"Hey—don't pin this on me. Deadpool insisted on coming!" Pietro Quicksilver said, totally unfazed by Ryuuto's glare, smirking like a smug weasel.
"Don't act like you didn't set this up," Ryuuto snapped, middle finger already on instinct. "If you so much as twitch, I'll make you cry like a baby and sing me lullabies."
Pietro just shrugged, grinning. "Relax. I didn't say I'd fight you. I brought the entertainment."
From the chandelier Deadpool dropped like a bad omen, all sloppy theatrics and stitched-up charm. He landed with a flourish, masked face staring at Ryuuto with way too much glee.
"Ryuuto! Woohoo! Long time, no dismember—er, no see!" Deadpool pirouetted, waving a pair of fake knives. "I've been training. I learned a few new tricks so you can slice me up real nice."
Susan cut forward, invisible-field humming into life around the room. "You are not welcome here. Leave now, or my guests will make you regret it."
Natasha, Katie Dee, and Gwen moved up behind Ryuuto. Gwen's eyes were bright but guarded; Natasha's voice was ice. Even Katie looked like she'd prefer to politely phase Deadpool into next Tuesday.
Deadpool paid them zero mind. He closed the distance like he owned the place. "Come on, Ryuuto. Let's dance. I want a real death scene. Make it dramatic."
Quicksilver, happily sitting back to watch, piped up, "Deadpool, kill him good. You know, collect the bountiful paycheck of glory and death." He winked at Ryuuto as if that made this any less suspicious.
Ryuuto sighed, very done with everyone's antics tonight. Gwen gave his hand a squeeze, eyes worried. Susan and the others reluctantly sank back onto the sofa—unwilling actors in the front row.
"Fine," Ryuuto said, voice low. "If that's what you want… I'll help you get exactly what you crave."
He didn't believe in showboating. He believed in efficiency. He set his stance, fingers moving into seals out of habit and perfect timing. The chakra in his body hummed—tense, ready.
[Ding! System Activated.]
[Shion: Host detected employing forbidden technique. Heh. That's ambitious.]
"Original-World Stripping Technique!" Ryuuto intoned. The words cut through the living room like a blade.
A brilliant white flash blossomed from his palms. Deadpool—mid-advance with a maniacal grin—was suddenly frozen in place, his form unweaving into glittering fragments as if reality itself were undoing him.
For a second the room held its breath. Pietro's smug smile faltered. Even Deadpool's chaotic chatter stuttered into a high-pitched "ooh—this is new!"
Then, where the mercenary stood, there was nothing.
Quicksilver's face drained. "What did you do? He—!"
Deadpool's pieces began to reform—slow, reluctant, unhurried—like a bad copy-paste. He blinked, stitched-mask flickering, then burst into delighted laughter.
"Aw, that was close! Do it again? Try to make it last longer!" Deadpool cheered, thoroughly enjoying the near-death experience like a kid on a rollercoaster.
Pietro took off like his feet were on fire. "I'm out!" he squealed, sprinting for the door—fastest man alive, suddenly fearful for his life.
Natasha shot once after him, the sound of the rifle louder than the words, and Pietro skidded to a stop outside with a yelp. He didn't wait to debate the ethics; he just fled.
Katie whooped. "Nice shot, Natasha! Show him the door!"
Gwen grinned like she'd just won a level. Ryuuto exhaled, annoyed and a touch proud. Deadpool, however, was still reassembling—every patch and seam of him returning, still peppy as ever.
"You ain't bad. That trick of yours? Very spicy," Deadpool chattered, dusting himself off. "I like the afterlife light show."
Ryuuto didn't smile. He advanced, the ninja suit clinging to him, chakra sparking in tight, lethal bursts. He moved like a predator. Deadpool's eyes lit with perverse glee.
"You wanted a show, Wade? Fine," Ryuuto said flatly. "But this ends fast."
Deadpool struck poses, firing off one-liners faster than bullets. "I'll keep count! First slice, second slice—oh wait, do I get a discount if you dismember me artistically?"
"Shut up," Ryuuto muttered, and lunged.
What followed was sharp and surgical. Ryuuto's strikes were precise, a blur of blade and fist; not a single wasted motion. Deadpool bounced, shrugged off impacts that should have put him down for good—his healing factor stitched him back like a cursed sewing machine—but each hit took something from him. Not lethal—no—but humiliating. Deadpool's grin cracked into an awed laugh.
"Wow, you're better. That was an upgrade!" he howled. "Rematch after pizza?"
Ryuuto exhaled slowly, muscles tense. He didn't want a rematch—he wanted peace, and a straight line to the next objective. But a mercenary with a mouth like a cannonball didn't take 'no' for an answer. Deadpool kept coming—cheerful, unkillable, and exactly the kind of chaos Ryuuto had zero patience for tonight.
Outside, Pietro's footsteps faded. Inside, the living room was a mess of knocked-over décor and strained smiles. Gwen and the others watched, half-horrified and half-impressed. Natasha holstered her rifle, expression unreadable but relieved.
"You good?" she asked, hand resting on Ryuuto's shoulder.
He nodded. "For now." His eyes didn't leave Deadpool. "This isn't over."
Deadpool flopped on the couch as if this were all one big joke. "Okay, okay—let's be friends. You got a bathroom? I left a lot of metaphorical blood behind."
Ryuuto stared at him, cold as winter. Gwen squeezed his hand again, silently asking the question he didn't want to say—the one about tomorrow, the one about how deep all this conspiracy ran.
A clock ticked. A siren wailed faintly from the city downtown, like a reminder that the world kept burning while they toyed with monsters and mercenaries.
Ryuuto tightened his fist. "Pietro or Deadpool—whoever's next—Magneto or the Brotherhood… they won't get to decide my schedule. I will."
Deadpool laughed. "Ooh—scheduling! I'll pencil you in after brunch!"
Shion's voice drifted into Ryuuto's head, half-teasing, half-warning.
[Shion: Host used high-tier stripping technique. Reward probability increased. Keep being dramatic.]
Ryuuto didn't answer. He picked up a shard of plaster from the floor, eyes on the door where Pietro had fled. Somewhere out there someone was assembling a new plot, and Ryuuto was out of time for jokes.
He would slice through whatever came next—fast, merciless, and with the bit of sarcasm that never left his mouth.
And Deadpool? He'd probably still be there, waiting for the next round.