Miguel, predictably, didn't play ball.
His last guard swam ashore with a wet, heaving splash and all the grace of a tadpole.
"Bring the car around, Stanley," he said. "I have calls to make."
"What about everybody else?" Stanley asked, scanning the wet stretch of port. Dozens of bodies lay around, unconscious.
"They have two legs, don't they? They can find their way home when they wake up."
Miguel whipped his cloak around and strode toward the car park. Stanley, shivering and visibly shaken, brushed himself off and followed orders.
I slipped a burner phone into Miguel's car just before they entered, then placed a call to my other burner to eavesdrop. The conversation was insightful.
Miguel didn't fuck around. He made calls—about me. I'd left enough carnage in my wake for him to form a half-decent profile.
I was a killer by necessity, but I was damned good at it.
It didn't take Miguel long to link me to Maria's misfortune and Ernesto's pain. He even knew about the girl I tried to rescue—the one who skipped town.
The only thing he didn't know was why I wanted the Venom.
"I've seen tweakers," he said, "weak boys eager to cheat their way into strength. But he's not that. The control. The power. He's something else entirely."
"What are you going to do, sir?" Stanley asked.
"We'll let the professionals handle it," Miguel replied. "Given everything I've seen, they may be the only ones who can."
The Shadows.
I scoffed. Miguel was calling in the Shadows after one meeting?
Preemptive, sure—but smart. I wondered about his plan. Ambush at the delivery? Search and terminate? Why risk it?
Either way, I wasn't about to stand by and let it happen.
I followed him into his building, trailing silently behind using Curtain, and slipped into the elevator with them as they rode to the top.
They had just entered the apartment when I struck.
"Stanley," Miguel called, "double security tonight. I have a feeling he'll be—"
Stanley's head slammed into the wall, leaving a bloody smear. I was careful not to kill him.
Daggers flung into the room, taking out the cameras. I grabbed Miguel's hand without so much as sparing him a look and twisted.
It snapped like a twig, and his gun came tumbling down. The proud arms dealer sang like a canary, not that anyone could hear him. I'd already sheathed us in another veil of Curtain.
I kicked the weapon into the far corner and let him go. He stumbled back, grunting, eyeing the door—but he knew he couldn't get past me.
"I did warn you. Look what you made me do." I sighed. "Stanley is the victim in all this." A dagger flickered into my fingers, and Miguel's eyes widened. "Where is the Venom, Miguel? You don't want me to ask a third time."
"You'll get nothing from me," Miguel hissed. "I've walked into rooms with the most dangerous men in the world, brokered deals that changed countries, and I've got enough blood on my hands to drown you twice over."
I raised an amused brow and stepped up to him. My knife slid into his gut, twisted, and pulled—blood sprayed out in a graceful arc.
Miguel let out a wet gasp, shock painting his features. He stumbled onto his feet, then went down again, but I caught him, holding onto his injured arm. He looked into my eyes, terrified, and then I healed him.
His forearm snapped back into place with a wet snap and a scream, and he stared at it in disbelief.
"You have minutes, Miguel," I said. "I can heal you, but you have to give me what I want."
He gasped, choking blood, pain written all over his face. Conflict warred with his stubbornness.
"It's all slipping away," I said wistfully. "Your kids, your family, your legacy. I wonder if heaven's real. Or hell. One guess where you're going?"
Miguel's voice rattled out. "H-How do I know you'll heal me?"
"That's the thing—you don't," I said. "But can you really afford to piss me off? Spilling your guts is just the start. Clipped fingers. Pulled intestines. Broken bones. My healing could always use more practice."
Miguel had gone deathly pale. I couldn't tell if it was from the blood loss or the fear.
A pool of blood grew beneath him.
"Before you answer, Miguel. Remember, there won't be another chance."
He folded. Easily.
He didn't have much more than the lieutenant back in Texas did. The bar owner hadn't been kidding when he said Venom was drying up everywhere.
