Lucian black lazily flicked his cigarette ash, the glowing tip briefly illuminating the amused curve of his lips. He raised his hand and motioned to Otto.
"Count it."
Otto nodded, knelt beside the briefcase, and began flipping through crisp stacks of hundred-dollar bills like a seasoned casino pit boss. Meanwhile, Lucian leaned back against the wall outside his dimly-lit convenience store, his eyes thoughtful behind a veil of smoke.
He didn't actually like cigarettes. Hated the taste, in fact. But nicotine helped keep his mind sharp, especially when negotiations like this could turn bloody at the drop of a hat. And more than that—he enjoyed the image it gave him. The cool-headed broker in the shadows. The man who knew more than he should.
As Otto tallied the cash, Lucian weighed his options. What should he tell them?
For Lucian, more information meant more fear—and fear meant more Wish Value. But not every audience was built to hear the full story.
Take the Ancient One, for example. She could peer into the multiverse, bend time, converse with entities like Vishanti and Eternity. Telling her about extradimensional demons, eldritch threats, or ghosts from an alternate timeline? Child's play. She'd believe it, verify it, and take it seriously.
But S.H.I.E.L.D.?
Despite all their bravado, they were still playing catch-up when it came to real cosmic horror. Sure, they had access to alien tech, studied enhanced humans, maybe even knew a thing or two about Asgard. But if you started telling them about Oni from another universe or that Muzan Kibutsuji existed and ate humans for breakfast—they'd laugh. Or worse, they'd think you were manipulating them.
Then there was Kingpin.
Wilson Fisk wasn't a man of science or magic. He was a man of order—his own brutal, criminal order. He ruled New York's underworld with an iron fist and had ties to the Hand, a secretive clan that dabbled in dark rituals, undead warriors, and worse. His men had fought ninjas who returned from death, summoned spirits for protection, even encountered demons.
So when Bullseye—Fisk's most dangerous enforcer—came knocking for information, Lucian knew he could afford to be a little more… honest.
"Million dollars. Confirmed," Otto reported, shutting the briefcase with a soft click.
Lucian looked up at Bullseye, mildly surprised. "Didn't expect you to pay full price upfront."
Bullseye smirked. "Boss wants a long-term relationship, assuming you're not full of crap."
The unspoken message was clear: Screw us, and you're dead.
Lucian chuckled and took another drag. "If the intel turns out fake, you're welcome to come back. But let's not pretend your boss throws money around for fun. I know how Fisk plays this game."
"You saying no to the extra cash?" Bullseye's voice was edged with challenge, and the faintest glint of murder danced in his eyes.
Lucian exhaled a long, slow plume of smoke and stepped forward, the air thickening with tension. "Don't get it twisted. I'm being polite because I believe in mutual profit. But don't test me. That attitude you showed earlier? If this weren't business, I would've turned you into modern art."
Bullseye's grin widened, as if Lucian threat was the best thing he'd heard all night. "Heh. I'd love to see you try. But business comes first."
He grabbed the USB drive Lucian had dropped into the case alongside $200,000 and turned to leave. "When this is over… we'll see whose limbs end up on the sidewalk."
"Looking forward to it," Lucian muttered, voice low.
Bullseye vanished into the alley's shadows, a predator promising to return.
Lucian watched him go, expression unreadable.
"Maybe I've been laying too low," he murmured.
Perhaps it was time for a demonstration. A crime empire like Fisk's falling apart overnight? Now that would cause a stir.
"Otto, lock up. We're done for the night."
"Understood."
Despite the excitement and a balance of over 30,000 Wish Points, Lucian didn't immediately rush to the system's lottery wheel. He'd learned his lesson after last time—a night of rapid-fire disappointment when every ten-pull gave him nothing but trash-tier doll fragments.
Nope. Not tonight.
Better to sleep, let anticipation build, and maybe—just maybe—wake up with better luck.
Fisk Tower, Midnight
On the top floor of the iconic skyscraper bearing his name, Wilson Fisk—the Kingpin of Crime—sat behind a massive mahogany desk, the USB drive glowing faintly in his laptop.
He scrolled through the intel with thick fingers, each file more unbelievable than the last.
A demon who had ruled in the shadows for over a millennium.
An immortal body immune to time and steel.
A being who feared the sun and needed human flesh to survive.
Monsters, not men.
And yet, it was all backed by video footage, detailed autopsies, energy readings, eyewitness accounts—all carefully curated, all damning.
Fisk didn't flinch. Didn't panic.
He smiled.
Where there was chaos, there was opportunity. If these creatures were real, they threatened the existing balance. And Fisk didn't like chaos he couldn't control. But if he could learn their secrets… perhaps he could use them.
He picked up the phone.
It rang seven times before a groggy voice answered. "Fisk. This better be good. I don't care if you're the king of every sewer in this city—call me at this hour again and I'll gut you."
"Relax, Osborn," Fisk said, calm and collected. "I've got something you'll want to see. I'll send it over."
He hung up and hit "Send" with a smirk.
The Next Morning
Lucian dragged himself out of bed with dark circles under his eyes. Sleep had come, but it had been a battlefield—restlessness versus restraint.
"Yeah, definitely a misplay not drawing last night," he muttered.
Standing in front of his system interface, he cracked his knuckles.
"All right. Let's do this."
[System: Initiating 100x Puppet Draw…]
DING! You received: D-Rank Puppet Fragment!
DING! You received: E-Rank Puppet Fragment!
DING! You received: F-Rank Puppet Fragment!
DING! You received: D-Rank Puppet Fragment!
Lucian expression remained calm. He'd long made peace with the system's cruelty.
This… this was the true face of the lottery. Cold. Relentless. Mocking.
He tapped again.
DING! You received: A-Rank Puppet Fragment!
A flicker of excitement. Then another 30 pulls with nothing but junk.
He sighed. "This better be build-up to something good…"
One hundred draws in, not a single full puppet.
He blinked. Twitched.
"This… this can't be real."
It wasn't that puppet fragments were useless—you could combine them eventually. But with the sheer variety of puppets from across the multiverse, getting enough matching fragments was like trying to win the lottery with two tickets.
"I swear, if I don't get a full puppet in the next hundred…"
He paused, then smirked.
"No. This is just bait. Classic gacha psychology. That was my warm-up."
He tapped the summon button again.
"Time to hit the jackpot."