[On the Private Jet]
Amid dynamic music, Tony Stark and Air Force Major James Rhodes were sipping drinks.
A steel pole slowly rose from the cabin floor, and flight attendants danced coolly around the pole.
Although their destination was a hell of war, the plane remained full of song and dance.
This fit Tony Stark's style. Seize the pleasures of the moment.
Never mind that James Rhodes had been stood up by Tony for three hours before departure; on the plane, drunk, he kept nagging Tony.
Corin was on the plane returning to Manhattan listening to old Obadiah complain, "This bastard Tony, I kindly found him such a great bodyguard, and he doesn't need one! So stubborn!"
Watching Obadiah perform, Corin's expression was amused.
'Put on an act. Keep acting.'
Obadiah quietly set the channel between him and Corin to private and said in a low voice, "Mr. Cockroach, it seems the bodyguard job was my wishful thinking."
"But that's fine. I'll arrange for you to go to Afganistan next so you can start the second mission directly."
As he spoke a cold glint flashed in his eyes.
Corin thought for a moment, "Okay, employer. But I need to depart later. Also, I want to know where Mr. Stark will be."
Obadiah hesitated briefly. To ensure Tony Stark's death, he had already contacted the Ten Rings in Afganistan.
But this was highly confidential. How could the future chairman of Stark Industries have any ties to terrorists?
Mulling it over, he confidently said aloud, "No problem. I will notify you of his whereabouts through the mission phone in time".
"Also, I'm sorry you lost the bodyguard job, Mr. Cockroach."
"I will give you 500,000 dollars as compensation."
Corin looked surprised at the bald man before him. Every wrinkle on Obadiah's face seemed sincere, as if he truly regretted Corin not earning a million.
'Look at that. Capitalists, when profit's on the table, they dare to bet.'
If it weren't for Corin's strength and the plan to kill Tony Stark, Obadiah would never be so attentive.
Corin accepted Obadiah's compensation with thanks and happily promised to complete the mission.
[+500,000 dollars, account balance: 551,380 dollars]
———
Walking the streets of Manhattan, passing a storefront labeled "High-end Custom," Corin thought it was time to get himself a proper outfit.
A tuxedo-style suit might be luxurious, but it would be ruined in a fight.
After explaining his requirements to the old tailor and getting measured, he left the shop.
Through his bifocals the old tailor watched Corin's retreating figure and murmured, "How long has it been since I saw such perfect proportions? Athletic style clothing would be a crime to waste."
"Can't do a little…"
———
In the blink of an eye the departure day arrived. It was only after Obadiah urged Corin many times that Corin decided to leave.
"What's the hurry? Tony won't leave in a flash."
'He's busy rolling armor right now.'
Corin first went to the underground exchange to pick up the custom throwing knives.
Fifty titanium throwing knives glinted coldly, neatly arranged in the magic knife holster.
He casually drew one. It had some weight, slightly longer than a finger. The smooth blade reflected his face. In Corin's enhanced vision the tip was extremely sharp and flawless.
Satisfied, he nodded, but he didn't plan to throw one immediately and scare the craftsmen.
With the artisan's explanation, Corin, wearing the magic holster, showed a hint of delight.
The magic holster's design was genius, favoring practicality. Corin could easily draw knives from different angles.
It held fifty titanium throwing knives. The dense arrangement formed a defensive array without impeding Corin's movement.
Even if it added weight, that wasn't an issue for his strengthened body.
Corin praised their fast delivery, good quality, attractive look, and great value, five-star review.
At first he had thought the underground exchange's custom knives were overpriced, must be cheating customers.
But now he realized the price was justified; the craftsmen had indeed put great effort into them.
With that in mind, Corin began to look forward to whether the custom combat suit would be as impressive as the knives.
Soon he arrived at the old tailor's shop.
The old tailor looked ten years older, haggard, with deep eye sockets and heavy dark circles, like a grim city's trainer.
Seeing Corin arrive, the tailor shouted, "Wait a minute! Just a minute!"
Then he carefully swung a small hammer at something.
"A tailor using a hammer instead of scissors?", Corin wondered, but the craftsman's focused demeanor carried a master's aura that stopped Corin from teasing.
———
One minute later.
"Done! Ha! Ha!"
The tailor raised something in his hands like a child with a beloved toy.
Corin looked closely, it was a half-face mask crafted from pure silver with cast patterns.
The intricate designs were hammered out by the tailor, exuding an archaic, elegant beauty.
"Hmm!"
Before Corin could speak, the tailor shoved the mask into his hands.
As Corin stood stunned, the tailor brought out a black box from the back workshop and set it on the workbench.
"Shh!"
Seeing Corin about to ask, the tailor put a finger to his lips.
"Less jabber. Put it on so I can see. Quick."
His bloodshot eyes were full of expectation.
Not knowing what was happening, Corin complied, 'Craftsmen are peculiar.'
Opening the box, what met his eyes was a blood-red sight that made him freeze.
"This is… quite different from what I told."
At the tailor's repeated urging, Corin changed into the outfit.
"Good! Good! Quick! Put on the mask! Put it on!"
As Corin finished dressing, the tailor's eyes brightened, his thin arms trembling with excitement as he urged him on.
Looking in the mirror, Corin had to admit. The old tailor had made something remarkable.
He was genuinely stunned.
A crimson velvet suit shimmered like liquid metal under the bright lights.
The slim cut sculpted statuesque lines. Hand-sewn double-row amber buttons reflected a faint glow like medals on an ancient Roman breastplate.
Subtle dark patterns at the lapel were embroidered with gold thread into elegant vine totems.
An ivory silk shirt beneath featured hand-embroidered nightingale feather at the collar, and deliberately aged folds at the neck gave the whole look a lazy nobility.
The pure silver mask in his hand echoed the low-key crocodile-embossed pattern along the trousers' side seam.
This ensemble was a relic of art nouveau aristocracy.
When Corin put on the mask, his aura changed again, noble with a touch of wicked charm.
Like a strange Lucifer stepping from deep hell on blazing feet.
Most importantly, though it looked like formalwear, the fabric had incredible elasticity and would not tear easily in intense movement.
The tailor looked at his masterpiece, this was his most satisfying work in years.
With moisture in his eyes, he waved Corin off, indicating he could go.
When Corin tried to pay, the tailor, without turning, sighed:
"Young man, thank you."
"You let me turn from craftsman into artist…"
"Go now."
'Oh, and remember the name of this suit—
"Crimson."
Tasting the tailor's words, Corin remembered his own code name and murmured, "Crimson Cockroach, huh…"
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