"Yesterday's forecast for Midtown was partly cloudy with a high chance of radiation poisoning and blunt force trauma."
"Midtown residents got an unexpected light show yesterday after Thor—you know, the hammer-swinging guy with the cape and the very committed god complex—got into a city-wide brawl with the man calling himself 'Radioactive Man.' Because apparently naming yourself after a nuclear disaster is still considered branding."
"Witnesses described Radioactive Man as a bright green human radiation leak with a superiority complex large enough to need its own zip code. The self-proclaimed powerhouse spent most of the fight shouting about mankind's weakness while slowly turning the surrounding area into a public health concern."
"Thor responded the only way he knows how: by hitting the problem with lightning until several buildings became someone else's insurance claim."
"The fight tore through multiple blocks and stalled traffic for hours. It gave nearby Geiger counters what doctors are calling 'a panic attack' and sent civilians running for cover. Others—because this city has the survival instincts of a raccoon near a dumpster—stopped to film the whole thing, probably hoping for better footage than the Thing's last rampage."
"Authorities say radiation levels in the area have 'mostly stabilized,' which is always comforting wording. Cleanup crews were later seen hosing down streets in protective suits that looked one step away from deep-space exploration."
"Radioactive Man was eventually taken down after one particularly dramatic lightning strike sent him crashing through half a building and directly into police custody. Assuming the holding cell survives."
"This is Jenna Volt, Channel 7 and a Half—reminding you: if a glowing lunatic starts shouting about superiority while another guy summons lightning from the sky, maybe don't stand nearby arguing whether he's really a god."
I turned off the radio when I heard my phone ring. I looked at the caller, Vincent, and picked it up. "Yeah."
There was noise in the background. Rain pattered softly on his car's windshield. Police radio chatter crackled faintly in the background.
Vincent sighed into the phone. It was a tired sigh. "You know, when I was transferred here from LSPD, I thought Los Santos was the world's biggest cesspit. Turned out, I was wrong."
I stayed quiet, letting the man vent.
"In one month," Vincent continued, "I've watched a stretchy scientist fly a homemade rocket running on homemade fuel to the far side of the Moon, some green alien asshole park a spaceship in Times Square and announce he's king of Earth—"
I smirked faintly. That green alien asshole was Kl'rt, aka Super Skrull. Even with the powers of all four Fantastic Four members, he still lost in the end.
"—a guy named Paste-Pot Pete broke another supervillain outta custody with a glue gun—"
"That one's real?" I couldn't help but ask. Even if it was canon, how could he free the Wizard from custody with a fucking glue gun, no matter how strong that glue was?
"That was my exact reaction," Vincent replied, exasperated.
I chuckled.
"And yesterday," Vincent kept going, "I had to file paperwork on a radioactive freak trying to throw hands with the blond thunder cult dude."
Vincent slammed his glove compartment shut.
Then he spoke again. "No, wait, you wanna hear the best part?"
I stopped at a red light. "Hit me."
"A literal alien lands in Times Square in front of thousands of people—millions counting the live broadcast—says he's here to rule the planet, and the next morning the official statement calls him 'an unidentified enhanced individual displaying delusional behavior.'"
I laughed out loud at that.
"I'm serious," Vincent continued. "They actually tried to spin it like he was some cosplaying lunatic with powers and a superiority complex."
"People buy it?" I asked, despite knowing the answer.
"Some do." Vincent sounded genuinely baffled. "Most people don't want the truth. They want something they can repeat to themselves before work so they can keep pretending the world still functions."
"At this point," Vincent muttered, "organized crime almost feels comforting."
I chuckled. "You're adapting well, Detective."
Vincent snorted, "Yeah, well, give me a few more months, and I'll probably stop reacting even if I see giant robots and monsters wrestling in Midtown."
"Anyway," Vincent exhaled. His tone turned serious. "I got something."
My fingers stopped tapping against the steering wheel.
"Drug exchange tonight. Tombstone crew meeting Maggia buyers."
"Location?"
"Old textile warehouse near the Hudson rail line. Thirty-Eighth and Twelfth."
I mentally mapped the route instantly.
"How many?"
"Twelve, maybe fifteen."
"Who's leading?"
"Darnell Graves."
My eyes narrowed. Darnell was a lieutenant in Tombstone's gang. I had hunted some members of his gang, but the highest-ranking ones I'd killed were mid-level enforcers at most. It was the first time I'd gotten such a big fish.
