The two would-be muggers hadn't exactly been carrying fortunes.
Aside from a few crumpled bills, the most valuable items were a pair of battered cell phones and two bloody gold teeth that Robert had forcibly extracted. As for their questionable AJ sneakers—once he caught a whiff of the pungent, foot-funk-laced aroma—Robert promptly tossed them into the nearest dumpster.
There were some things even he wouldn't touch.
With a few bucks finally in his pocket and a stolen pistol tucked into his hoodie, Robert moved quickly. He flagged down a battered yellow taxi, sliding into the backseat with a tired sigh.
"Where to?" the driver asked without turning around.
Robert read off one of the locations Weasel had given him.
Time was ticking.
If he didn't complete this contract soon, he was going to end up sleeping in a cardboard box—and New York's streets were a bad place for someone with no ID, no backup, and a bounty on his own ignorance.
…
Nightfall descended over the city, and with it came the heartbeat of New York—the endless hum of tires, neon lights painting reflections on rain-slick streets, and the ceaseless churn of humanity.
In a sketchy corner of Manhattan's west shore, Robert stepped out of the taxi. The ride had eaten up nearly all his stolen cash.
He looked around.
"This is the last spot," Robert muttered, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets. "Damn Weasel and his 'guaranteed intel.' I've checked every place on the list and still no sign of the target."
Frustration gnawed at him.
He half-suspected Weasel had played him, given him bad information just to pocket that deposit. But there was no turning back now.
He crossed the street and entered an aging apartment complex. Paint peeled from the walls, and the flickering fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like angry bees. Robert headed for the elevators, reviewing his plan.
Simple and clean.
Find Jeff Mond.
Tail him discreetly.
Wait for a quiet spot, pull the trigger, disappear.
No witnesses, no heat.
Easy.
The elevator dinged open.
Robert tightened his grip on the pistol hidden under his hoodie.
Let's do this.
…
Ding!
The elevator doors slid open with a tired mechanical groan—and Robert immediately froze.
Standing right outside was a wall of muscle.
Five big, burly Russian men, all packing heat, stared back at him.
Right in the center, clutching a silver briefcase, was his target—Jeff Mond.
Everyone stood perfectly still.
For a split second, no one moved, no one breathed. Their eyes locked onto the pistol in Robert's hand.
Robert coughed awkwardly, pasted a fake smile on his face, and said, "Sooo... if I told you I was just passing through, would you believe me?"
A beat.
Then chaos.
"Get rid of him!" someone barked.
The Russians raised their guns and opened fire without hesitation.
DA-DA-DA-DA-DA!!
The elevator lit up with muzzle flashes. Bullets punched into Robert's body with brutal force, slamming him backward against the metal wall. Blood splattered everywhere. His limbs jerked as the kinetic force hammered into him, and within seconds, he slid down the wall in a lifeless heap.
The gunfire stopped.
The metallic tang of blood filled the elevator.
Jeff Mond wiped the sweat off his forehead, cursing. "F**k! Where the hell did this guy come from?"
"Maybe another gang caught wind of our deal?" one of the men offered nervously.
"Idiots wouldn't send just one guy," Jeff growled. "Whatever. Dead's dead. We have bigger problems."
The men filed into the elevator, stepping over Robert's corpse without a second glance. Their priority was the deal, not cleanup.
No one noticed Robert's fingers twitch slightly.
Or his blood-soaked eyes flicker open.
Or the faint, golden shimmer as his body pushed out the bullets embedded in his flesh.
…
As the elevator began descending, Robert pushed himself up.
Pain crackled through him, but he didn't care. His body was already healing, repairing tissue and knitting shattered bone in seconds.
He raised his pistol, still slick with blood, and aimed it at their backs.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
The muzzle flashed five times.
One after another, the Russians dropped like puppets with their strings cut.
Only Jeff Mond remained standing, staring at Robert with sheer, unfiltered horror.
Robert took a step forward, body still half-drenched in his own blood. His golden eyes gleamed like a demon's.
"Boo," Robert said.
Jeff Mond stumbled backward, practically tripping over the silver case.
Meanwhile, Robert's game panel flickered to life.
[Unlock Progress: 1/15]
He blinked.
"Wait, only one?" Robert muttered, confused. "I just smoked five of them. Where's my bonus?"
Frowning, he checked the panel's unlock mechanism again.
Eliminate fifteen high-threat criminals.
He squinted at the bodies.
Based on earlier experiences, Robert realized something grim.
Only one of the five dead Russians actually counted toward the achievement.
The others... didn't meet the "high-threat" standard.
Maybe they were just dumb muscle.
Or interns.
Robert aimed his gun at Jeff Mond, checked the panel again.
[Target does not meet conditions]
"Are you kidding me?" Robert said aloud.
Jeff Mond, hearing the disgust in his voice, shrank even further against the wall.
"You sell guns illegally," Robert muttered. "You run chemical shipments. You have murder charges thicker than a phone book—"
He glanced at the panel again.
[Target does not meet conditions]
"—and you still don't qualify?"
Jeff whimpered something in Russian.
Robert shook his head, genuinely disappointed. "You're an embarrassment to villains everywhere."
He ra
ised his pistol.
"At least try to die with a little dignity."
Jeff closed his eyes.
---------------------
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