The next morning.
Robert finally got the key from Weasel and practically sprinted to check out his new place.
Following the address, he arrived at an apartment building that looked like it had lost the will to live sometime in the 1980s. The peeling paint on the walls, the rusted fire escapes, the sagging balconies—everything screamed cheap rent, probable tetanus.
The building stood only six stories tall, surrounded by other equally derelict structures. Shops lined the street—barber shops, pawn shops, suspiciously unnamed convenience stores.
Despite the rundown appearance, the atmosphere wasn't bad.
Still, the location raised a few eyebrows.
Robert glanced at the street sign and smirked.
West shore of Manhattan Island.
A few blocks east was Hell's Kitchen—the legendary slum where criminals and vigilantes practically tripped over each other every night.
Lovely neighborhood, Robert thought dryly.
But after surviving the horrors of the research institute for two months, not much could scare him anymore.
He made his way upstairs and found Weasel's so-called "safehouse" according to the door number.
Robert pushed open the creaky door—and immediately gagged.
The scent of decay and mold hit him like a sledgehammer. Inside, the place looked like it had hosted at least three zombie apocalypses.
The couch had more holes than fabric. The carpet was a biohazard in itself, stained beyond salvation. Newspapers covered the windows, and an ancient TV that probably hadn't worked since the Reagan administration sat lopsided in the corner.
Robert stood in the doorway for a long moment, surveying the disaster zone.
"...Yeah, I'm gonna need gloves," he muttered.
He dropped his silver box onto the one semi-stable table and rolled up his sleeves.
Time to clean.
…
For the next few days, Robert kept himself busy.
In between scrubbing floors and tossing out furniture that looked like it belonged in an evidence locker, he continued accepting commissions from Weasel.
Now that he had a semi-functional roof over his head and a few more stolen dollars in his pocket, Robert could actually plan his hits carefully.
No more rushing into situations blind.
With more time and resources, he could properly stalk his targets, study their habits, and set up clean takedowns.
Definitely, Robert didn't forget his ultimate goal either:
Eliminate sinful villains.
And if he couldn't find enough naturally, he'd just create some.
After all, he had the perfect tool for it—his trusty villain-making silver box.
…
Rumors began to spread.
At first, it was just whispered in dark alleys.
Then it started surfacing in bars, gang hangouts, and even police blotters.
Sister Margaret's bar was no exception.
Two mercenaries sat at the counter, deep in gossip.
"Yo, you heard about that guy carrying the silver box?" one said.
"Silver box?" his buddy snorted. "Old news, man. That freak's been running around harassing gangs for days now."
"Nah, I got the full story," the first guy said, lowering his voice. "Every time he finds some poor low-level gangster, he forces them to buy the box."
"And?"
"And after they buy it, he turns around and buys it back with some crumpled cash."
The second mercenary blinked. "That's it? Flipping boxes?"
"Not even close!" The first leaned in. "Then he makes them buy it again. Over and over. Like some twisted pawn shop from hell."
The second mercenary shuddered. "Man, that's not even robbery. That's psychological warfare."
"Exactly," the first agreed solemnly. "They started calling him… the Box Demon."
At the far end of the bar, Weasel sighed heavily and turned his head.
There, sitting calmly with a Happy Fat House Cola, was the subject of the conversation: Robert.
Right beside him, sitting on the counter like a proud trophy, was the infamous black box.
Weasel walked over and leaned against the bar, looking at Robert with a complicated expression.
"You know," he said, "I used to think Wade was the weirdest guy I knew."
He pointed at Robert.
"I was wrong."
Robert raised an eyebrow. "What?"
Weasel gestured at the box. "You're literally forcing your victims to buy your stupid box over and over until they drop dead or beg for mercy."
Robert snorted indignantly. "Hey, watch your mouth. Without evidence, that's slander."
"You're waving the evidence in my face!" Weasel snapped, jabbing a finger at the black box. "It was silver yesterday, genius. I can still smell the fresh paint."
Robert chuckled and shrugged. "A little disguise never hurt anyone."
Weasel shook his head. "You could at least pretend to be professional."
Robert leaned back smugly. "Hey, it works."
He tapped his system panel with a grin.
[Unlock Progress: 7/15.]
After days of hard work, he had already passed the halfway point toward unlocking the Super High School-Level Sharpshooter title.
His method was slow, but steady—and best of all, completely under his control.
One target at a time. One transaction at a time. No mess, no witnesses.
Well, fewer witnesses.
Weasel adjusted his glasses, looking more serious now. "Joking aside, you should know—word's getting around."
Robert shrugged. "Of course it is. I'm unforgettable."
"No, I mean bad word."
Weasel lowered his voice.
"The Ross gang's looking for you. Hard. They're offering cash for info. Apparently, someone stole some very important goods from them."
His gaze flicked meaningfully to the black box.
Robert sipped his cola. "Illegal goods, you mean."
Weasel raised an eyebrow. "Semantics."
Robert smirked. "I'm not stealing. I'm keeping contraband safe from bad people."
He patted the black box proudly.
"This thing is a national treasure now."
Weasel muttered under his breath, "More like a national disaster…"
But he didn't press further.
Mercenaries had a simple code: if you weren't dead yet, you were doing fine.
Robert leaned back with a contented si
gh.
The Box Demon's legend was growing.
And he was just getting started.
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