"What the hell? That vampire bar has turned into some influencer hotspot? And they renamed it 'The Witch's Bar'... with a green-skinned, long-nosed witch as the logo?"
Robert stared at his phone, speechless, as Lorna gave him the update. The story of how their hunting ground had been repurposed into a tourist trap was so absurd he didn't even know where to start.
"Who the hell came up with this idea?" he muttered. "And why does it actually work?!"
A few seconds later, Lorna's voice crackled through the phone speaker—furious.
"You bastard priest!"
"I've told you a million times—my name is Lorna. L-O-R-N-A. I'm not the Green Elf, and now I'm not some damn fairy tale witch either!"
Robert winced. The connection wasn't bad—she was just yelling that loud.
She wasn't wrong, though. In the past few days, their nightly vampire-hunting runs at the bar had become more productive than they'd expected. Vampires walked in, Robert lured them, Lorna restrained them, and then Robert "baptized" them with bullets and mana. It was a profitable system.
Too profitable.
Sooner or later, someone was bound to notice. Lorna's bright green hair didn't help. So when a rumor started spreading—something about a green-skinned witch seen sweeping vampire ashes under dim bar lights—people latched onto it like wildfire.
Influencers and YouTubers flooded the bar. Urban legend hunters declared it haunted. And the vampires?
Gone. Completely gone.
And so were their profits.
Lorna's voice continued, filled with both rage and grief. "Do you know what they're calling me now?! 'The Witch of Brooklyn.' And thanks to you, I've lost my nightly pocket money AND my dignity!"
Robert tried to calm her. "C'mon now, no one knows it's you. Only you and I know the truth. As far as the world's concerned, it's just a spooky bar story. Trust me, no one will ever know that you're the witch."
"Wait," said a small voice from across the room, "you know the witch?"
Robert froze.
He turned to see little Peter Parker looking up from his desk, where he was supposed to be doing math problems. The kid's eyes sparkled with wonder. "You mean the witch who's been fighting vampires? Is she a superhero too?!"
On the other end of the phone, Lorna went completely silent.
Then—click.
She hung up.
Robert stared at his phone and sighed. "Well... I think that went pretty well."
Peter tilted his head. "Did I say something wrong?"
"No, no," Robert muttered, rubbing his temples. "She just... really doesn't like being called a witch."
Peter returned to his books, but Robert leaned back on the couch, sighing heavily. The truth was, he missed the bar too. Not for the drinks, not for the atmosphere, but because each vampire he hunted gave him a boost—his mana had grown by nearly fifty percent in just three days.
But now the well had run dry.
And to make matters worse, despite all his power gains, Robert still didn't fully understand how to use his mana. So far, his only trick was enhancing bullets or punches. He knew there had to be a better way—some kind of spell system—but until he found someone with real mystical training, he was stuck.
Trying to shift focus, he glanced at Peter. "Hey, Peter. Why aren't you working on your exercises? Don't tell me you finished all thirty pounds of work I gave you."
Peter looked sheepish. "I didn't... I've been busy designing armor."
Robert blinked. "Armor?"
"Yeah," Peter said, swiveling his monitor toward him. "I was researching materials for a prototype suit. But... it turns out even the basic stuff is way too expensive."
"How expensive?"
Peter thought about it, then said brightly, "Not too bad. Just fifty million dollars!"
Robert choked on air.
After a full ten seconds of silence, he said in a hollow voice, "I just realized... my self-awareness still isn't clear enough."
He stood up slowly. "You keep doing those exercises, kid. I need some fresh air."
Peter watched him go, confused. "Is he okay?"
The truth, Peter would later understand, is that adulthood is often just a string of small, quiet breakdowns.
At Sister Margaret's Bar, Robert dropped his pistol on the table with a loud thunk and declared, "I'm broke."
Weasel, polishing a glass behind the counter, nearly jumped out of his skin. "Hey, man, relax! If you're gonna rob someone, rob Wade. That guy's always got cash on him—and I can even give you his address!"
Robert rolled his eyes. "I'm not robbing anyone. I just need work. Got any jobs for a down-on-his-luck exorcist slash mercenary?"
"Oh!" Weasel looked relieved. "You scared the hell outta me, man. When you walked in with that look, I thought it was payday at gunpoint."
Robert chuckled and leaned over the bar. "I'm serious, though. I need some gigs. Preferably ones that don't involve illegal organ trafficking this time."
Weasel scratched his head. "Well, let's see... No one's put out any bounties on you lately. Guess that's a plus."
"Damn," Robert muttered. "So no revenge hitmen? Assassins? Nothing?"
"Not even a parking ticket," Weasel said. "Though I did check if Wade's been targeted lately—figured maybe you'd... borrow his reward."
Robert didn't even bother denying it. "And?"
"No dice," Weasel said with a shrug. "The guy's practically a saint these days. Still smells like chimichangas, though."
Robert slumped into a stool. "So much for that shortcut."
He'd have to go back to grinding the old-fashioned way. Missions. Bounties. Maybe even freelance demon-hunting again—assuming there were any left to hunt. Or worse: teaching Peter physics.
Meanwhile, in a mansion on the city outskirts, Feith—the vampire entrepreneur—paced angrily near his rooftop pool.
"Witches?" he snapped. "That's the rumor now? My empire, built on centuries of blood and fear, reduced to fairy tale campfire stories?!"
One of his lieutenants nodded nervously. "Yes, sir. The Witch of Brooklyn, they're calling her. Long green hair, broom in hand, sweeping the ashes of her victims."
"She sweeps them?!"
"Yes, sir. There's also a trending hashtag. #WitchCleanup."
Feith gritted his fangs. "And the humans?"
"Flocking to the bar, sir. Influencers, bloggers, TikTok kids. Our sales are up 300%. Someone even suggested we start selling 'Witch Shots'—green liquor with dry ice."
Feith stared into the middle distance. "...It's actually not a bad idea."
"Shall I prepare a launch campaign?"
Feith didn't answer.
He just sighed.
Somewhere out there, he knew, a maniac priest with a gun, a flask of holy whiskey, and a mutant sidekick was ruining his entire business model.
And somehow... making it profitable.
----
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