozen.
"Go."
The boy nodded fast, sprinting out of the alley without looking back.
Tusk Act 1 hovered silently beside John, its rotating energy fading slightly as the fight ended. He looked down at the unconscious bodies, then at his hand—still faintly buzzing with aftershock.
[System Update]
Progress: 3/10 Criminals Eliminated
Status: Quest Ongoing
The screen vanished.
John exhaled and pulled the scarf tighter.
The Spin was real. The power was his. He just had to master it. Control it.
And the city had no shortage of criminals to practice on.
He melted back into the shadows.
The night was just beginning.
-<<>o<>>-
The sky was shifting from charcoal gray to a pale blue, the distant hum of the waking city replacing the quiet tension of the night. John Joestar sat atop the unconscious body of a man who had clearly picked the wrong girl to try and mug.
His makeshift disguise—baseball cap, scarf, sunglasses—was soaked with sweat. His hoodie clung to him, torn at the elbow, and there was a dull ache pulsing in his ribs where one of the earlier thugs had managed a lucky swing with a pipe. His breath fogged faintly in the cold air.
"Man," he grumbled, staring down the alley. "Where are all the muggers when you actually want to find them?"
He'd been prowling Hell's Kitchen for hours—his plan was simple: find criminals, beat the hell out of them, and get hands-on experience using the Spin. But turns out real life wasn't a nonstop crime montage. Some hours had passed with nothing but rats and overflowing trash cans.
Still… ten. He'd managed ten. Barely.
As he sat catching his breath, the [System] flickered into view. Cold, static text blinked in front of his eyes.
[Quest Complete]
Objective: Defeat 10 Criminals — ✔
Reward: +5% Mastery in [Spin]
Current Spin Mastery: 10%
Note: Stand Evolution Milestone: 25%
No fanfare. No triumphant music. Just a mechanical acknowledgment of his effort and the path ahead.
John wiped his face with the back of his glove, staring down at his fingertips. The Spin felt… sharper now. More refined. He didn't need to concentrate as hard to get the motion right. The spirals came more naturally, his control over their intensity improving with each encounter.
He glanced at the unconscious man below him—out cold, but alive. He didn't have to spare him, but he didn't want to kill anyone unless they were truly irredeemable.
A scuffle of footsteps behind him made him turn.
The girl.
Young, barely twelve. Eyes wide. She had fled earlier during the fight but now stood frozen at the mouth of the alleyway, staring at him and the strange floating pink creature beside him—Tusk Act 1. Small. Compact. Its eyes glowed faintly, watching her with the same blank stare it always carried.
John didn't say anything.
Neither did she.
After a long pause, she bolted. No scream. No thanks. Just gone.
John exhaled and slowly rose to his feet.
"...Can't blame her."
Tusk hovered beside him silently as he looked up at the sky, now lightening over the rooftops.
"10% down," he murmured. "15% to go."
He turned, his boots echoing off the pavement as he disappeared down the alley, the stand following behind him like a quiet guardian.
There was still a long way to go. But the Spin was growing stronger.
And so was he.
-<>o<>-
John sat alone on the edge of a crumbling rooftop, legs dangling over the side as early morning sun poured golden light across the city. His scarf was pulled down now, his cap pushed back slightly, letting the breeze hit his face. The adrenaline of the night had finally worn off, leaving only fatigue… and a strange sense of peace.
He watched as the streets below slowly filled with life. Dog walkers, coffee vendors, yellow cabs. The world kept turning.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
He frowned. The Speedwagon foundation was calling him, were his parents fine?
He pulled it out, answering without a word.
A calm voice, formal but warm, came through the line.
"John? This is Doctor Waller at the Speedwagon Foundation. I thought you'd want to know... your parents are awake."
John's heart skipped a beat.
No words came at first. Just silence as his eyes widened.
"They're groggy, still recovering—but stable. You can see them today."
He finally nodded, even though she couldn't see it.
"...Thanks," he whispered.
The call ended.
He sat there for a while longer, watching the city.
Then, slowly, he stood up.
Time to go home.