At three in the morning, walking the streets with a heavy bag full of cash was not a pleasant feeling.
The bag weighed a ton. The bills inside gave off a murky odor mixed with tobacco, alcohol, and cheap perfume, with the faintest hint of blood beneath it all. This money was Levi's first asset after arriving in this era—and also his first source of trouble.
He didn't return to the cheap roadside motel. Levi knew very well that a local underground boss like Butcher, someone who had survived for years in the shadows, would never have only two useless enforcers under his command. Last night's thunderous show of force might intimidate for a while, but there was no guarantee the man wouldn't lash out in humiliation and use dirtier connections to strike back.
The simplest move would be calling the police.
An Asian man carrying over a hundred thousand dollars in cash, with no identification whatsoever, was nothing less than walking prey in the eyes of the police—prey that practically came with its own criminal record.
He needed to change locations. Somewhere safer. Somewhere more discreet.
He stopped by a 24-hour drugstore and bought some basic disguises—non-prescription glasses, a baseball cap. Then he hailed a taxi and crossed most of the city, arriving in a completely different area. Tree-lined streets, clean sidewalks, and neat single-family houses—a classic middle-class neighborhood.
He checked into a far more respectable—and far more expensive—chain hotel. When he paid the room fee in cash, the sleepy blonde receptionist glanced at him twice but didn't ask any questions. In a country ruled by money, as long as you could pay, no one truly cared who you were or where you came from.
Once inside the room, the first thing Levi did was lock the door and draw the curtains. Then he dumped the entire bag of cash onto the soft bed.
Stacks of green Franklins formed a small hill under the warm yellow light, radiating a sinful, seductive glow.
Levi sat at the edge of the bed, grabbed a notepad and pen from the nightstand, and began counting—bill by bill. It was tedious but necessary. His fingers were steady and strong, his movements mechanical and precise, while his mind functioned like a high-speed computer, automatically categorizing and adding.
The final number: $156,300.
More than he'd expected. It seemed Butcher's business had been doing quite well.
Levi stared at the pile of money without much joy. He knew better than anyone that until this cash was converted into legitimate capital, it was nothing more than kindling that could burn him at any moment. What he needed was an identity—a real, legal identity that could withstand scrutiny from any institution.
An identity that would let him open bank accounts, register companies, and walk openly into the stock exchange.
That was far harder to obtain than money.
He lay back on the bed, hands folded behind his head, constructing his next steps in his mind. Time was tight. He remembered clearly—Yahoo's IPO was next year. Miss that window, and he'd have to wait years for another low-risk, high-return opportunity like it.
He needed people to handle the dirty work.
Levi thought of the fat guy at the bar who'd taken his twenty dollars. People like that—low-level locals with good information—were nodes in a complex network, always connected to deeper, wider webs.
The next day, Levi slept until he woke naturally. He went to a nearby mall and used cash to buy himself several clean, well-fitting outfits. When he changed into a plain white T-shirt, khaki pants, and brand-new sneakers, then put on the glasses, he looked like a freshly graduated college student—clean-cut, bookish, and harmless. Nothing like the murderous demon of the night before.
Disguise was the first lesson of survival. That was true on the battlefield—and just as true in a city lit by neon.
That evening, he returned to the neighborhood bar called The Screaming Skull.
This time, he didn't look for the fat guy. He went straight to the counter, slid a crisp hundred-dollar bill beneath a coaster, and pushed it toward the bartender.
The bartender was a thin young man with a snake tattoo on his arm. The moment he saw the bill, the wariness and irritation in his eyes melted into enthusiasm.
"What can I get you, sir?"
"I'm looking for someone," Levi said quietly, leaning in. "I need a document broker. The best kind. Someone who can turn a dead man into a living one—and a man with no papers into a citizen."
The bartender's smile stiffened. He wiped the already spotless counter, eyes darting away.
"I don't think I know what you mean," he said, playing dumb.
Levi wasn't in a hurry. He lightly tapped the hundred-dollar bill and said calmly, "I'll only ask once. If you don't know, I'll ask someone else. Consider the money a tip for your drink."
His tone was flat, but the unshakable composure—and the fleeting chill in his eyes—made the bartender shiver. He remembered the fat guy from last night, beaten and pale, asking about a mysterious Asian man. He remembered hearing that Butcher from the Queen of Spades had had his hand ruined and his place torn apart by one person.
The bartender swallowed, cold sweat forming on his forehead. He glanced around quickly, then whispered:
"There's only one place. West side. Ivy Road. A used bookstore called Yesterday's Books. The owner's name is Elias—strange old man. Go to him and say you want to buy a travelogue that doesn't exist."
With that, he snatched the hundred-dollar bill as if it were burning his fingers, stuffed it into his pocket, and turned away to mix drinks, refusing to look at Levi again.
Levi left the bar with the information he needed.
Yesterday's Books sat on a quiet street corner, completely out of place amid the surrounding commercial bustle. The shop was small, its display window dusty, filled with yellowed old books. Levi pushed open the wooden door, a bell chiming softly, and was greeted by the smell of old paper, dust, and leather.
The shop was silent. A gray-haired old man wearing reading glasses sat behind a massive oak desk, carefully restoring a thick book with a feather pen.
This was Elias.
He didn't look up. "What are you looking for?"
"I'm here to buy a book," Levi said calmly, stopping at the desk. "A travelogue that doesn't exist."
