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Mada Gao slamd the phone down, her face a mask of cold fury, cheeks flushed with rage. A twenty-sothing punk had the gall to speak to her like that? Unacceptable.
Across from her, Kingpin watched with a smug grin, savoring every second of her humiliation. ’Serves you right, you old witch,’ he thought. Jason had done him a favor, knocking Gao down a peg. It felt like every cell in his body was singing.
Gao’s composure returned quickly, her expression smoothing into icy calm. She stood, gripping her cane. "Wilson, Jason’s your problem now. Handle him. Fast."
Kingpin escorted her to the door, his smile polite but sharp. "Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered."
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Back at Franklin’s house, Jason stepped out of the bathroom, his arm freshly bandaged, the sting of antiseptic sharp in the air. He’d scrubbed the blood from his skin, but the living room was still a slaughterhouse—splattered crimson and a headless corpse sprawled on the floor.
Franklin walked in, a case of liquor under his arm, and froze, his jaw dropping. "Holy shit! I was gone for, what, ten minutes? What the hell happened?"
Jason, pale and drained, pointed to the body. "Soone found my location. They sent this guy to kill ."
Franklin didn’t need to see the fight to know it was brutal. Jason’s wounds and the carnage told the story—a desperate, bloody brawl. He steadied himself, forcing calm. "What do we do with the body? Bury it?"
Before Jason could answer, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, his eyes narrowing. "Jason, the cops know your location. NYPD SWAT will be there in ten minutes. If you want to live, get to this address." A set of coordinates followed.
Franklin leaned over, reading the ssage. "Boss, who’s this from?"
Jason smirked, handing him the phone without a word.
Franklin scanned it, his brow furrowing. "Is this legit?"
Jason nodded faintly. "I expected the cops to find eventually, just not this fast. Never underestimate the NYPD."
"But this address?" Franklin pressed. "Could be a trap."
Jason clapped his shoulder, his voice firm. "It’s solid. Stop overthinking. Grab your stuff—we’re out."
Five minutes later, they slipped out the back door, duffels slung over their shoulders, and roared off on the Harley toward the coordinates. Monts after they left, the clear sky rumbled with the thrum of three ard helicopters. A dozen armored vans screeched to a halt, SWAT teams pouring out to surround Franklin’s house. They breached the door, only to find a headless corpse and an empty hideout.
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The address led to a rundown apartnt building less than five kiloters away, a seven-story relic without an elevator. Each floor housed eight cramped units, none larger than 100 square feet, ho to working-class families scraping by. Jason and Franklin, faces obscured by baseball caps and masks, hauled their bags to the fifth floor, stopping at room 503.
The door was ajar, a faint piano lody drifting out—urgent, rising to a crescendo. Neither Jason nor Franklin, rough around the edges, recognized the piece or its composer. They exchanged a glance, drew their guns, and chambered rounds. Jason nudged the door open.
The music swelled, frenetic and intense, as if racing toward a climax. In the living room, a man in a white suit stood with his back to them, his arms waving like a conductor leading an orchestra. Franklin’s face twisted in confusion, but Jason’s expression was one of grim recognition.
As the music softened, the man lowered his arms and turned. Middle-aged, white, with brown hair and stubble on his jaw. Sweat plastered a few strands to his forehead, either from the room’s stuffiness or his theatrical performance. He smiled, his gaze sweeping over them before settling on Jason. "Do you like Beethoven?"
Jason shook his head. Beethoven? So gangbanger he hadn’t heard of?
The man’s face fell, disappointed. "You’re missing out. His overtures get my blood pumping, but after the climax? Honestly, it’s dull." He shrugged, cutting off the music. "So, I’m done with it."
Franklin, baffled by the man’s erratic behavior, blurted out, "Yo, who the hell are you? Why’re you helping us?"
The man ignored him, pulling a small tal tin from his pocket. He shook it, the rattle of capsules audible, then popped one into his mouth. Leaning back dramatically, he let out a shuddering moan, his face flushing as the drug hit his system.
Franklin’s eyes widened. ’This guy’s a fucking nutcase.’ Getting high in front of strangers, moaning like he was in ecstasy?
The man steadied himself, his mood volatile. He stepped close to Jason, sniffing the air like a predator. "You know, I’ve been a fan for a long ti. Your cris... they’re art. Violent, beautiful art. Those bodies you leave behind? Masterpieces." His eyes glead with obsession. "I can sll the blood on you. Tell , how’d this last guy die?"
Jason’s voice was flat, unfazed. "Grabbed his ankles, spun him like a top, and smashed his head into a wall."
"Boom!" The man mimicked an explosion, laughing wildly. "That’s why I love you! You’re a goddamn genius of cri!"
His laughter faded, and he pulled out a badge, his tone shifting to businesslike calm. "Na’s Norman Stansfield. Friends call Stan. I’m the head of the New York DEA."
Franklin’s jaw dropped. "No fucking way."
The DEA chief? This lunatic was snorting drugs in front of them, high as a kite, and he was running the city’s anti-drug task force? Franklin’s worldview shattered, his shock rendering him speechless.
Before Stan’s high spiraled further, Franklin jumped in. "Why’d you save us?"
Stan spread his hands, grinning. "Simple. I’m Jason’s biggest fan. I want in—want to join him, pull off the kind of cris that shake the world."
Franklin blinked, stunned. "That’s the dumbest reason I’ve ever heard."
Then he rembered—he’d joined Jason for the sa damn reason.
"So," Stan said, his eyes earnest, "Since I saved your ass, can I join the crew?"
Jason opened his arms, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. "Welco aboard."
[Ding! Villain ally recruited successfully.]
[Ally: Norman Stansfield]
[Origin: Léon: The Professional]
[Abilities: Music Mastery (Level 2), Driving Mastery (Level 3), Firearms Mastery (Level 4), Special Operations (Level 3)]
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