The morning sun pierced through the narrow gaps in the warehouse’s rolling shutter, casting thin, golden slivers across the dim interior. The air was heavy with the musty scent of old furniture and the faint tang of gun oil, a stark contrast to the chaos of the previous night. Jason lay sprawled on the sagging couch, his sleep fitful, his face pale as death, brows knitted in tension. His fingers, even in rest, clung tightly to a Glock 20 pistol.
[Ding! Mission "Escape the Russian Mafia’s Pursuit" completed. Reward: 500 Villain Points. Current progress: 2460/2000.]
[Ding! Congratulations, Host, on reaching Level 3. Gained 10 Attribute Points. Current progress: 460/3000.]
The system’s chanical voice jolted Jason awake, his eyes snapping open as he bolted upright, heart pounding. Click. The Glock’s slide racked, the sound sharp in the silence as he swept the barrel across the room, his senses razor-sharp for any threat. The warehouse was still, its shadows undisturbed, the only sound the faint drip of a leaky pipe sowhere in the corner. A false alarm.
He exhaled, tension bleeding from his shoulders as he ejected the chambered round, slipping it back into the magazine with practiced ease. Sinking back onto the couch, its springs creaking under his weight, he grabbed a bottle of water, splashing so over his face and rinsing his mouth. The cold liquid stung his chapped lips, grounding him in the mont. He peeled back the blood-stiffened bandage on his left arm, inspecting the wound. The stitches held, the skin raw but free of infection’s telltale heat and swelling. ’Lucky break,’ He thought, a grim smile tugging at his lips. In his line of work, luck was as rare as rcy.
He tore into a stale loaf of bread, washing it down with more water, the simple act of eating a fleeting anchor to normalcy. Opening the system’s glowing interface, he studied his new stats. Level 3, ten fresh attribute points—a lifeline, but one he had to spend wisely. The system shop lood before him.
The shop’s skill tiers ranged from Level 1 to 10, each step pricier than the last. Levels 1 through 5 cost 10 to 50 points—$100,000 to $500,000 in cash equivalent, a fortune in the underworld’s bloody economy. From Level 6, the costs skyrocketed: 100 points for Level 6, 300 for Level 7, 500 for Level 8, 800 for Level 9, and a staggering 1000 for Level 10. To max out a single skill from scratch would burn through 2850 points—$28.5 million. Even for a man like Jason, who’d bled for every dollar, the price was daunting.
But the real hurdle was the attribute requirents. Each skill demanded a specific balance of Strength, Agility, Endurance, and Intelligence, split into primary and secondary attributes. For ’Firearms Mastery’, speed was king—quick draw, quick aim, quick kill. Agility was paramount, letting you outpace an enemy’s trigger finger. Intelligence followed close, processing variables like weapon performance, distance, and wind resistance in a split second. Strength mitigated recoil, boosting accuracy, while Endurance sustained you through prolonged firefights, but both were secondary, less critical to the skill’s core.
’Combat Mastery’ flipped the script. Strength and Endurance were the heavy hitters, powering brutal strikes and absorbing punishnt. In a real brawl, finesse was a myth—within arm’s reach, no one dodged a fist or a boot, no matter how sharp their eyes. Agility and Intelligence only shone when opponents were evenly matched, a rare luxury in the chaos of close quarters.
Jason’s heart leaned toward ’Combat Mastery’. He relished the raw, visceral thrill of hand-to-hand, the crunch of bone under his knuckles, the primal satisfaction of dominating an opponent up close. ’That’s how real n settle things,’ he thought, a flicker of disdain for snipers and their cold, distant kills. But reality was a harsh teacher. In a world where a bullet ended fights faster than fists, ’Firearms Mastery’ was his lifeline. Reluctantly, he shelved his love for brawling, doubling down on guns.
[Firearms Mastery Level 6 (Not Acquired)]
[Requires: 100 Points; Strength: 35, Agility: 40, Endurance: 35, Intelligence: 40]
He studied his stats, his mind calculating. He was short 97 points and just shy of the attribute thresholds. After a mont’s thought, he allocated his 10 points: 2 to Strength, 5 to Endurance, and 3 to Agility, pushing him closer to his goal.
[Host: Jason Walter]
[Level: 3 (460/3000)]
[Strength: 33 → 35]
[Agility: 35 → 38]
[Endurance: 30 → 35]
[Intelligence: 35]
[Attribute Points: 0]
[Reputation: 13 → 37]
[Allies: None (Next recruitnt requires 100 Reputation)]
[Points: 3]
[Skills: Combat Mastery (Level 4), Driving Mastery (Level 3), Firearms Mastery (Level 5), lee Weapons Mastery (Level 2)]
[Shop: Click here]
A new notification flashed across the interface, pulling his attention.
[Ding! Mission triggered: "Don’t Die Ignorant"]
[Reward: 500 Villain Points.]
[Description: Your affair with Vanessa was ticulously hidden, yet Kingpin found out. Discover how he knew to complete the mission.]
The words hit like a gut punch. Jason leaned back, the couch creaking, his mind spiraling into the mystery. He and Vanessa had been ghosts. Multiple cabs, cash paynts, disguises—he’d been a shadow, his counter-surveillance instincts honed to a razor’s edge. No one in the gang could’ve tailed him without tripping his radar; he knew every face, every tic, every tell. The mole, if there was one, wasn’t inside.
He sat there for an hour, the warehouse’s silence pressing against him, his thoughts churning but finding no answers. The question gnawed at him: ’How did Kingpin know?’ A bug? A traitor outside the gang? Vanessa herself? The last thought stung, but he dismissed it—she’d have as much to lose as he did. Exhausted, he muttered, "When night falls, I’m finding out."
---
He lay back on the couch, pulling out his new burner phone to check the news. The previous night’s chaos in Midtown Manhattan would’ve set the dia ablaze. Logging onto CNN’s website, he was greeted by a stark image of his apartnt, black smoke billowing from its shattered windows. His chest tightened. That place—$2 million, five years of blood money—gone in a blast he’d partly caused. ’What a waste,’ he thought, scrolling through the article.
The report was a bloated 10,000-word to, packed with photos of the carnage. He skimd it, distilling three key points:
The apartnt’s owner, Jason Walter, a notorious Hell’s Kitchen gangster, was missing, presud kidnapped or dead. The NYPD ruled out terrorism, calling it a gang feud, reassuring New Yorkers they were safe.
The culprits were identified as Vladimir and Anatoly, Russian mafia leaders. Anatoly was confird dead in the shootout, leaving Vladimir as the pri suspect.
A white female’s mutilated body was found on the apartnt’s roof, identified via DNA as a Manhattan art gallery owner.
Jason’s blood ran cold at the third point. ’Vanessa?’ His heart raced, but the tiline didn’t add up—she’d fled the apartnt alive. Or had she? The possibility gnawed at him, fueling his resolve to uncover the truth.
User Comments
0 comments from readers