The sight before them was enough to make Murakami and Madame Gao break into a synchronized cold sweat.
Dozens of masked men in tactical armor surrounded them with flawless formation , rifles raised, eyes gleaming through night-vision goggles, one even lazily resting an RPG on his shoulder.
They might be monsters, but they weren't stupid.
No amount of martial arts mastery or mystical training could block a rocket to the face.
"Everyone stand down!"
Madame Gao shot Murakami a sharp glare, then turned toward the masked leader with a painfully forced smile. "This is all a misunderstanding. As we say in the East , 'When friends come from afar, '"
"', kill them before they get here?'" Darren suddenly chimed in helpfully.
Madame Gao blinked. "..."
This brat is doing this on purpose.
The masked man didn't even wait for her to recover. His voice was cold and businesslike. "Enough talk. Transfer the money. We've got another job lined up, and the client's already pinging us."
Murakami and Gao just stared.
Were they bounty hunters or… Uber Eats with guns?
With a weary sigh, Madame Gao gave Murakami a look that screamed you made this mess, you fix it.
Murakami's jaw clenched so hard you could hear his teeth grind. Principles said he should fight back. Logic said he should not get blown up tonight. Logic won.
He took out his phone, muttered a few words, and finally said through gritted teeth, "The money's been transferred."
The masked man nodded curtly. "Good. And don't forget to leave us a five-star review."
Transaction complete, he motioned to his men. The group vanished into the night with military precision , quick, efficient, leaving behind nothing but silence and the faint scent of gun oil.
Even Gao had to admit… that was terrifyingly professional.
When the echoes faded, both of them exhaled at once.
The Hand's assassins, still trembling, exchanged confused glances. Every single one of those masked operatives had moved with perfect spacing , coordinated, disciplined. They weren't random mercs. They were trained soldiers.
Murakami muttered bitterly in Japanese, "Baka yarō..."
Gao straightened her robes, trying to salvage her dignity. "It's fine. As the East also says, 'Endure for a moment and the, '"
"', the more you think about it, the angrier you get?'" Darren interrupted again, deadpan.
Gao: "..."
Murakami: "..."
Could this man shut up for five minutes?
"That's it!" Murakami snapped, his temper finally exploding. "This is all your fault!"
He stomped toward Darren, face twisted in fury. "You'd better start talking. Who are you? Who sent you? And where is the ledger you stole from us? Speak, or I'll make you wish you were dead!"
"My identity?" Darren tilted his head thoughtfully, then spoke in a low, serious tone. "Let's just say… those who know, know. Those who don't , even if I explained, they still wouldn't. The stakes are too high, the water too deep. For your own good, don't dig further. Understand?"
Murakami blinked.
Gao blinked.
"…No," they both said flatly.
"That's just a long way of saying nothing!" Murakami roared, drawing his katana. "Enough games! You die first!"
"Perfect timing," Darren whispered.
Before anyone could react, he twisted sharply, snapping free from his bindings, and drove his boot squarely between Murakami's legs.
CRACK!
The samurai let out a strangled gasp.
For one surreal moment, time froze , then the sound ripped through the factory like a thunderclap.
"AAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"
Murakami's scream echoed off the walls. Somewhere in the shadows, a crow took off into the night in sheer terror.
While everyone was still reeling, Darren bolted, laughing like a maniac.
"You want to catch me? Good luck!"
The assassins lunged after him , but he was fast. Too fast. Like a blur of chaos and sarcasm, Darren sprinted out of the factory and vanished into the night before anyone could even aim.
The shadows froze mid-step, exchanging helpless looks.
Madame Gao's expression was unreadable. "Was he… part rabbit?"
Murakami finally staggered upright, face twisted with agony and humiliation. "Find him! Double the bounty! No , triple it! I want that bastard brought back alive!"
His men scrambled to obey, firing up their terminals and blasting the dark web with a new post.
Within minutes, the bounty on Darren's head had skyrocketed.
Then , footsteps again.
Everyone turned as the factory doors creaked open.
And there they were.
The same group of masked mercenaries from before, standing at the entrance , and this time, one of them had a familiar prisoner slung over his shoulder.
"Good evening," said the leader casually. "Your order's been delivered. Please confirm receipt."
Murakami: "..."
Madame Gao: "..."
...
Meanwhile, a few blocks away in an empty alley, Darren sat cross-legged on the pavement, happily dividing stacks of cash with the masked men.
"Good work tonight, gentlemen. You've earned it."
"Not at all," one of them said cheerfully. "Always a pleasure doing business."
They all removed their masks , revealing a lineup of familiar faces. Every single one was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.
Veterans. Seasoned professionals. And, judging by their grins, all terrible at hiding how much they enjoyed this little side hustle.
These weren't random mercs , they were Darren's "professional team."
A few of them were even the same "extras" who'd once acted in that fake hostage video with the "Tony Incident." Genuine masters of improv.
Darren had come up with the perfect con:
, Use S.H.I.E.L.D. agents to "capture" himself.
, Claim the bounty.
, Escape dramatically.
, Wait for the bounty to increase.
, Repeat.
An infinite loop of profit.
"This isn't bug abuse," Darren declared proudly. "This is creative resource management."
Sadly, the fun didn't last. After being "captured" and "escaping" half a dozen times, Murakami and Gao finally realized they were being scammed. They stopped posting new bounties entirely.
Still, Darren's price had peaked at a glorious $13 million. A worthy sum for a living legend.
One of the older agents clapped him on the shoulder. "Agent Darren, if you ever pull something like this again, count us in."
The others nodded eagerly.
Darren raised a brow. "What, you guys that broke?"
The agent scratched his head sheepishly. "Not broke, exactly… just bad timing. We all went heavy on Stark Industries stock last quarter. Then the guy shuts down his weapons division and the market tanks. We nearly had to take side jobs to pay the bills."
Darren blinked. "…Wait. You're telling me, back during that 'fake protest' video, you weren't acting?"
The agent sighed. "Nope. That was pain. Real pain."
For a long moment, Darren just stared at them , then burst out laughing.
"Unbelievable. I thought you guys were method actors. Turns out you were just financially desperate."
They all laughed with him, each pocketing their share before slipping away into the night.
No one worried about getting caught , this whole operation had Fury's silent blessing. As long as they kicked a slice of the earnings back into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s funding, the director would pretend he'd seen nothing.
After all, in Fury's book, chaos was fine , as long as it came with receipts.
- - - - - - -
T/N:
Sorry for the wrong chapter posted earlier.