Cross looked at Russell, soaking in the murky bath, with a face full of regret. Stiffly, he said, "That's it for tonight. We continue tomorrow. Rest up."
Cross walked away without looking back. Every time he recalled Russell's "perfect" bullet-catching posture, he got a migraine. He had assumed that with a little coaching, Russell would be a prodigy. Turns out, he was being way too optimistic.
If he had to grade Russell's performance, he'd give him a D. Double D. At best.
The good news was, he hadn't aimed for the head. Otherwise, finding another decent assistant would have been a real pain in the ass.
Russell's expression mirrored Cross's pain. The movies were full of shit—getting shot and then jumping around like a tiger? Lies. He took one bullet to the thigh and was basically incapacitated. He had no idea how people who took a dozen rounds and kept fighting were built.
Russell had anticipated Cross might shoot, but not twice in a row. It was clear: without equipping a Character Card, going up against a top-tier assassin was a losing battle.
Soaking in the tub, the wound on his thigh began to itch, along with the various bruises from the day's beatdown. It felt like ants were crawling under his skin.
This was a normal reaction to accelerated healing. The murky liquid in the tub was no joke. In the world of Wanted, aside from Bullet Time and the Loom of Fate, this Recovery Bath was the most magical thing around.
The medicine stimulated white blood cells upon contact, speeding up recovery. Bruises, cuts, fractures—healed in hours. Way more reliable than Russell's flaky System.
In the Fraternity's headquarters, the Textile Mill No. 17, there was a Recovery Room filled with these baths.
The Fraternity's leader, Morgan Freeman—no, Sloan—was the biggest moron of them all. He was sitting on a gold mine and didn't even know it. There were a million ways to make money, why choose murder? He could have patented this formula, opened a factory, and mass-produced a diluted version as a miracle cure.
With this god-tier medicine, dominating the medical world would be a piece of cake. He could have been richer than nations!
Russell closed his eyes, sank into the water, and drifted off to sleep.
...
The next day, Russell's biological clock woke him up. He broke through the solidified wax-like surface of the bath, climbed out, and got dressed. He waited and waited, but Cross was nowhere to be seen.
Russell practiced shooting in the factory's range. Thanks to his increased Intelligence stat and the muscle memory from the Subway Police card, he was hitting bullseyes every time. After emptying five magazines, he got bored.
No challenge. He was getting cocky.
After waiting a while longer with no sign of Cross, Russell's stomach growled. He decided to go forage for food. The bath had healed him completely—you couldn't even tell he'd been shot last night—but the cost was a ravenous hunger.
It was KFC again. Not because he was poor, but because junk food was high-calorie fuel.
Belly full, he returned to the factory. Still no ghost of Cross. Russell guessed the man was probably off peeping on his son's girlfriend—or maybe hunting a target.
Russell picked up a gun and did another hour of dry, boring practice before giving up. Mindless drills were just killing time, not improving his skills.
Cross didn't keep many guns on the racks; this wasn't his main hideout. Russell knew Cross wasn't fully trusting him yet. But that didn't matter. Russell had seen the movie. He knew Cross's biggest weakness: his son, Wesley.
If there was such a thing as a "Child of Destiny," then in this world, Wesley was it.
In life, some people become legends, and others are total losers. You think it's about effort?
No. Your effort is fine. Your genes just suck.
All roads lead to Rome, but some people are born in Rome. And some are born as the Prince of goddamn Rome.
The world of Wanted was all about bloodlines. No adrenaline-pumping bloodline? No top-tier assassin status for you. Wesley surpassed 20 years of training by geniuses in just two weeks. Where's the justice in that?
But Russell wasn't panicked. He had hacks.
Speaking of Wesley, Russell felt the need to make contact. The kid goes "God Mode" later on. Aside from Cross, he's the most OP character. Better to invest in him now while he's still a loser.
Sure, this might piss off Cross, but hey, it would just be a "coincidence." How was Russell supposed to know Wesley was his son?
Since he was still useful, Russell decided to live dangerously for a while.
He pulled his cap low and left the factory, following the 'L' train tracks, searching for clues from his memory.
Wesley's apartment was near the tracks. Problem was, every building here was a run-down apartment near the tracks. Wesley lived near an ATM. Russell found thirty ATMs. Wesley bought anxiety meds at a local market. Russell found five markets along the tracks, all selling the same meds.
Russell: "..."
"Fine. Let's call it 'reconnaissance.' At least I won't run into a dead end when I'm being chased."
Watching the moon rise, Russell gave up on finding Wesley. Too few clues. And frankly, even if Wesley walked right past him, Russell might not recognize him.
No one said the characters in this world had to look exactly like the actors in the movie.
As for asking strangers for Wesley's address? No. He needed a "chance encounter."
Hugging a bucket of chicken, Russell wandered under the streetlights when his phone rang.
"Shit! Where the hell did you go?"
Russell pulled the phone away from his ear. Cross's roar was loud enough to vibrate the earwax out of his head.
"I waited at the factory forever. I came out to get food. My location is..." Russell looked around. A market called 'THE EGG STORE', with an ATM embedded in the wall next to it.
"Alright, as long as you're alive. I don't care where you are, get your ass back to the factory now. Fraternity killers are in the area. Watch yourself." Cross hung up.
Russell listened to the dial tone, then looked at the market ahead. His heart rate began to spike. His intuition screamed danger.
"You're right. I'm heading back now!"
But some things, and some people, can't be avoided. Just as Russell turned to leave, a gunshot rang out from the market.
An explosion followed, and a frantic, loser-looking young man in a dark blue jacket stumbled out.
Russell leaned against the wall, locking eyes on the guy. Although his face was slightly different from memory, his gut told him: This is Wesley.
SCREEECH!
Ear-piercing tire squeals erupted as a pet transport van—driven by Cross—burst out of an alley and slammed on the brakes right next to Russell.
"Fuck! What are you doing here?" Cross was flabbergasted. What were the odds?
Russell shrugged, didn't say a word, and took a bite of a chicken leg from his bucket. The meaning was clear:
I'm eating. What does it look like I'm doing?
On the other side, Wesley scrambled into a parking lot, only to be picked up by a stunning red sports car.
A Dodge Viper SRT-10!
The epitome of American muscle. 600 horsepower, 8.4-liter V10 engine. More displacement, more power, more torque. A vicious viper on the attack.
Russell nodded in appreciation. "Nice ride, don't you think?"
Cross rolled his eyes and dragged Russell into the van. "You drive! Don't lose them... Wait, how's your driving?"
"It's average. I just put the pedal to the metal and let Jesus take the wheel!"
"What!?"
"Buckle up and obey traffic laws. We're hitting the road..." Russell strapped in, his eyes suddenly turning razor-sharp as he stomped the gas pedal to the floor.
[System: Host equipped 'Character Card: BABY'. Duration: 400 seconds. Timer start!]
Cross gulped and instinctively tightened his seatbelt. He felt a terrifying aura coming from Russell—the kind of presence only found in someone who has reached the absolute peak of their field.
This guy was a pro.
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This is the final chapter I'll be uploading today. Starting tomorrow, updates will continue with one chapter daily. Bonus content is available on my profile page