Chapter 39 — Terry's Overconfidence & A Return to the Tattoo Shop
"What the hell do you think you're doing!?"
Terry tried to puff himself up, staring William down.
He had to.
If he backed down now, the Milkovich family's reputation would be ruined.
Showing weakness was not an option.
"Relax," William said coolly.
"I just wanted to talk outside. If you'd listened from the start, we wouldn't have ended up like this."
He pointed at the broken table and shattered beer glasses on the floor.
"And don't forget to pay for all that. It's coming out of your pocket."
Terry glared at him for a long moment…
then finally lowered his fist.
"Fine. Let's go outside."
He motioned for his thugs, and the whole group walked toward the Alibi Room's back exit.
William holstered his gun and followed.
Kevin exhaled in relief once they were gone.
"Kate! Come help me clean up this mess!"
---
Behind the Alibi — The Dark Alley
There were no streetlights here.
The alley was pitch-black.
"Black," Terry snapped, crossing his arms, "what the hell do you want from me?"
"Terry," William said calmly, "I thought after two successful deals, our relationship would at least be stable. So why did you sell me out to those Black gang members?"
William genuinely wanted to know.
In the original timeline, Terry was fanatically racist—a white supremacist through and through.
He had once been a pure-hearted romantic…
until he fell in love with a Jewish girl, Rachel.
He even converted to Judaism for her.
But because he couldn't learn Hebrew, Rachel's father rejected him.
Terry snapped, killed the man, and spiraled into extremist ideology.
Rachel then married a Black man—
that was the last straw that completely shattered Terry's sanity.
Given all that, the idea of Terry working with Black gang members was absurd.
That was why William was so confused.
"You say I sold you out, so I did? You ever tell me to keep your identity secret?"
Terry scoffed.
"Anyone dealing drugs on the South Side gets investigated. That's normal."
It wasn't even a full lie.
The drug trade was fiercely territorial.
William had approached Terry about selling marijuana plants.
Even if Terry refused to sell them, other gangs would have noticed eventually.
And William had known that.
He'd accepted the risks the moment he decided to enter the drug business.
But that didn't mean Terry could betray him without consequences.
William's eyes narrowed.
"Looks like we can't settle this with conversation after all, Terry."
William looked at Terry helplessly.
The moment he said those words, every single one of Terry's men drew their guns and pointed them at him.
"I'm warning you! Move one more inch and I'll turn you into Swiss cheese!"
Terry shouted, full of fake confidence.
This time, he truly thought he had the upper hand.
No way he was backing down now—not with an audience and not with guns pointed at William.
But William had no intention of starting a shootout.
He lifted his eyes, calm as ever.
"Terry, how about this—we don't use guns.
Let's settle this with our hands."
He casually tossed his gun onto the ground.
The move stunned several of Terry's old thugs.
They stared wide-eyed.
This was the first time they'd ever seen someone so bold—someone who would voluntarily throw away his gun in front of an armed gang and suggest a fistfight.
Of course, they didn't know that William still had one loaded handgun sitting in his storage space…
Along with an M4A1 ready to pull out at any time.
And grenades, too—
if he felt like making a mess.
But William didn't want to just beat Terry up.
A simple beating wouldn't teach this bastard anything.
Terry needed a lesson he'd remember for the rest of his miserable life.
"No guns? Bare hands only?"
Terry stared at him in disbelief.
Since when did he get handed luck like this?
Seven or eight men on his side.
The first time they met, only William's gun had forced him into humiliation.
Without a gun?
Please.
Even if William was taller and faster, Terry believed that with one punch from each of his guys, they could put this "kid" six feet under.
"Yeah. No guns.
My sincerity should be pretty obvious, right?"
William said as he pointed at the gun lying on the ground.
Terry followed his finger, eyeing the weapon greedily.
"Well, since you're so desperate to die, don't blame us."
He tucked his gun back into his waistband.
Cracked his knuckles.
Rolled his neck.
"Go to hell, you little punk!"
Terry lunged forward, his tattoo-covered fist swinging toward William's face.
William simply shifted sideways.
Terry's punch hit nothing but cold air.
And then—
A knife-hand strike hit the side of his neck.
Terry collapsed instantly.
The other old thugs, shocked, rushed forward to gang up on William.
Too bad for them—
With the Self-Healing Factor boosting his physique
+
the mastery from Free Combat,
William dismantled the entire group in under a minute.
Some were knocked out.
Others rolling on the ground groaning.
"All right. I'm borrowing Terry for a while.
You guys go home."
William even waved goodbye to them—
as if they were all old friends.
---
Parking Lot
Just like Frank earlier, William tossed Terry's unconscious body into the back seat.
Then he drove straight back to the tattoo shop.
Inside the shop, besides the big tattoo artist from last time, there was another person—a girl with dyed orange-red hair.
She was lying on the exact same tattoo chair Frank had been on,
and the tattooist was currently inking some sort of body part onto her butt.
William nodded to himself.
South Side as usual.
Hearing the bell above the door, the tattooist turned his head.
Seeing William carrying someone over his shoulder made his eye twitch.
"You want another demon-eye tattoo?"
Honestly, no matter how much William paid, the artist never wanted to do that job again.
It was… truly inhuman.
"No. This one's much simpler."
William dropped Terry onto an empty stool.
"Holy shit—why did you bring this racist lunatic here!?"
Recognizing Terry's face nearly made the tattooist faint.
"Grace, go upstairs for now," the tattooist said quickly.
Grace glanced at William, then at the unconscious Terry.
"Hey, handsome," she said with a wink before heading up the stairs.
"You two dating?"
William asked with concern.
Judging by her stare, William was certain the tattooist's hair might be turning a little green.
"Grace? No—she's my sister."
He gulped.
"Anyway, back to business… can you get this guy out of here? I don't want to die."
Clearly, the tattooist wanted nothing to do with whatever William was planning.
"One thousand bucks."
If money could solve it, then it wasn't a problem.
William tossed him a roll of Franklins.
The tattooist swallowed hard.
"What do you want me to tattoo on him?"