William's mind buzzed, and he nearly dropped the flyer he was holding.
This was a notorious assassin from the Marvel Universe, a human weapon with perfect aim!
How could he appear in such a small boxing gym?
William forced himself to calm down.
He focused on his breathing, pretending to be just an ordinary salesman.
He heard nothing, knew nothing.
At this moment, he was incredibly grateful for his Danger Prediction; otherwise, he might have said a few things he shouldn't have.
After finishing his conversation with the coach,
Bullseye, turning to leave, paused as he passed William.
He tilted his head, his gaze behind the sunglasses seemingly piercing through people's hearts.
"New here?"
Bullseye's voice was hoarse, with a metallic, scraping quality.
William's heart tightened, but he maintained a smile on his face.
"Yes, sir. I'm William Rodriguez, an insurance consultant."
"Insurance?"
Bullseye's lips curled into a strange arc.
"What can you insure? Can you insure I won't miss next time?"
William felt cold sweat trickling down, but he knew that at times like these, he absolutely couldn't show fear.
He took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Sir, our insurance coverage is very broad, from accidental injury to property loss.
As for 'missing,' that probably falls under the special category of occupational risk and requires a customized policy.
If you're interested, we can discuss it in detail.
Perhaps we can design a 'professional kil… *cough*, professional risk avoidance plan' for you?"
He almost blurted out "professional killer" but luckily corrected himself in time.
"Of course, if you don't like that, I also have the 'Street Fighter Minor Injury Mutual Aid Insurance (Hell's Kitchen Special Edition).'
For a monthly fee of just 29.9 U.S. dollars, it provides medical subsidies and nutrition product vouchers when you suffer minor scrapes and bruises."
Bullseye let out an unreadable chuckle and said nothing more, walking straight out.
It wasn't until Bullseye's figure disappeared from the doorway that William felt the pressure, which had almost solidified the air, suddenly ease.
He secretly wiped away a bead of sweat; selling insurance to a villain of this caliber, he might just end up being used as target practice right after signing!
The pressure from Bullseye, which had almost solidified the air, had just dissipated.
William had only half-relaxed, and the cold sweat on his back hadn't dried yet.
From the corner, a slightly hoarse but steady male voice said, "Wait."
William's heart skipped a beat. Did he forget to check the almanac today?
He stiffly turned around, looking towards the source of the voice.
A man rose from the shadowy corner of the gym and walked over.
He was about thirty years old, lean but not thin, with the balanced physique of a leopard.
His short black hair was neatly styled.
He also wore sunglasses, obscuring most of his expression.
He held a well-worn pair of red boxing gloves, slowly wiping them with a towel.
William's gaze lingered on him for a few seconds.
This man didn't reek of "I'm a bad guy" like Bullseye.
Instead, he had a... quiet intensity.
As the man approached, William's Danger Prediction suddenly gave a peculiar feedback.
It wasn't the sharp, deadly alarm he felt with Bullseye, but a continuous, low-frequency hum.
It was as if the person in front of him wasn't a man, but a precisely operating instrument, full of contained power, and... he felt as if he had been scanned by some invisible radar, a chilling sense of transparency.
This guy wasn't simple either!
William's professional smile almost broke again.
He secretly groaned.
Hell's Kitchen truly lived up to its name; every boxing gym was full of hidden masters.
He composed himself.
He tried to make his voice sound less like a salesman who had just been scared witless: "Sir, did you call me?"
"That insurance you just mentioned,"
The man in sunglasses stopped in front of William.
"The 'Street Fighter Minor Injury Mutual Aid Insurance,' the one for 29.9 U.S. dollars a month."
William was startled, then quickly realized.
Bullseye wasn't interested, but that didn't mean others weren't... but dangerous-looking ordinary people like this couldn't buy it!
He immediately switched back to professional mode, even though his heart was still slightly racing from that strange "scanned" feeling.
"Yes, sir! The 'Street Fighter Minor Injury Mutual Aid Insurance (Hell's Kitchen Special Edition).'
Specifically designed for the tough guys of our Hell's Kitchen!"
William pulled a flyer from his briefcase and skillfully handed it over.
The man didn't immediately take the flyer; his gaze behind the sunglasses seemed to be scrutinizing William.
He tilted his head slightly, as if listening to something.
"It sounds... very specific in coverage."
The man spoke, his tone flat.
"Of course, we strive for precise service to specific demographics."
William nodded, but his mind was wondering.
Strange, this guy looked like a boxer.
His muscles were fluid, clearly a trained fighter, definitely a perfect client for the "Street Fighter Insurance."
But the system gave no prompts at all.
Ah, this guy really was an ordinary person.
"I get injured often."
He pointed to a scar on his face, then to faint scrapes on his elbow and knee.
"Constant minor injuries, occasional major ones. Is your insurance effective?"
"As long as it meets the policy terms, absolutely effective! But my policy is generally not sold to ordinary people."
William said dismissively, "What is your last name, sir?"
"Just call me Matt,"
he said.
Matt?
William's heart sank.
Hell's Kitchen, named Matt, often injured, wearing sunglasses!
He hadn't really looked people in the eye earlier, could it be... "Mr. Matt,"
William suppressed his speculation and introduced professionally.
"This insurance primarily covers minor physical injuries caused by daily fighting, training, or accidental encounters.
Such as skin scrapes, tears, minor bruises, etc.
Once an eligible accident occurs, you can apply for a claim via your mobile phone with a diagnosis certificate from a hospital or a community clinic recognized by us.
We will provide a certain subsidy for medical expenses, or equivalent vouchers for nutritional products and recovery items."
"It doesn't require too complicated proof, does it?"
Matt asked, frowning slightly.
"I don't have that much time to wait in line at big hospitals."
"We understand."
William nodded.
"For some obvious minor injuries, we have a fast-track claims process. Of course, specific situations require specific analysis."
Matt was silent for a few seconds, seemingly weighing his options.
"Okay, I'll buy one."
"Excellent!"
William felt a surge of elation, though his face maintained a professional smile.
"Mr. Matt, you are truly a farsighted man. Please fill out this insurance application form."
He quickly took out his tablet from his briefcase and brought up the electronic policy.
Indeed, this guy was Daredevil!
The system had already generated the policy!
Matt took the stylus, turned, and called over the person he was training with, asking him to read the terms aloud.
After confirming there were no issues, he nodded, ready to sign.
Matt's signing was a bit slow, but his handwriting was surprisingly neat and strong.
"Ding! Client Matt Murdock successfully insured with 'Street Fighter Minor Injury Mutual Aid Insurance (Hell's Kitchen Special Edition)'!"
"Pleasure doing business, Mr. Matt."
William put away the tablet and extended his hand.
Matt "looked" at him, extended his hand, and shook it.
"I hope I don't have to use it."
"I hope so too, but it's always good to be prepared."
Matt, having bought the insurance, asked some specific questions about the claims process, and after confirming the steps, he left first.
William, in a good mood, confirmed there were no special individuals left in the boxing gym before leaving with his bag.
Although Bullseye had given him a scare, successfully signing Daredevil made him feel that the sun in Hell's Kitchen wasn't so stingy after all.