"And Detective Carl Ramsey," Vincent added.
He was one of the corrupt cops working for Robert.
I whistled. "A cop personally escorting narcotics. Robert's getting comfortable."
"That's what happens when nobody pushes back," Vincent said in his low voice. "People stop hiding."
I heard papers shifting.
"And somehow the patrol routes around the warehouse got changed suddenly. Amazing coincidence, isn't it?"
"Amazing indeed," I said with a smile.
The signal turned green, and I pulled the taxi into the intersection. "What's the Maggia side bringing?"
"Cash. Six figures minimum."
"Family?"
"Couldn't confirm. Maybe the Nobili Family. Maybe the Costa Family. Maybe Hammerhead is using middlemen."
Vincent went quiet for a second. Then he said, "You know every conversation we have probably qualifies as conspiracy charges, right?"
"Only probably?" I snorted.
"Glad you find this funny."
I smirked faintly.
"One day," Vincent muttered, "I'm either getting promoted or ending up in federal prison. I genuinely don't know which anymore."
"What about the goods?" I asked.
"If I've learned anything from my coworkers in the LSPD, it's how and when to look the other way," Vincent replied.
I understood what he meant by that.
"You know," I said with a smile. "The precinct, especially Robert, is gonna lose his mind after the death of the detective, right?"
"He will," he answered easily. "But I am sure you aren't the type to lead wolves to your door through a trail of meat."
Neither of us spoke for a few moments.
Vincent finally spoke. "If Robert's involved directly, assume military-grade hardware. Body armor, too."
"Thanks for the info."
I disconnected the call.
As I drove toward ESU, my thoughts drifted back to the day I first met Vincent.
Two weeks earlier, Harlem—
The tip had come from one of the smaller dealers who thought information was cheaper than teeth.
Tombstone's 110th Street crew was moving product through an abandoned building near 132nd. It was not their main stash house. This was a temporary stop, the kind of place where money was counted, packages were split, and anything too hot to sit in one place for long was shifted before sunrise.
Of course, I wasn't here to play hero or clean up the streets. I wanted names, routes, faces, and if the opportunity looked good enough, maybe a piece of whatever they were moving.
The building sat between a burned convenience store and a boarded laundromat, its brick face stained black by years of rain and exhaust. Most of the windows had been broken long ago, but one on the third floor glowed with the harsh white light of a battery lamp.
Across the street, I stayed half-hidden beneath the rusted frame of a fire escape, using the shadow of a parked delivery truck to cut my outline from the road. Two men lingered near the front entrance. One smoked under the awning with his hood pulled low. The other kept checking both ends of the block like he had been told to look useful and didn't know how.
More movement showed behind the third-floor window. I saw at least four distinct shadows, maybe more.
Their numbers were too many for a casual hangout. That meant there was a high possibility that the tip was real.
A muffled shout rolled out from inside, followed by the heavy sound of something hitting a wall.
Both lookouts glanced up.
One of them laughed under his breath. "Man, that cop shoulda minded his business."
A captured cop? Interesting.
Is he a dog for a rival gang? Or one of the rare idiots still trying to do the job clean?
With a silenced pistol, I killed the two lookouts. The heavy rain muffled the sound of the gunfire.
I dragged the bodies into the narrow shadow beside the entrance, then slipped through the door before the rain could thin the blood too far. The building smelled like mold, cigarettes, and piss.
Stealthily, I made my way to the stairwell. As I reached the second floor, I heard someone talking. I stood against the wall and hid in the shadows. Peering out, I saw a gangster talking on the phone.
"... yes, I will, babygirl…"
It was dangerous to use a pistol in the building, as even with a silencer, those upstairs might hear it. I took out a dagger from my inventory and, with the other hand, lightly rapped on the wall.
"Who's there?" the thug barked in a low voice.
"Babe, I'll call you back," the thug said and disconnected the call.
I didn't move from my position and quietly listened to his footsteps coming towards the stairs. The moment he arrived, I suddenly jumped out. I caught his wrist, twisted it inward, and forced the pistol loose. Before he could shout for help, I drove the dagger into his throat.
Checking left and right once, I made my way up to the third floor.
Voices drifted from above.
"…been watchin' us all week…"
A punch landed.
Someone coughed loudly.
