The wind brushed against the rooftop, carrying with it the chill of the early morning. John Joestar crouched near the edge, overlooking the city as it yawned awake. His silhouette was no longer that of a boy in a hospital gown.
Now, he looked like a ghost in the city.
A dark tactical hoodie lined with bulletproof Kevlar hugged his frame beneath a matte-black windbreaker. A half-face mask covered the lower part of his face, filtering his breath and muting his voice. His old scarf was still wrapped around his neck, more sentimental now than practical.
But the most notable addition rested in a custom holster across his belt: a pair of gleaming Steel Balls, polished but matte-finished, forged from tungsten carbide alloy. They were heavier than anything he had practiced with before, but in his hand, they felt right.
Modern metallurgy had done what the Zeppeli lineage could only dream of. The durability. The balance. The potential.
He turned one of the spheres over in his hand, letting the light of dawn reflect softly off its surface.
"Steel Balls. Not exactly a Zeppeli family heirloom… but close enough."
These weren't relics from the past. These were weapons for a new era.
With 20% Spin Mastery now under his belt, every throw hummed with a charge that wasn't quite electricity, but something deeper—something primal. The vibration, the pull, the perfect arc. He had felt the rhythm coming together during last night's training.
The Golden Rotation.
The memory of the Fibonacci spiral was etched into his mind. 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13… that sacred geometry of nature. He had practiced the motion for hours, aching muscles screaming at him, until his hands stopped trembling and the Spin flowed like water through a perfect curve.
He could feel it now—still not quite there, but close.
Tusk floated beside him, partially translucent in the morning haze. Tusk Act 1, compact and small, perched on his shoulder like a silent observer, as if waiting for what came next.
Then the police scanner—rigged and hidden inside a customized earpiece—crackled to life.
"Code 707 at Fifth and Lexington, 12th Street. Armed robbery in progress. Multiple suspects, hostages confirmed. SWAT enroute. ETA 8 minutes."
John stood up slowly, eyes narrowing.
"Eight minutes is a long time for scared people to stay alive."
He grabbed one of the Steel Balls, feeling the Spin begin to pulse inside it with a low hum.
Hell's Kitchen had been warm-up.
Now it was time to really test what he had learned.
The engine roared beneath him like a caged beast.
John Joestar weaved through the early morning traffic on a matte-black Ducati, one of his father's prized sports bikes. The Speedwagon Foundation's basement garage was full of machines like this—luxury and performance wrapped in steel. Joseph had always preferred the old-school muscle cars, but he kept a few bikes around "just in case."
This was that case.
John leaned forward, the wind biting at his scarf as the city blurred around him. His mind was focused, but tense. The hostage situation was happening in a downtown bank. Five armed suspects. Innocents at gunpoint. SWAT was still en route.
Not fast enough.
As he approached the scene, red and blue lights painted the streets. Police had already set up a barricade two blocks away. Armed officers stood by anxiously, waiting for backup.
John swerved down a narrow alleyway and killed the engine. He stashed the bike behind a dumpster and slipped into the shadows, scaling a fire escape with practiced ease. Within seconds, he was on the rooftop, overlooking the chaos below.
John didn't wait. He crossed the rooftop and leapt to the bank's upper floor balcony, slipping inside through an open maintenance hatch. The halls were eerily quiet.
Five robbers.
He took position above the main lobby and peered down. Two were watching the hostages—terrified civilians huddled on the ground—while the other three were sweeping the perimeter, weapons drawn. All heavily armed. Body armor. Semi-automatics. No amateurs.
John drew a Steel Ball, letting it rest in his palm. He breathed deeply, feeling the rhythmic hum of the Spin begin in his fingertips. He dropped silently behind the first patrolling robber, tapping his shoulder.
The man turned—
Whirr—CRACK!
The Steel Ball smashed into his ribs, throwing him into the wall with bone-crunching force. He didn't get up.
