[Ding! Destroyed one of Anatoly’s testicles. Gained 100 Villain Points. Current progress: 1350/2000.]
’Testicle?’ Jason stifled a laugh, the absurdity of the system’s notification cutting through the tension. He leaned out from his perch on the fourth floor, the M4A1 steady in his grip, the mall’s dim ergency lights casting long shadows across the blood-streaked marble below. "Congrats, Vladimir!" He shouted, his voice dripping with mockery. "Your brother’s officially a one-ball wonder!"
"Jason, stop!" Vladimir’s plea echoed from the stairwell, raw and desperate, his usual stoic deanor cracking under the weight of his brother’s agony. "I... I’ll make it right. Your apartnt, all your losses—I’ll pay for everything. Just don’t hurt Anatoly anymore."
Jason’s eyes narrowed, his finger hovering over the trigger. The offer was tempting, but trust in this world was a luxury he couldn’t afford. "Sorry, pal," He called back, his tone cold as steel. "The only paynt I’m accepting is your lives."
"FUCK YOU!" Vladimir’s roar was a mix of rage and despair, but Jason just shook his head, a wry smirk tugging at his lips.
"Hey, hear your brother’s screams?" He taunted, his voice cutting through Anatoly’s pained wails. "Better hurry up and save him."
Bang!
A single shot rang out, the bullet tearing into Anatoly’s thigh. His scream pierced the mall, a guttural cry that echoed off the glass storefronts. Jason’s aim, sharpened by his Level 5 Firearms Mastery, was precise—muscle only, no arteries. He wanted Anatoly alive, a writhing lure to draw the others out.
Anatoly’s cries pushed Vladimir to the edge. His face twisted with anguish, his fists clenched as he barked an order to one of his n. "Go get him. Now."
The chosen thug paled, his eyes wide with dread. Stepping out of the stairwell was suicide, and he knew it. But Vladimir’s hand rested on his pistol, his glare promising a bullet to the skull for disobedience. With a resigned sigh, the man crept out, dropping to his belly and crawling across the blood-slicked floor toward Anatoly. His hands shook as he grabbed Anatoly’s ankle, dragging him back, leaving a wide, crimson sar across the pristine marble.
Jason watched from above, his M4A1 trained on the scene, his finger steady but patient. The thug was close now, only two or three ters from the stairwell, straining to pull Anatoly to safety. ’Perfect.’
Bang!
A single, searing bullet punched through the thug’s head, blood and bone spraying as he collapsed, lifeless.
[Ding! Eliminated one mafia mber. Gained 100 Villain Points. Current progress: 1450/2000.]
"SHIT!" Vladimir’s fist slamd into the concrete wall, the impact reverberating through the stairwell. His voice was thick with fury, his control fraying.
"Boss, it’s a trap!" One of the remaining Russians hissed, his voice urgent. "He’s baiting you. Don’t fall for it!" They were desperate now, their numbers dwindling, their dream of carving out a place in New York’s underworld teetering on collapse. If Vladimir went down, their gang was finished.
Vladimir knew it was a trap. His mind scread at him to stay calm, to think strategically, to outsmart the bastard who’d turned their hunt into a slaughter. But Anatoly’s broken form, bleeding out on the cold floor, was more than he could bear. His heart twisted, his legs itching to move, to rush out and drag his brother to safety. ’He’s my only family,’ He thought, the words a knife in his gut.
The distant wail of police sirens cut through the tension, their shrill cry growing louder with each passing second. Ten minutes had passed since the apartnt explosion, and the NYPD, true to form, had taken their sweet ti. The sound snapped Vladimir back to reality, his red-rimd eyes glistening with unshed tears. He took one last, anguished look at Anatoly, his resolve crumbling.
"Boss, the cops are here. We gotta go!" One of his n urged, grabbing his arm.
Vladimir nodded, his jaw tight. He turned, his boots echoing as he fled the stairwell, his heart heavy with the weight of abandoning his brother. ’Jason,’ he thought, the na a burning vow. ’I’ll kill you, even if it costs everything.’
---
Jason’s ears caught the sirens, their piercing wail a warning that his ti was running out. ’Shit,’ He thought, his pulse spiking. He aid at Anatoly, firing a burst of shots into his already battered body.
"Vladimir, you abandoning your brother to save your own skin?" He shouted, his voice taunting, but the stairwell was silent. No response, no footsteps. Vladimir had bolted. His fishing plan had failed.