"Nigga had a whole notebook in his car," another younger, amused voice said. "Names, plates, times. Cop thought he was Sherlock."
"Shut up and keep countin'," an older voice snapped.
I moved up the stairwell slowly, keeping close to the wall where the wood looked less rotten. On the third floor, light spilled from a room near the end of the hall, thin and pale beneath a broken doorframe.
I stopped outside and looked through the gap.
There were six men. One stood near the doorway with a shotgun angled toward the floor. Two younger ones sat near a folding table, counting bills and stacking wrapped packets into a duffel bag. Another leaned against the wall with a pistol tucked into his waistband, eyes drifting between the windows and the hall. A fifth man stood by two black gym bags filled with white bricks and loose ammunition boxes.
The sixth man was doing the talking. He was older than the others. Late thirties, maybe early forties. Heavy shoulders, trimmed beard, calm eyes. He didn't match the descriptions of any of the crew's lieutenants. But the air of authority around him meant he wasn't street trash either. Might be a mid-level enforcer. The kind of man trusted to supervise the product but not the strategy.
In the center of the room, a man sat zip-tied to a metal chair.
Black. Mid-thirties. Plain clothes. Split lip. Swelling around one eye. Blood was soaking into the collar of his shirt. His gun, phone, wallet, car keys, and open NYPD credentials sat on the folding table in front of him.
The older gangster crouched in front of him and tilted his head. "Lemme ask you somethin', Detective. You really thought we wasn't gon' notice your ass tailin' us?"
The cop spat blood onto the floor. "Honestly?" he rasped. "I was hoping you were all just naturally paranoid."
One of the younger thugs laughed.
The older man didn't. He hit the cop across the face with the back of his hand. Not hard enough to knock him out. Just enough to remind everyone who owned the room.
The younger one, who had snickered earlier, quickly resumed his work of counting bills.
"See, that mouth right there?" the leader said softly. "That's why you're in this chair."
"You people are too sloppy," the cop muttered. "Same car on three corners. Same plate circling twice. Same idiot buying coffee across from my precinct two days in a row."
The younger thug by the table frowned. "He talkin' about me?"
"Yeah," the cop said. "You."
One of the others snorted.
The mid-level thug slowly looked over his shoulder.
The room went quiet.
Then he turned back to the cop.
"You've been followin' us for a week," he said. "Watchin' our cars. Writin' down faces. Then tonight you show up outside our count spot."
The man's voice dropped lower. "So now I gotta wonder. Who else knows about this place?"
The cop smiled through the blood. "Your interior decorator?"
The punch came faster this time. The chair scraped sideways, one metal leg screeching against the floor before the cop caught himself.
The young thug near the duffel shook his head. "Yo, this cop stupid."
The older thug ignored him and pulled a pistol from his waistband.
"From what you said, you should be in Robert's precinct," the leader said in a low voice. "The hell is Robert doin' over there? Man's supposed to keep his dogs on a leash."
"Small correction," the cop replied, almost politely despite the blood. "I'm an NYPD detective. Not Robert's dog. Not yours. Not anybody's."
Honest or stupid enough to pretend at gunpoint?
The leader smiled coldly, as if that answer had made things simpler.
"Boss said we got problems because somebody been hittin' our people lately," he said. "Now I got a cop sniffin' around the count spot on move night."
The cop's jaw tightened.
"Maybe you somebody else's dog. Maybe you really are dumb enough to be clean. Maybe you came alone, maybe you didn't."
He thumbed back the pistol's hammer.
"Don't matter. I can't let you walk out."
I had heard enough. With guns in both my hands, I jumped out of hiding and kicked the door open.
The moment I kicked the door, my heart rate doubled. It didn't stop, and it climbed even higher. Everything looked like it was slowed down at least by half. My heart was beating so loudly that I could hear it clearly. The world looked as if it had lost some colors.
My right hand found the leader. My left found the shotgun guy. Two triggers broke almost together. The leader's head snapped back. The shotgun guard folded against the wall before his barrel finished rising.
The rest reacted the moment the door opened. But in my eyes, their actions looked slowed down. It was kind of funny to see the expression change on someone's face so clearly in real time.
Another two shots and two more gangsters were down. By this time, the remaining two had almost aimed their guns at me. But I was still faster. I shot the fifth one in the head, too. The last one wasn't directly in my line of sight, so I couldn't take a clean shot. Multiple high-speed calculations occurred in my mind. I fired into the metal leg of the folding table. The bullet sparked, skipped, and buried itself in his thigh. He dropped with a scream. My next shot ended it.
