The next day.
When Robert picked up the envelope Weasel left him, he practically hummed with excitement.
Inside was his prize—a full set of forged identification documents: driver's license, medical records, social security number, and even a fake tax history. Everything a normal, law-abiding citizen might need.
Weasel tossed the folder onto the counter with an unimpressed look. "Everything you asked for," he said. "Just don't go poking around the IRS. You might get away with fooling the cops or the DMV, but the Tax Man will bury you so deep your ancestors will feel it."
Robert grinned sheepishly.
He had been wondering if all the cash and 'liberated' goods he was collecting were technically taxable.
Probably, he decided, but what Uncle Sam doesn't know won't hurt me.
Truth be told, Robert was impressed. Weasel's forgeries were top-notch—and fast. In just a few days, Robert had gone from ghost to citizen. No more worrying about ID checks or getting flagged during a background search.
Robert carefully stashed the documents into his jacket.
"By the way," he asked casually, "heard anything from Wade?"
Weasel shrugged. "Last I saw him, he was wearing enough blood to pass for a butcher. I think he found some underground ring connected to Francis… You can imagine how that went."
Robert nodded grimly.
He didn't need details.
Both of them had suffered inside that institute—broken bones, broken minds. The difference was, Wade was a pressure cooker ready to blow. Robert had been lucky enough to keep his sanity mostly intact.
Mostly.
Wade deserved his revenge.
And when the time came, Robert would be there to help. But for now...
"I'll leave that to him," Robert said. "Me? I've got more important things to do."
He patted the black box beside him like it was a trusted friend.
Weasel grimaced. "You're serious about that thing?"
Robert grinned. "Hey, I'm doing a public service. Fighting crime one illegal transaction at a time."
"More like traumatizing half the gangs in Brooklyn," Weasel muttered.
Ignoring him, Robert leaned in eagerly. "So? Got any new commissions for me?"
Weasel scratched the back of his head awkwardly. "Yeah, about that..."
Robert narrowed his eyes. "What?"
"You've been too efficient," Weasel said. "Most of the petty gang commissions are cleaned out. No one wants to waste good money putting hits on bottom-feeders. Too risky. Not worth it."
Robert slumped in his seat.
He had hoped to grind out a few more low-risk missions to finish unlocking his next talent.
Instead, he was eight villains short—and out of easy prey.
"Damn it," he muttered.
Seeing Robert's disappointment, Weasel smirked. "You know... you could always use your 'villain training device' on random civilians."
Robert deadpanned. "I'm not that evil."
He sighed heavily. "Fine. Just recommend me something that at least involves real criminals."
Weasel sifted through the black cards behind the bar and pulled out a few.
Robert skimmed through them, until one caught his eye.
A commission involving a gang shipment.
Bigger risk. Bigger reward.
And—hopefully—more villains.
"I'll take this one," Robert said, tapping the card.
"You sure?" Weasel raised an eyebrow. "That one's serious business. These aren't street punks. They'll shoot first and cremate your body later."
Robert grinned. "I don't pick fights I can't win. Oh, and by the way..."
He leaned closer.
"I'll need some gear."
Weasel frowned suspiciously. "What kind of gear?"
Robert smiled sweetly.
"C4. Lots of it."
...
That Night.
Fog rolled in from the river, cloaking Brooklyn's crumbling streets in a misty haze.
Under the sickly glow of a lone streetlamp, a battered eighteen-wheeler rumbled to a stop by the curb.
Its engine shuddered, then fell silent.
A moment later, several heavyset men climbed down, their boots splashing into muddy puddles.
Russian-accented curses filled the air as they unloaded crates from the trailer.
Automatic rifles slung casually over their shoulders, they looked like men who didn't bother with permits—or witnesses.
One of them, puffing on a cheap cigar, wiped rainwater off the cargo crate and barked, "Let's move. Boss doesn't like delays."
They crossed the street toward a rusted steel door—the entrance to an old meat-packing Warehouse that smelled of blood and mildew.
The cigar-chomping leader pounded on the door with a gloved fist.
"Password!" barked a voice from within.
"Vladimir sent us."
"Hold."
The iron door screeched open on its hinges, revealing a narrow corridor lined with hanging slabs of frozen pork.
Inside, the atmosphere was thick and cold.
At a table in the center of the Warehouse, another group of men sat idly playing poker, stacks of money and poker chips scattered across the surface.
As the Russians entered, the card players immediately tensed.
One stood up, sauntered over to the meat racks, and with a practiced flick of his wrist, sliced open one of the slabs.
A glint of plastic appeared within the cut—bags of clear crystal stitched inside the meat like hidden organs.
Drugs.
Lots of them.
The Russian leader inspected the goods, nodded in approval, and popped open a steel briefcase.
Inside: neatly stacked bundles of cash.
"Twenty million," he said.
The dealer nodded after a quick count. "Pleasure doing business."
The Russians moved quickly, securing the goods.
Everything was proceeding smoothly.
Until—
Boom-boom-boom!
A loud pounding rattled the Warehouse's metal door.
Everyone froze.
Hands instinctively moved toward guns.
The leader of the Russians narrowed his eyes.
"Who the hell is tha
t?"
...
To be continued.
-----------------------------
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