Elias's hand paused—just for a fraction of a second.
He slowly raised his head and studied Levi through thick lenses. His gaze was sharp, surgical, as if dissecting his soul.
"I only sell histories that truly existed," he said slowly, his voice hoarse like dry leaves rubbing together.
"History is written by people," Levi replied evenly, meeting his gaze. "If it can be written, it can be changed. And if it can be changed, it can be created."
Elias fell silent. He stared at Levi for a full thirty seconds, as if appraising the authenticity of an antique.
Finally, he lowered his head again and resumed his work. "The alley behind the Grand Theater. Midnight tonight. Bring a first-edition Moby-Dick. Place it on the trash bin at the alley entrance. If it's taken, wait where you are. If not—leave, and never come back."
He said nothing more.
Levi knew this was the first test—of sincerity, resources, and patience.
He left the bookstore.
Finding a first-edition Moby-Dick wasn't hard. Finding one quickly was. He spent the entire afternoon running between antique bookstores and private collectors, finally buying a reasonably well-preserved 19th-century first edition for three thousand dollars from a collector desperate to sell.
Midnight. The alley behind the Grand Theater.
Pitch black. The air reeked of rotting garbage. Distant streetlights barely outlined the stacked dumpsters and clutter. Levi placed the valuable book carefully on the lid of the most visible green trash bin.
Then he retreated into the shadows, leaning against the cold brick wall, and waited.
Seconds ticked by.
The alley was deathly quiet, broken only by the rustle of plastic bags in the wind. Levi closed his eyes, his hearing expanding to its limit. He could hear a stray cat rummaging through boxes a hundred meters away. He could hear a couple arguing softly inside a car fifty meters away.
Then he heard breathing—deliberately suppressed.
Four of them.
Two on either side of the alley. One above him, in a second-floor window. Their heartbeats were fast, filled with tension and a hint of bloodlust. Two carried the faint scent of gun oil and burned powder.
A trap.
Or rather—a second test.
A cold smile curved Levi's lips. Compared to real battlefields, this was child's play.
Five minutes passed.
The book still sat untouched.
Finally, the ambushers lost patience.
A shadow slipped from the darkness, steel pipe flashing as it swung toward Levi's skull. At the same time, two men with knives charged from the opposite side, cutting off every escape route. Perfect coordination—professionals.
Against an ordinary man, this would have been instant death.
But Levi was no ordinary man.
At the instant the pipe was about to land, he moved.
Without even turning, he tilted his head at an impossible angle. The pipe screamed past, smashing into the brick wall in a shower of sparks. The attacker's face filled with shock.
It was the last expression he ever made.
Levi's right elbow snapped backward like a striking viper.
Boom.
The man's chest caved in as if hit by a battering ram. Ribs shattered. He flew backward, blood and fragments of organs spraying from his mouth, dead before he hit the ground.
Levi spun smoothly to face the two knife-wielders.
The one on the left roared and stabbed for Levi's heart. Levi didn't dodge. His left hand shot out, clamping down on the man's wrist like a hydraulic press.
Levi didn't even look at him. He focused on the man charging from the right—and shoved the left attacker forward.
Thud.
The knife plunged straight into the right man's abdomen. He stared down at the familiar blade, disbelief written across his face, then collapsed to his knees.
Levi released his grip and kicked the remaining attacker's knee.
Crack.
Bone shattered. The man screamed and fell.
One left—the sniper in the second-floor window.
Levi looked up, eyes locking onto the figure behind the curtain. He picked up a broken brick, muscles tensing, and hurled it.
Whoosh!
The brick tore through the window like a cannonball and struck the sniper square in the forehead. A dull thump followed. Silence.
Less than ten seconds.
Four professionals—crushed.
Levi brushed imaginary dust from his hands and straightened his collar, as if he'd done nothing of consequence.
A hidden metal door creaked open.
Elias stepped out, cane in hand. His expression was unchanged, but his eyes now held something different—interest, and a trace of wariness.
"Impressive," he rasped. "Cleaner than any soldier I've seen."
"Just trying to stay alive," Levi replied.
"Come with me," Elias said, turning back inside. "It seems you truly need a 'travelogue that doesn't exist.'"
Behind the door was not a dingy cellar, but a high-tech workshop. Screens glowed blue. Printers, scanners, laminators—machines Levi couldn't even name—lined the walls. Templates of passports, driver's licenses, and IDs from all over the world hung neatly.
A factory for identities.
"Sit," Elias said, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. "Tell me—what kind of past do you want?"
"I don't need a past," Levi replied. "I need a future. A clean identity. American citizen. Social Security number, birth certificate, driver's license. Matching bank accounts, preferably with a few years of good credit. I need to be someone who can deposit six figures in cash without raising suspicion."
Elias drank silently.
"That's the top-tier package," he finally said. "I can do it. But it's expensive."
"Name the price."
"One hundred thousand dollars." Elias raised a finger. "And I'm curious—what do you want such a perfect identity for? Most people like you are running from something. But you're different. I see no fear in your eyes. Only ambition."
Levi smiled faintly.
"This is fifty thousand as a deposit," he said.
"I'm going to use that identity to buy the future."
Elias froze.
Then he laughed softly and nodded. "Deal. Come back in one week to collect your new life. One last thing—have you chosen your new name?"
Levi thought for a moment—of Howard Stark's smug grin, and of the man who would soon change the world.
He smiled.
"Anthony Chen."
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