I healed Miguel—but not before enforcing a binding Vow. He could never lie to me, betray me, or come after me—directly or indirectly. No cheating, no loopholes.
—
My finger drummed against the steering wheel as the car barreled down the road. Stray eyes glanced down at my system screen.
You've reached Level 15.
You've learned Torture Lv 2.
I swallowed.
I figured that was coming sooner than later. Black Mask might've been my first, but I've learned a lot since that night, and have become considerably less squeamish at the prospect of torture.
I've grown to... enjoy it even. Which didn't bode well for my sanity.
But when in Rome, right? This was war, and I was playing to win.
And so far, my methods have served me.
Binding Miguel was the right choice.
He was too well-connected, and I didn't come to Laredo to start a war.
No, this was about Venom and setting up a sit-down with the League. I'd achieved those goals... mostly.
And my next stop was Gotham City.
After almost a week, Slim finally got back to me.
Apparently, he'd arranged a meeting with the queen of thieves herself—Selina Kyle.
I chuckled. Her heists were legendary.
With her contacts, I'd be—
Something flickered at the edge of my awareness. A blur, stretching from a figure cloaked in darkness. I tasted it—Cursed Energy.
Energy spooled from my abdomen and flooded my body, lighting every limb, muscle fiber, bone, and blood vessel in fire.
The world slowed down, and I dove out of the window.
My rented car folded in half in a breath and was hurled at me by shadowy tails. I moved off instinct—dodging the crushing blow and flinging a Cursed Energy-soaked dagger at my attacker.
A tail cracked the asphalt where I'd just stood.
The dark figure shifted slightly, easily dodging my blade. I narrowed my eyes and enhanced my night vision.
The attacker was straight out of myth. Nine tails. Six blood-red eyes. A bus-sized black Fox.
"If you're going to kill me, the least you could do is tell me who sent you."
Nine tails came crashing down on a single point—eviscerating concrete and launching a fountain of debris.
I stepped back, weathered the storm with Inverse, then accelerated—sword bathed in Cursed Energy. I lashed out, ripping a chunk of wispy-black matter from the creature.
It screeched.
Then retaliated.
The tails came in fast—one after another—from all angles. Above. Below. The sides. A blur.
I tapped into Overdrive, pushing my body farther, faster.
The world slowed—but just barely. I leapt, twisted in mid-air, and lashed out with twin blades brimming with Inverse and Cursed Energy, deflecting two converging tails.
I landed on a gyrating tail, which the monster used to fling me further into the desert. Another tail rose up to skewer me. Mid-air, I summoned an empty crate and kicked off it for extra lift—dodging death again.
While airborne, I materialized an assault rifle and let it bark. The bullets were laced with Cursed Energy.
The Fox didn't flinch.
Fuck me.
I could see the writing on the wall. This wasn't going to end well. Not unless I could pull off another spontaneous Black Flash.
Since I didn't have that particular skill down yet, I went for the next best thing—raw power.
I spent the rest of my stat points.
+5 Perception. +15 Agility
STR: 124 AGI: 147 PER: 135 VIT: 140 END: 150 CP: 188
The difference was immediate—especially with Reinforcement.
My pupils dilated. My muscles rippled.
I tapped into Overdrive again just in time. Two tails snapped at me—but I was faster.
Dust exploded from underfoot as I twisted, slicing through the tails with a precision that surprised even me.
The monster bellowed. It was loud, and jagged, and music to my ears.
I blurred toward it, a zig-zagging afterimage, dodging tail lashes.
My blades sang, and my inborn technique sputtered and sparked as it made fresh connections, patterns, and expressions of Cursed Energy.
My Inverse technique flowed beyond my skin—stretching, molding, twisting. Reaching down my arms, coating my blades, like they did with my knuckles.
The pattern felt familiar—like Curtain, but more compact, more effective.
"Cloak," I breathed.
Cursed Technique Extension: Cloak.
The name came to me like a whisper on the wind:
Cursed Technique Extension: Inverse Cloak.
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