Jason’s blood ran cold as he processed the news. Kingpin had already slapped a $3 million bounty on his head, and now the Departnt of Justice had upped the ante with a staggering $10 million reward. A combined $13 million was an astronomical sum, enough to make every lowlife, hitman, and trigger-happy thug in New York salivate. The city’s underbelly would be crawling with killers, their eyes gleaming with greed, ready to risk everything for a shot at his head. He’d have to watch his back every second from now on, his every step shadowed by danger.
But every coin has two sides. The sa news that painted a target on his back was spreading his infamy like wildfire across the nation. His na was becoming a whispered legend, a boogeyman to so, a god to others. Fear and awe followed in his wake, and with that notoriety, his reputation surged.
[Ding! Reputation reached 100 points. Gained one ally recruitnt opportunity.]
A rush of exhilaration surged through Jason, his heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and relief. With a $13 million bounty looming over him, even his formidable skills wouldn’t be enough against the relentless tide of enemies. A loyal ally could be the edge he needed to survive this storm.
He opened the system interface with a ntal command, his fingers itching with excitent, and selected the ally recruitnt option.
[Ding! Villain ally ’Franklin Clinton’ activated. Character origin: GTA V. Host must locate and recruit the ally independently.]
A flood of fragnted mories stirred in the recesses of Jason’s mind, hazy and distant. GTA V—a global gaming phenonon from years past. Franklin Clinton was one of its protagonists, a street-smart hustler with a knack for survival. But what was his special ability? Jason racked his brain, but the details remained frustratingly out of reach, lost in the fog of ti.
The bigger problem was finding Franklin in the sprawling chaos of New York City. He couldn’t exactly plaster missing person posters across every alley and lamppost—not with the feds breathing down his neck.
[Ding! Friendly reminder: Franklin Clinton is a fervent admirer of the host and frequently posts related content on Facebook.]
Jason almost laughed. A reminder? This was practically a neon sign pointing him in the right direction. He already had a Facebook account with a sizable following, built on carefully curated posts of guns, gorgeous won, sleek supercars, and opulent mansions. In any world, wealth and swagger drew a crowd, and Jason had mastered the art of online allure.
But logging into his main account was out of the question. With a $10 million federal bounty, the governnt’s cyber hounds were undoubtedly monitoring his every digital move. One login, and the FBI would kick down his door before he could blink. Instead, he created a burner account, his fingers flying over the phone’s screen. He searched for "Franklin Clinton," narrowing the results to males in New York.
The results were daunting—over 500 n nad Franklin Clinton in the city. Jason sighed, resigning himself to the tedious task of sifting through their profiles one by one. The system had hinted that Franklin was a diehard fan, so his page would surely be littered with references to Jason’s exploits.
For over three grueling hours, Jason scrolled through profiles, his neck stiffening and eyes burning from the strain. Finally, he stumbled upon a promising candidate. The profile picture showed a young Black man, unremarkable in appearance, with a utilitarian three-milliter buzz cut. His face scread "struggling everyman," a guy scraping by at the bottom of society’s ladder.
Clicking into the profile, Jason’s jaw dropped. Over half the posts were about him—gushing, obsessive rants that confird this Franklin was indeed his man. The guy was a true fanatic.
"Single-handedly wiping out two dozen mafia goons? Is Jason a freaking god?"
"CNN’s idiot reporters can eat it. The great Jason Walter will never go down!"
"OMG! Jason took out the Russian mafia solo! Holy hell, this is insane!"
The latest post, tistamped thirty minutes ago, read: "$10 million bounty? Jason’s too damn cool! One day he’ll outshine Bin Laden and beco the governnt’s eternal nightmare."
Jason’s cheeks flushed at the over-the-top, almost cringeworthy enthusiasm. The kid’s passion was infectious, though—youthful, raw, and unfiltered. Franklin’s brazen support had drawn a swarm of self-righteous trolls, their vitriolic comnts tearing into him with relentless fury. But Franklin gave as good as he got, trading insults with hundreds of detractors without breaking a sweat. Jason had to admit, the guy had a certain tenacity—maybe even a racial knack for verbal sparring.
He fired off a private ssage: "Hey, I’m Jason Walter."
A minute later, Franklin shot back: "Yo, I’m your daddy."
Jason’s brow furrowed. Were kids these days always this mouthy? He typed again, undeterred: "I’m really Jason Walter. You’re my fan, right? I think we should et."
Franklin’s reply was instant: "Bullshit! I get dozens of these ssages a day. If you’re really Jason, send a selfie right now."
Jason sighed. "You saw the news. I’ve got a $10 million bounty on my head. If I send a photo, the feds’ systems will lock onto in seconds. You know how it works."
"No photo, no proof. Why should I trust you?"
"Let’s et in person. You’ll see I’m the real deal."
"You’re just a scamr trying to lure sowhere and ditch , huh? Been there, done that, asshole."
Jason pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering what kind of scams this kid had fallen for to be so jaded. "Look, you pick the spot. Hell, choose the Starbucks down the street if you want. If I flake, you’re out of nothing."
Franklin went silent, likely weighing the proposal’s risks. After a tense ten minutes, he replied: "Tonight, 9 p.m., Club on XX Street in Queens. I’ll wait one hour."
"Deal. I’ll be there at 9 sharp."
Jason logged out of Facebook and checked the ti. Five hours until the eting. Plenty of ti to prepare. He rummaged through his backpack, pulling out a driver’s license belonging to one Henry Wade, a thirty-sothing white guy. morizing the face, Jason grabbed his disguise kit and got to work in front of a mirror.
Three hours later, he was transford. Staring back at him was Henry Wade, down to the smallest detail—ninety percent identical. Even Kingpin himself wouldn’t recognize him now. Satisfied, Jason tucked a fully loaded pistol into his waistband, the cold tal a comforting weight against his spine. He left the safehouse, walking three blocks before hailing a cab.
The driver, a grizzled white man in his forties, greeted him cheerfully. "Evening, sir. Where to?"
"Queens," Jason replied, keeping his tone neutral.
"Specific address?"
"Any big mall will do."
"You got it."
The cab pulled into traffic, heading toward Queens. Fifteen minutes in, it slowed to a stop. The driver slapped the steering wheel, cursing under his breath. "Damn it, these idiot cops are at it again."
Jason leaned forward, spotting the issue: a police roadblock. After the string of explosions in Manhattan—over fifty dead in the chaos—the NYPD was under imnse pressure from the feds and the public. Checkpoints had sprung up across the borough’s main roads, officers scrutinizing every vehicle with ticulous care. For regular folks, it was a reassuring show of force. For cabbies like this one, it was a chokehold on their livelihood.
Jason’s pulse quickened, but his face remained a mask of calm. He couldn’t afford to draw attention—not with $13 million hanging over his head.
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