"...This is Stan's stash. Keep it here for now."
"We'll come back for it when the heat dies down."
"Remember, keep your mouth shut."
It was a stern voice, speaking English with a proficiency Hunter was now very familiar with.
But there was a distinct Italian accent.
Living in this neighborhood for a while, Hunter had interacted with plenty of Italian immigrants. Their accent, like the French and Japanese, was distinctive and easy to recognize.
Soon, another man's voice came through the thin walls.
"Paul, you know me!"
"I always handle your business seriously."
That was Mathilda's father. A sleazy, greedy, middle-aged white man.
A low-level gangster and, apparently, a DEA informant.
The plot of Léon: The Professional kicked off because this man got greedy. He skimmed drugs from Norman Stansfield, a corrupt DEA agent ("Stan"), who was stashing his supply here.
Because of his greed, he would soon get himself, his wife, his stepdaughter, and his young son killed.
Mathilda would be the only survivor, escaping by the skin of her teeth.
Hunter didn't like the man, but he didn't hate him either.
Why? Because the guy was never home.
And his wife—Mathilda's stepmother—was... exceptional. Very hospitable. Very moist. Hunter had verified this personally.
"Stansfield is stashing drugs at Mathilda's place?"
"Looks like the Léon plot will kick off in a month, tops."
Hunter hadn't decided if he would intervene.
He chatted with Mathilda occasionally, but they weren't close. Ever since she saw her stepmom leaving Hunter's apartment with messy hair a while back, the kid had been giving him the cold shoulder.
Whatever. She was just a brat.
If this were the adult Lady Thor, he'd be all over her. But right now? No thanks. He wasn't a pedo.
Still, if he could save her family... maybe he would.
Her stepmom was too good a "training partner" to lose. She was the reason his [Reproduction] skill was pushing Level 4.
If she died, he'd be mourning the loss of a great asset.
Thoughts raced through his mind, but he pushed them aside.
It was raining outside.
Perfect.
Hunter went downstairs calmly. He found a secluded, camera-free street, pulled out his modified motorcycle, and rode towards Steve's villa, sixty kilometers away.
An hour later, after a detour and a disguise change, he arrived at the base of the cliff in the pouring rain.
He looked up. The cliff seemed to pierce the clouds.
Worried about being spotted, he only brought cheap glow sticks instead of a flashlight.
But with his enhanced senses (double that of a normal human), the faint green glow was enough.
He approached the rock face.
From his Inventory, he pulled out pitons, carabiners, and a hammer.
He had already mapped out a route during his scouting trips.
He began to hammer the pitons into the rock, creating a path upwards. He also set anchors for a rappel line, ensuring he could descend from the villa in seconds once the job was done.
Hammering metal into rock is loud.
But Hunter was prepared. He had wrapped the hammer head in thick cloth.
Combined with the sound of the rain, the noise was dampened enough to avoid alerting Steve or the guards above.
It was grueling work.
Climbing a wet cliff while hammering pitons from the bottom up was a nightmare.
Even with his mapped route, some rocks cracked or crumbled under the hammer.
Despite his caution, it was messy.
He worked for seven or eight hours.
As dawn approached, Hunter drove the final piton into a large rock at the top of the cliff.
"Phew!"
He rappelled down quickly using the rope he had just installed.
Then, he climbed back up.
He needed to test the route's safety.
Over the past two weeks, he had poured effort into his [Climbing] skill.
He had taken lessons at a gym and practiced on coastal rocks.
His [Climbing] was now Level 3.
With the pitons in place, scaling the fifty-meter cliff was almost easy.
Hunter moved like a monkey, nimble and fast.
Minutes later, he reached the top.
He peeked over the edge.
Sweat dripped from his forehead, mixing with the rain, but he grinned.
"Success."
He rappelled back down one last time.
Exhausted, he decided not to push his luck.
He would go home, rest, and recover his stamina.
The gold heist would happen tomorrow night.
Using a special technique, he retrieved his rope from the bottom, looked up at the cliff one last time, and vanished into the rain.
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