"Jake?! You good?" one of the robbers shouted, raising his rifle.
John hurled another ball from the shadows. It spiraled perfectly, slamming into the gun barrel and bending it upward. Before the thug could scream, John charged and drove a knee into his gut, snatching the weapon and tossing it aside.
The third robber, bigger than the others, stormed in from a side hallway. He roared and rushed John with surprising speed. They collided, fists and knees trading rapid blows. The thug slammed John into a desk. John countered with a spinning elbow and summoned Tusk Act 1.
A Nail Bullet fired—straight into the thug's shoulder. He howled, retaliating with a wild swing. John ducked, rolled, and swept the man's legs. Another bullet to the thigh finished it.
Three down.
But the noise had drawn attention. The final two guards by the hostages snapped to alert. One started firing wildly toward the shadows where John had disappeared. Screams erupted. John moved fast.
He launched a Steel Ball from cover. It ricocheted off a column, a chair, then slammed into the shooter's hand, shattering it and knocking the gun free. The second thug ran forward, grabbing a hostage and pressing a gun to their head.
"Back off or she dies!" he shouted.
John emerged slowly, hands raised, eyes on the girl.
"Let her go," John said. "You're outmatched."
The man's finger tightened on the trigger. John fired a Nail Bullet at the floor beneath him. It drilled into the ground, spinning furiously, and then burst upward like a geyser, slamming into the thug's jaw from below.
He dropped.
The girl screamed but was unharmed. John stepped in, helping her back.
"It's over," he muttered.
But it wasn't.
The final robber, the leader, staggered to his feet from where he'd been hiding near the vault. He wasn't out yet. Blood dripped from a cracked helmet. He held a military-grade rifle and snarled as he aimed.
"You think you're some hero? You're just another freak!"
He opened fire.
John was hit in the leg. A sharp, searing pain exploded through his body. He dropped to one knee, vision swimming.
His breathing hitched. Blood soaked his pants. He couldn't feel his toes. But through the haze of agony, something else awakened.
The Spin.
A deeper rhythm pulsed in his bones. The pain was grounding him, focusing him. His hand trembled as he raised it, golden energy spiraling into his fingertip.
DING.
[Spin Mastery: 25%. Stand Evolution Initiated.]
Tusk shimmered, flickering before bursting into a new form—Tusk Act 2. Much larger, more defined, looking mechanical with its rigid structure, with holes punched throughout its entire body. The Nail Bullets now glowed with pure rotational energy.
John's eyes narrowed. He fired.
The final bullet pierced the merc's chest, spinning through bone and sinew with surgical precision. The man staggered… then collapsed, unmoving.
The room was silent. Hostages sobbed, then scrambled away.
John stared at the body.
He's dead.
His hands trembled. He hadn't meant to kill him. But the power… it was too much. No time to process. He forced the emotions down.
"GO!" he yelled to the hostages. "Now!"
They ran.
John stumbled toward the rear exit, blood dripping from his leg. His vision was blurring, but he could make it. Just a little farther—
A shield smashed through the side entrance.
THWANG!
John turned just in time to see a red, white, and blue blur slam into the floor. Captain America.
"I don't want to hurt you, kid," Steve Rogers said calmly, stepping through the smoke. "But this ends now. Stand down."
John didn't listen. He couldn't afford to be captured by S.H.I.E.L.D, not now.
He launched a Steel Ball. Cap blocked it with his shield, skidding back a step from the sheer force.
"Strong throw…" he muttered.
John fired another. And another. Cap deflected each one with ease, advancing.
"You've got guts. But you're bleeding out, and you're a civilian."
John tried one last Nail Bullet—this one with the full force of Tusk Act 2 behind it.
Cap's shield met it midair. The impact created a shockwave that cracked the floor, but Steve barely flinched.
Then he moved.
Three steps. Duck. Sidestep. Shield bash.
John's world went black.
"Sorry, kid," Steve said softly as the young vigilante collapsed.