The world returned to normal. Just a few seconds passed, and the only living people in the room were the cop and me.
My shirt clung to my back. My pulse hammered behind my eyes. For a second, my fingers felt too light around the guns, as I felt a wave of weakness wash over me.
The skill I had used earlier to slow down time was a new one I had learned from the Fraternity Training Manual.
Bullet Time (Novice)
The skill actually didn't slow down time. It increased my heart rate and adrenaline production, temporarily overclocking my perception. The skill put a heavy burden on the body. Despite my stats, I couldn't use it for a long time.
The other skill I had learned was how to calculate the best trajectory to hit the last thug.
Gunkata (Novice)
This skill involved doing complex calculations in the mind as quickly as possible. It wasn't magic. It was trajectory, timing, body position, environmental geometry, and firing angles compressed into instinct. At least F3 Intelligence was required before I could even start learning this skill. That's why I didn't earn it earlier.
Finally, I looked at the cop sitting in the chair.
The cop stared at me without blinking. He looked slightly shaken but was holding himself well.
His eyes moved from the dead men on the floor to the guns in my hands, then back to my mask. He had just watched a masked stranger kick open a door and kill six armed men in less time than it took most people to understand a room had changed.
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke. Rain tapped against the windows, and somewhere near the folding table, a shell casing rolled lazily across the floor before stopping against one of the dead men's shoes.
The cop swallowed, then said, voice rough from the beating, "You the reason they were nervous?"
I lowered my guns slightly, but not enough to make the gesture friendly. "Maybe."
He let out a short, humorless breath. "Great. Saved by the bigger problem."
That almost made me smile.
I stepped over the leader's body and moved toward the folding table. Cash, wrapped packets, loose ammunition, burner phones, a notebook, his phone, his wallet, car keys, and open NYPD credentials were scattered across it. I picked up the credentials first and tilted them toward the light.
Detective Vincent Effenburger.
Why do I feel I have heard this name somewhere?
I set the credentials down and picked up the notebook. The thugs hadn't been exaggerating. Plates, times, names, corners, vehicle descriptions. It wasn't perfect work, but it was careful work. However, not careful enough to avoid getting caught.
"You've been busy," I said.
"I like hobbies," Vincent answered hoarsely.
"Tailing Tombstone's people alone is a bad hobby."
He glanced at the bodies. "Starting to notice."
"New transfer?" I asked.
His expression changed just enough to answer before his mouth did. "What makes you say that?"
"Not many local cops have the heart to solo tail gangsters in one of the most crime-infested areas of the city," I said with a short laugh.
"Two weeks ago from LSPD," Vincent replied flatly.
I think I know who he is.
I sat in front of him, crossing my legs over each other.
"Is there a special reason you chose Tombstone?" I asked, giving him a scrutinizing look. "You could've gone after the weaker gangs first. What's so special about Tombstone?"
Vincent stayed silent for a few seconds. I also didn't urge him to answer.
Finally, he spoke, "You can thank our dear Captain Robert Davis for that."
"Oh?" I asked, feeling interested.
"Yeah," he continued with a tired sigh. "Within two days of joining the precinct, he cornered me and gave me the 'opportunity of my lifetime' to work for Tombstone."
I burst out laughing, listening to that. I barely controlled my laughter and managed to say, "And how did you respond to that?"
"Of course, I refused," he said in a matter-of-fact tone. He shook his head and muttered, "It felt like Ballas all over again."
"What about you?" he asked suddenly. "I have seen many criminals, but you seem different."
He continued after a pause, "I can call you a vigilante, but," he looked at the dead bodies at his feet, "your way of doing things doesn't match the way other vigilantes in the city operate."
Say that to the Punisher.
His eyes narrowed. "Do you have a personal vendetta against Tombstone?"
"Detective," I said in a flat voice. "Sometimes knowing too much only brings your death date closer."
He actually smiled at that.
"Can you untie me?" He asked, changing the topic.
I removed the magazine from his gun, checked that the chamber was empty, then cut his bindings.
He shook and massaged his wrists. Then he picked up his things one by one. Lastly, he picked up his gun and magazine. My eyes were trained on him. He didn't do any idiotic actions. He put the magazine in his pants pocket and tucked the gun in his pants waistband.
