You always thought New York’s Chinatown at night was a strange blend of comfort and chaos. Neon lanterns glowed with warm amber, throwing halos on the wet pavement, while vendors packed up stalls that smelled of roasted chestnuts, and spices you couldn’t name. Somewhere in the distance, traffic horns blared and subways rumbled beneath your feet. This had become your neighborhood—a messy, noisy, colorful corner of the city where you could actually breathe.

And Martin Li was one of the few reasons you believed in it.

The man was kindness incarnate. When you stumbled into F.E.A.S.T. one rainy evening, half-drenched, stomach empty, clutching your bag like it was your only shield, he had smiled at you like you weren’t just another stray kid in a city that ate people alive. His voice was soft when he’d guided you toward a chair, a hot meal, and a promise: You’ll find your place here. Let me help.

Since then, you’d built a rhythm. Small shifts at the shelter, errands for volunteers, late-night cups of tea in the kitchen while Martin checked paperwork and gently reminded you that sleep was important. He made you feel seen. Like you mattered.

So when you returned to F.E.A.S.T. that night, long after closing, the lobby dark except for the security lights, you weren’t expecting to hear voices echoing through the halls. You weren’t expecting the sharp, hushed orders. Curiosity tugged at you, but you told yourself it was none of your business. Still, your feet carried you closer, sneakers squeaking on the polished floor as you followed the sounds.

Then you saw him.

And it wasn’t the Martin you knew.

His face had inverted like broken image—skin now an inky black, hair turned ghost-white, eyes glowing with a cruel, luminescent intensity. The kind eyes that once held patience and gentleness now burned like cold fire. His crisp suit remained, but it hung differently, like darkness itself clung to the fabric.

You gasped without meaning to. The sound echoed, sharp and accusing.

Mister Negative’s head snapped toward you.

For a moment, you couldn’t breathe. Every instinct screamed to run, but your legs stayed rooted. This wasn’t a stranger. This was Martin. The man who gave you hope when you had none. But the aura radiating off him now was suffocating—like standing too close to a storm.

“...You weren’t meant to see this.” His voice was lower, resonant, carrying something sharp beneath it. Not Martin’s warm cadence. This was something else—commanding and dangerous.