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Jason roared up to the docks on the stolen Harley, the engine's rumble fading as he killed the ignition. Franklin was already there, pacing beside the truck, his face tight with worry. He rushed over as Jason dismounted. "Boss, are you good?"
Jason spread his arms, spinning in a slow circle, his grin sharp. "What do you think?"
Franklin exhaled, relief washing over him, but guilt quickly followed. "Man, I'm sorry. That GPS screw-up was on me. I was so amped from… you know, my first kill, I forgot to check."
As a seasoned car thief, Franklin knew better—disabling GPS trackers was rule number one when boosting a vehicle. The adrenaline of spilling blood had thrown him off his game.
Jason clapped a hand on his shoulder, his voice steady. "It's not your fault. I should've caught it too. Lesson learned. Don't let it happen again." He nodded toward the truck. "The bikes okay?"
"Checked 'em already. All good," Franklin said, his confidence returning.
Jason nodded, satisfied. As long as the cargo was intact, the night wasn't a bust.
[Ding! Mission [Speed Heist] completed. Reward: 1000 Villain Points. Current Progress: 4915/4000]
[Ding! Congratulations, Host has reached Level 5. Gained 10 Attribute Points. Current Progress: 915/5000]
They waited in the truck's cab, the salty tang of the docks heavy in the air. A black Audi approached, stopping about twenty meters away. Its headlights flashed a signal—three long, one short.
"That's Morgan's code," Jason said. "Answer it. Three long, one short."
Franklin nodded, mimicking the signal with the truck's lights.
With the code confirmed, they stepped out. Four men exited the Audi, one of them Morgan's driver, a familiar face from past deals. He popped the trunk, hefting two black duffels onto the hood and gesturing for Jason to inspect them.
Jason unzipped the bags, revealing stacks of worn hundred-dollar bills—$1.3 million in non-sequential cash, just as agreed. He ran his fingers over the bills, checking for fakes. "Money's clean."
He signaled Franklin to open the truck's cargo hold. Two of Morgan's men, professional appraisers, climbed inside, their flashlights sweeping over the motorcycles. Morgan kept a small army of these guys—experts who could spot a scam from a mile away. Minutes later, they hopped down, nodding to the driver. The goods were legit.
Deal done. Money and cargo exchanged without a hitch.
Jason and Franklin ditched the truck, slung the duffels over their shoulders, and rode the Harley back to Franklin's place, the night air whipping past them.
---
The next day, noon, at Franklin's house.
Jason sat on the edge of his bed, the two duffels in front of him—one bulging, the other smaller. He split the cash: $1 million for himself to fund his system upgrades, and $300,000 for Franklin. He opened the system interface, feeding the larger stack into it. The bills vanished in a flicker of light.
[Ding! Credits recharged successfully. Current Credits: 103]
He navigated to the skill shop, selecting his target.
[Ding! Spent 100 Credits. [Firearms Mastery] Level 6 purchased successfully. Remaining Credits: 3]
[Level: 5 (915/5000)]
[Strength: 38]
[Agility: 40]
[Endurance: 35]
[Intelligence: 40]
[Remaining Attribute Points: 10]
[Reputation: 191]
[Ally: Franklin Clinton (Next Recruitment Requires Reputation: 300)]
[Credits: 3]
[Abilities: Combat Mastery (Level 4), Driving Mastery (Level 3), Firearms Mastery (Level 6), Melee Weapons Mastery (Level 2)]
[Market: Click Here]
The ten attribute points sat unallocated. Jason wasn't sure where to invest them yet, so he left them for a rainy day.
He grabbed the smaller duffel and knocked on Franklin's door. Stepping inside, he tossed the bag onto the bed. "Your cut from last night. $300,000. Count it."
Franklin, still groggy from sleep, rubbed his eyes and unzipped the bag. The sight of the weathered bills hit him like a jolt of electricity. His jaw dropped, his hands trembling as he stared at the fortune—more money than he'd ever seen. He swallowed hard, his voice barely a whisper. "Boss, this is too much."
He steadied himself, guilt creeping in. "You did all the heavy lifting last night. I just drove. And I fucked up with the GPS, nearly got you killed. I don't deserve this."
Jason waved him off, uninterested in the debate. "Take it. If you feel bad, step up next time. Earn it."
He was generous with loyal allies—stinginess bred resentment, and he needed Franklin's absolute commitment. The system guaranteed his loyalty, but a fat payday sealed it.
Leaving the room, Jason's stomach growled. He sprawled on the living room couch, tearing into a bucket of fried chicken and a Coke, the greasy comfort food hitting the spot. He flicked on the TV, tuning to a news channel, unsurprised to see his handiwork dominating the airwaves.
The screen showed the blood-scrawled message he'd left on the highway: The Killers is JW!
His initials, bold and undeniable.
The anchor's voice was grave. "This chilling act—murder followed by a message written in blood—confirms Jason Walter's disturbed psyche. We're joined by a University of Washington psychiatry professor to analyze this from a professional perspective."
"Bitch!" Jason snarled, grabbing the remote. "You're the one with a mental illness."
He switched channels. A female anchor appeared, her tone analytical. "Jason Walter's recent killing spree reminds me of another infamous figure: Jack the Ripper, London's 19th-century serial killer. Both are brutally efficient, and coincidentally, both have names starting with 'J.' But while Jack targeted prostitutes, Jason hunts gangsters."
Jason scoffed, changing the channel again. "What kind of garbage passes for a host these days?"
Every station was dissecting him. Talk shows, news panels—all obsessed with his rampage.
"Normal people feel fear or guilt after killing," One said. "But Jason? In five days, he's killed nearly 70 people, leaving a blood-written signature at the scene. He's a textbook psychopath, like Hannibal Lecter."
"His methods are growing more depraved," Another chimed in. "He revels in the act, in the crime itself. I'd wager it ties back to a traumatic childhood—every serial killer has one."
"Police data shows New York's crime rate has plummeted since Jason's emergence," A third argued. "He's single-handedly doing what thousands of cops couldn't—punishing the wicked. Calling him a serial killer is wrong. He's more like… an avatar of justice."
"Justice?" A fourth snapped. "He's a delusional vigilante, ignoring the law, slaughtering gang members to 'fix' New York. No one but the law has the right to take a life."
"Bunch of idiots," Jason muttered, shutting off the TV in disgust.
Still, their relentless coverage had one silver lining: his Reputation was skyrocketing. The world was talking about him, and that infamy was fuel.