I looked at the cash and product lying in the room. I picked them up and zipped them into the bags.
"You're taking evidence," Vincent said, but took no action to stop me.
"I'm taking spoils."
"That's evidence."
"Only if it reaches a courtroom."
I turned back to him, and he looked at me with interest.
"You know," he said. "I knew someone like you back in Los Santos. Didn't talk much. Extremely capable."
"And you look like you are capable and just as dangerous," he continued.
I chuckled. "Get to the point, Detective."
"How about a temporary alliance?" Vincent proposed.
"You've got a problem with Tombstone," Vincent said. "So do I. And if Davis is selling my precinct to him, then we're looking at the same mess from opposite sides."
He extended his hand toward me.
I stared at it for several seconds, weighing the risks. Finally, I gripped his hand, shaking it.
—
Today's classes were pretty boring; nothing out of the ordinary happened at the university. After classes, I decided to pick up a few fares before going to the dojo.
I waited a few minutes at the stop, and finally, a woman in a red cocktail dress and a white fur coat slid into the back of my taxi.
Mama mia!
I couldn't help but exclaim as I looked at the breathtaking woman's face through my rear-view mirror. By far, it seemed none of the women I had met could compare to her beauty.
I shook my head slightly and pulled the car out onto the street; I had no time to admire the passenger's beauty. If I delayed too much, I would lose the tip.
As I drove, my gaze inadvertently fell onto her through the rear-view mirror. She had an amused smirk on her face. I pretended to check the rear traffic in the mirror, then looked in the front.
It was then:
Note: Amora used charm magic on you. Effect nullified by Gamer's Mind.
Note: Amora used charm magic on you. Effect nullified by Gamer's Mind.
Note: Amora used charm magic on you. Effect nullified by Gamer's Mind.
Amora?! Nani the fuck?!
I looked back at my passenger through the rear-view mirror. Her amused smirk had turned wider.
Name: Amora
Code Name: Enchantress
Tier: A1
Someone help me. A Goddess is sitting in my taxi.
I looked at her destination again in the app.
Dr. Blake's clinic.
Of course. She's on her way to play with Thor.
"You are interesting for a mortal," Amora said, amused. "My charm magic did not affect you. You can be proud; you are the first mortal who has achieved this feat."
I don't want to be proud.
"Though," she added, resting her chin lightly on her hand, "I admit it wounded mine a little."
Fuck!
"Is it due to the strange magic you are practicing?" Amora asked, looking interested.
I frowned when she said that. How did she know I could use magic?
Amora elegantly covered her mouth with a hand and laughed lightly. The sight looked fucking mesmerizing; her laughter sounded pleasant to the ears.
Control yourself, dude.
Don't let your teenage hormones blind you to the fact that she can obliterate you as easily as breathing.
"You might not realize, but you are faintly leaking mana," Amora said. "Regular humans can't tell, but those accomplished in the mystic arts certainly can."
I frowned harder. What does she mean by leaking mana?
I remembered Zephyra telling me something about it, but because there wasn't much time, as she was giving me a crash course in magical theory, she glossed over it. And I forgot what she taught about it.
"You are practicing a very strange kind of magic. It resembles charm magic, but it carries a primordial aura. Yet, you still lack even the most basic understanding of the principles of magic," Amora said with a seductive smile. "It makes me wonder where you learned it. And your other magic is no different. Despite being similarly underdeveloped, it feels ancient—far more refined and powerful than the magic wielded by the Angels in Heven. Of course, despite their greatness, you're still a fledgling in these disciplines of magic."
My hands stayed steady on the wheel only because Gamer's Mind strangled the panic before it reached them.
I didn't speak and just continued driving. Since she already observed this much, lying would only increase my chances of a Bad End. And I didn't want to say much in front of her. She was a Goddess comparable to Loki in her cunning. The best option in that case was to stay quiet.
Soon, we arrived at her destination.
"You are an interesting mortal. If I weren't so busy, I might've just brought you with me to study what's so special about you," Amora said, laughing.
Please don't.
She got out of the taxi and handed me a few notes. I didn't bother thinking about how she had gotten legal currency. I kept the same polite driver's smile on my face and prayed she mistook the stiffness for manners.
"Maybe if I am bored in the future, I may come and play with you," Amora said and turned around.
Really, please don't.