He sighed, a flicker of disappointnt crossing his face. With a final, cold glance at Anatoly’s writhing form, he raised the M4A1 and fired a single shot through his skull. The body went still, blood pooling beneath it.
[Ding! Eliminated Anatoly (plot character). Gained 500 Villain Points. Current progress: 1950/2000.]
No ti to savor the points. Jason sprinted to a nearby Nike store, its sleek displays untouched by the chaos. He grabbed a black tracksuit and matching sneakers from the racks, the fabric crisp and new, and stuffed his blood-soaked gear into a large backpack. He snatched a baseball cap, pulling it low over his eyes, and slipped out through a hidden employee exit, the narrow corridor slling of cleaning chemicals and stale air.
[Ding! Stole private property. Gained 10 Villain Points. Current progress: 1960/2000.]
---
The night outside was ink-black, the air heavy with the threat of rain. The sirens were deafening now, their red and blue lights flashing in the distance, closing in fast. Jason tugged the cap lower, his face shadowed as he slipped into a narrow alley, its walls slick with gri and moisture. The city’s main streets were too exposed—too many caras, too many eyes. The alley was his only path, its stench of rotting garbage and piss a familiar companion from his youth.
"Hey, buddy, what’s in that fat backpack?" A voice called, slurred and cocky. Three teenagers, barely sixteen, stepped into his path, their dyed hair glowing under a flickering streetlight—green, purple, blue, like a cheap carnival. tal piercings jangled on their clothes, their mouths smacking gum, one brandishing a switchblade that glead dully in the dim light.
Jason kept his head down, setting the backpack on the ground with deliberate calm. "Lots of good stuff," He said, his voice low, almost amused. "Wanna see?"
"Hell yeah! Show us!" The leader waved the blade, his bravado masking a nervous edge.
"Easy, I’m getting it," Jason said, his hand dipping into the bag. He pulled out the Benelli M4 Super 90 shotgun, its sleek barrel catching the faint light. "Benelli M4, semi-auto, fires multiple shot types. One blast’ll blow a hole through your chest. Low recoil, quiet for its power. Nice, right?"
"Oh, shit!" The trio’s bravado shattered. They scread, stumbling over each other as they fled, their footsteps echoing down the alley.
Jason watched them go, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Their panicked retreat stirred mories of his own childhood in Hell’s Kitchen—lurking in alleys like this, preying on stragglers. Back then, he didn’t bother with knives; a loaded 9mm was his tool of choice, its weight a comfort even at twelve. ’Fifteen years,’ he thought, slinging the backpack over his shoulder. ’Ti’s a cruel bastard.’
He shook off the nostalgia, moving swiftly through the alley, erging three blocks later. He flagged down a cab, then another, then a third, switching rides to shake any tails. The city blurred past—neon signs, honking horns, the pulse of Manhattan’s sleepless heart. Finally, he reached his destination: a storage facility on the west side, nestled along the Hudson River’s shore.
These self-storage units were a godsend for people like him—cheap, discreet, and no questions asked. For $80 a month, you could rent a 20-square-ter space in a quieter area and stash whatever you wanted, no inspections as long as the rent was paid. Jason had splurged on a 100-square-ter unit, his personal safe house, its location a secret kept from everyone—Kingpin, his lieutenants, even Vanessa.
He unlocked the rolling shutter, the tal groaning as it rose. Inside, the space looked like a junkyard’s fever dream: a battered TV, a sagging couch, a chipped dining table, mismatched chairs, stacks of canned food, and cases of bottled water. To any outsider, it was just another cluttered storage unit, unremarkable and forgettable.
He pulled the shutter down, sealing himself in, and grabbed a flashlight from a drawer, its beam cutting through the dusty air. Shoving aside a pile of furniture, he unearthed a dust-covered suitcase, its weight heavy with secrets. Inside were clothes, more guns, ammo, a driver’s license, passports, a portable dical kit, a burner phone, and $20,000 in cash—his ergency stash, one of seven such safe houses scattered across the city. ’You don’t survive this life without backup plans,’ He thought, his fingers brushing the suitcase’s worn leather.
He opened the dical kit, peeling off his blood-crusted tracksuit, the fabric sticking to his wounded arm. Sitting on the couch, its springs creaking under his weight, he set to work. He disinfected the wound, the alcohol’s sting biting deep, and stitched it shut with a needle and thread, his hands steady despite the pain. He wrapped fresh gauze around it, his movents precise, almost chanical. Years of patching himself up had made him better at this than most ER nurses, each suture a testant to a life lived on the edge.
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