The gunshots echoed, and Mike muttered irritably, "It's already noon—don't let anyone get a proper sleep!"
He rolled over and wrapped his arms around the soft body beside him.
"Mike! Mike!"
Jennifer shook his shoulders vigorously, panic written all over her face.
"Who's this?"
Mike jumped slightly at the sight of her delicate, unfamiliar face.
Fortunately, it wasn't his first time in such a situation. Flashing his charming smile, he asked softly, "What's wrong, baby?"
The woman he had met at the bar last night—the beautiful stranger, their conversation, and that night… intimacy. Mike tried hard to recall her name but drew a blank.
No worries! Not remembering didn't matter. "Honey," "Baby," "Cookie," "Strawberry"—any affectionate nickname worked perfectly.
Having lived two lifetimes, Mike wielded this skill effortlessly. Of course, it helped that he was incredibly handsome.
Jennifer, flustered, her golden hair cascading in a chaotic waterfall, said, "Someone's shooting downstairs."
"Guns…" Mike said nonchalantly, "This is Hell's Kitchen. Totally normal."
The release of Millykin—the daily gunfights were practically routine here.
Besides, Hell's Kitchen, the so-called "criminal playground," consumed enough ammunition every day to keep a small arms dealer in business.
"Fine. I'll go check."
The gunshots seemed to come from below—Mike's little convenience store.
He dressed quickly and headed downstairs. The glass door of the store was open, but the place was empty.
Seconds later, Old Earl stormed in, brandishing a Remington shotgun.
Old Earl was the store's only employee—a grizzled, white-haired African American man.
"Someone tried to rob you?" Mike raised an eyebrow.
"No, it was a bunch of Bigfoot Gang punks… I just couldn't help but…"
Old Earl faltered, ashamed. Whatever the reason, his actions had just caused Mike trouble.
"Bigfoot Gang? The notorious ones recently?" Mike didn't fear trouble, but he disliked unknown trouble.
"Yes," Old Earl nodded.
"Alright. Tell me why you fired your gun," Mike said, lighting a cigarette.
Stories and smoke—it was a good combination.
"There's a father and daughter in the neighborhood. The father, Benjamin, was a damned junkie and drug dealer. The daughter, Chloe, is like an angel descended to Earth."
"Benjamin was helping the Bigfoot Gang transport bulk shipments, but he devoured their stock himself. He overdosed and died, leaving only his daughter. The Bigfoot Gang took Chloe… she's so small, smart, and innocent…"
Old Earl suddenly broke down, sobbing uncontrollably.
Mike remained silent.
Chloe's fate was likely tragic: child labor, rich men's perverse indulgences, and even organ trafficking…
Old Earl pulled a small bag from his pocket, unwrapping layer after layer of waterproof packaging.
Inside was a stack of colorful, worn bills.
He placed them on the table, pushing them toward Mike.
He had worked at Mike's store for nearly a year and had never paid protection fees. Apart from a few initial thefts and robberies, the store had always been safe.
Usually, the next day, the perpetrators or gang leaders would show up, apologizing and compensating for damages. Their humility had always surprised Old Earl.
"This is still Hell's Kitchen?" Old Earl murmured.
"They're actually reasonable, sometimes," Mike sighed.
If it weren't for the bruised, plastered, cane-wielding gang leaders, Old Earl might have believed Mike's tall tales.
From that moment, Old Earl knew the store was just a front—the owner ran a "fixer" business capable of handling any problem.
"Boss, please… save Chloe. She's just a kid. This is all my savings. I don't know much, but…"
Old Earl choked on his words, his hands trembling.
Although the bills looked like a lot, most were small denominations—hardly more than a few hundred dollars.
"You've saved up for a long time?"
"Yes."
"How much is it worth?"
"Worth every penny!"
Without hesitation, a white glowing orb rose above Old Earl's head.
In Mike's mind, words appeared in lines:
[Old Earl's Request: Rescue Orphan Chloe][Reward: $20,000 (90% after system fee)][Mission: Rescue Chloe from the Bigfoot Gang and return her to Old Earl.]
After the system fee, Mike would earn at most $2,000. In other words, this mission was bound to be unprofitable.
Meeting Old Earl's anxious gaze, Mike sighed. "Alright. I'll take the job."
A white, glowing orb floated in front of him, then vanished into his brow.
System Notification: [Soul Energy +1]
Now that the preliminaries were done, Mike could flaunt his abilities.
He was a time traveler, sent 24 years into the past. When he realized he was in the Marvel universe, he was completely stunned.
Accept it—no matter how dire the situation, the entire population of the universe could be wiped out with a snap of his fingers.
Mike trained diligently until he received his Princeton University acceptance letter—and the "Goldfinger System" unexpectedly appeared.
On the surface, it seemed like a mercenary system, but it required accumulating ten points of [Soul Energy] to synthesize the [Soul Fruit], which allowed the user to perform Manifestation and Materialization.
Soul energy also enhanced his body. His physical condition now rivaled that of a super-soldier injected with Captain America's serum.
"Boss… boss…" Old Earl noticed Mike drifting off. "Does this job make you uncomfortable?"
"Oh, no," Mike replied, snapping back. "Actually… I just remembered something. Do I need a contract or receipt?"
Old Earl waved frantically. "No, no need."
Mike added, "And regardless of the outcome, the reward is non-refundable."
"I understand," Old Earl said.
Mike pulled out his encrypted phone and dialed the contact saved as "Fat Jerry," not avoiding Old Earl.
The call connected.
"Mike! Long time no talk. I thought you forgot about me, Fat Jerry. I'm so sad," came a greasy voice.
Mike replied flatly, "Speak properly."
"You're still the same as ever, I…"
Mike hung up, expressionless.
A few seconds later, his phone rang again. It was Fat Jerry, his voice filled with exasperation: "Alright, tell me—someone's in trouble?"
"The Bigfoot Gang?"
"I know… I've been too busy to track them. I don't even know if they know yet."
"Same procedure as always—send me the info and the fee to my email."
"Got it. As for the fee… discount applied," Fat Jerry groaned.
Mike smirked. "Oh, a discount… for life."
Fat Jerry growled, "Those scumbags have no limits! They deserve hell!"
After hanging up, Mike explained to Old Earl: "Fat Jerry is an intelligence broker, greedy but highly reputable."
Once reassured, Mike returned upstairs.
Jennifer lay on her side, the silk sheets slipping off her revealing curves. From the side, it looked like a small ridge of a mountain range, undulating and mesmerizing.
Mike swallowed hard, turning his gaze away. He opened his laptop and checked his email.
True to form, Fat Jerry had already sent the intelligence.
Reading carefully, Mike gained a new understanding of the Bigfoot Gang. Two words summed them up: Beasts. No wonder even Fat Jerry couldn't handle them.
The Bigfoot Gang had started as a minor, obscure group in Hell's Kitchen until entanglements with the Irish crime syndicate.
"Magenta?"
An Irish figure appeared in Mike's mind: dreadlocks, gold teeth, a reckless, wild grin.
The Irish gang held tremendous influence in Hell's Kitchen—on par with Italian, Russian, Yugoslav, Mexican, Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese, and American criminal organizations in the area.
Manhattan alone was home to notorious criminal factions from all over the world.
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