Marvel's Kryptonian Scientist Chapter 8 8

Drex Valen entered the Los Angeles Midnight Hotel with the calm confidence of a man walking into his own private kingdom.

The front desk attendant greeted him imdiately, posture flawless and smile polished.

"Sir, it's an honor to have you with us."

Drex gave a small nod.

"My custom weapons were delivered here?"

"Yes, sir," the attendant replied smoothly. "They're currently with your weapons specialist."

Naturally.

The Midnight Hotel offered far more than contracts and lodging. Weapons experts, dical personnel, forged docuntation, covert logistics, and other highly specialized services all operated beneath its elegant criminal infrastructure.

Drex took the elevator down to Sublevel Three.

When the doors opened, he found himself staring into a lethal cathedral.

Rows upon rows of weaponry lined the underground armory.

Handguns.

Submachine guns.

Assault rifles.

Sniper platforms.

Shotguns.

Everything from practical to extravagant.

Around him, sharply dressed assassins consulted with weapon specialists, many of whom were forr military engineers, retired defense contractors, or elite private-sector gunsmiths.

This wasn't black-market improvisation.

This was craftsmanship.

"Sir, this way."

A woman approached.

Drex imdiately understood why she stood out.

Beautiful.

Dangerous.

Confident.

"Interesting," Drex said with an amused smile. "My weapons expert is this stunning?"

She smiled, clearly pleased.

"Kayla."

She extended her hand.

Drex shook it politely, intending a brief, professional gesture.

She held on.

Firmly.

For a fraction of a second, Drex almost had to consciously regulate his own strength to avoid accidentally shattering her hand.

Then she released him.

Ah.

One of those personalities.

Aggressive competence.

He didn't mind.

Kayla led him to her secured locker and withdrew a silver case.

Inside rested two beautifully modified handguns.

"Israeli Desert Eagles," she said. "Though frankly, I wouldn't normally recomnd them for soone with your profile."

Drex listened.

"The fra is heavy, recoil is excessive, and most targets don't wear ballistic helts. Given your precision, lighter, higher-capacity pistols would statistically make more sense."

Reasonable advice.

But practicality was not always the highest virtue.

Sotis style mattered.

The standard .50 AE rounds had been replaced entirely.

At Drex's request, Kayla had rebuilt the system around 7.62x51mm full-power rifle rounds.

That was absurd.

Magnificently absurd.

The result was devastating overkill.

Extended casing.

Increased powder load.

Armor-piercing steel-core pointed rounds.

This wasn't rely customization anymore.

It was weaponized ego refined into ballistic engineering.

Kayla opened another case, revealing the ammunition.

"I extended the casing and increased the charge," she explained. "Recoil will be brutal. Stability will be... questionable."

For anyone else?

Certainly.

For Drex?

Irrelevant.

To accommodate the ammunition, the Desert Eagles themselves had undergone massive reconstruction.

Heavier reinforced fras.

Modified chambers.

Expanded internal systems.

Extended magazines increasing capacity from seven to twelve rounds.

Each weapon now weighed approximately five and a half pounds unloaded.

To ordinary users, they would be unwieldy monsters.

To Drex?

Perfect.

He examined the polished silver firearms and nodded with visible approval.

This.

This was satisfying.

"Five hundred rounds total," Kayla said.

Drex would need to manually load them later.

He paid in Skull Coins without hesitation.

At Midnight Hotel, cash was useful.

Coins were power.

Kayla leaned slightly closer and opened another compartnt filled with knives and compact blades.

"No interest in dessert?"

Drex smiled faintly.

"I don't need close-range options."

He said it casually.

But the truth was absolute.

No ordinary human was getting close enough to matter.

Not unless they had a death wish.

Afterward, Drex commissioned tailored combat attire.

Two sets of reinforced ballistic underlayers.

Black anti-reflective trench coats.

Cut-resistant.

Combat-ready.

Elegant.

Function paired with intimidation.

Exactly his style.

Back in Texas, Drex efficiently loaded all five hundred rounds using a speed loader, his Kryptonian dexterity making the process almost effortless.

Then he turned his attention toward comfort.

"Shelley," Drex said, "hire architects. We're building a mansion."

Shelley nearly choked.

"Boss... labor here is expensive."

Drex frowned.

"How expensive could it possibly be?"

Shelley stared at him with the exhausted expression of a man realizing his employer had no understanding whatsoever of Arican construction economics.

"In Arica, labor is the expensive part," Shelley explained. "Materials matter, sure, but manpower, regulations, taxes... especially for large reinforced structures? You could burn through millions."

Drex blinked.

That was mildly irritating.

His previous lives, whether human or Kryptonian elite, had left him profoundly disconnected from normal budgeting concerns.

Shelley continued.

"Concrete, steel reinforcent, tax assessnts, future demolition costs... rich politicians and billionaires build estates like that to show status."

In short:

Massive hos were expensive because capitalism had weaponized infrastructure.

Interesting.

Still...

Drex had priorities.

"Doesn't matter," he said. "Build it."

Money, after all, was no longer an impossible problem.

Just an ongoing acquisition challenge.

Drex opened his encrypted black phone.

Contracts flooded the screen.

Small jobs.

Petty targets.

Minor gang leaders.

Disposable assignnts.

He ignored them all.

A few thousand dollars?

Insulting.

Hundreds of thousands?

Barely worth the fuel.

Drex's standards had evolved.

For ordinary assassins, million-dollar contracts often required teams, months of preparation, and substantial risk.

For Drex?

They were increasingly efficient revenue streams.

His strength was rising.

His infrastructure was growing.

And now...

His empire was beginning to take shape.