Zod stepped into the Continental.
"Mr. Heath Zod, it's an honor to have you with us," the receptionist said with a warm smile.
"My custom weapons were sent here, right?" Zod asked with a nod.
"They're with our weapons specialist at the moment."
The Continental offered every service imaginable—weapons experts for sales, modifications, and custom builds, doctors, and even… certain more discreet accommodations.
Zod took the elevator down to B3.
When the doors slid open, rows upon rows of gleaming firearms filled his vision—handguns, SMGs, rifles, sniper platforms, shotguns. The works.
Men in suits stood beside various weapons specialists, each one wearing a chest tag. Most of the specialists were retired workers from major arms factories—or straight-up legends from the military-industrial world.
"Mr. Heath Zod, this way please."
The weapons specialist, already notified by the front desk, walked toward him.
"My weapons expert is actually such a beautiful woman, huh?" Zod praised casually.
"Kayala. That's my name," she replied with a pleased smile, extending a hand. A compliment meant more coming from someone with a face like Zod's—if some lopsided goon had said it, she wouldn't have so much as blinked.
"Pleasure to meet you."
Zod took her hand and, gentlemanlike, began to withdraw—but she tightened her grip, preventing him from pulling back. Only after a deliberate moment did she release him.
Even a handshake was this assertive?
Zod understood immediately and didn't mind her attitude.
Kayala led him to her designated vault locker, retrieving a silver case and flipping it open.
"Israel-made .50 Desert Eagles. Honestly, I don't recommend this model for you. Too heavy—affects stability. And most targets won't be wearing ballistic helmets. With your marksmanship, you don't need something this large-caliber."
Kayala had naturally done her homework. The infamous "White Devil" who never missed a headshot didn't need brute force—he needed range, precision, and magazine capacity.
The .50 Desert Eagle used .50AE rounds—12.7mm "fast bullets."
Normally, 9mm was more than enough for most situations. 12.7mm was overkill to the point of comedy.
But Zod looked at the two Desert Eagles, both with gleaming silver finishes, and nodded in satisfaction.
Kayala didn't understand. This was a man's desire—raw, unreasonable, and powerful. And Zod could afford to be indulgent.
"I lengthened the shell casing and increased the propellant, like you requested. Recoil will be significantly stronger. And these are steel-core pointed rounds."
She produced another case filled with her custom ammo.
She truly couldn't grasp Zod's obsession with destructive power—dual-wielded, no less. Could his hands really withstand that recoil? Could he even keep them steady?
To handle these custom rounds, she'd heavily modified both pistols. Otherwise, they wouldn't even be able to fire safely.
She also provided extended magazines. The standard 7-round capacity had been upgraded to 9.
She had originally considered double-stack magazines, but the Desert Eagle was already 1.99 kg. After her modifications, the unloaded weight was 2.5 kg. With double-stack mags, the thing would be a brick. For balance and ergonomics, extended single-stack mags were the only viable compromise.
Zod ordered five hundred rounds—it would be up to him to load them later.
"Thank you."
He paid in gold coins.
All Continental services required Skull Coins, never cash.
"No interest in dessert?" Kayala asked, sliding open another cabinet filled with neatly arranged knives and short blades.
"No. No one can get close to me."
Zod's expression didn't change.
Next came tailoring.
He ordered two black, non-reflective trench coats with ballistic-resistant lining and cut-proof fabric.
After returning to Texas, Zod's daily life boiled down to one thing—loading ammo.
Shooting was fun; loading was hell.
It was painstaking work, and there was no way he'd let Jadrey or the Mexican ranch hands touch his rounds.
He didn't trust them—and Jadrey was already suspicious that his new boss wasn't remotely normal.
"Jadrey, find a construction crew to build a villa," Zod instructed.
Jadrey's current home was an 80-year-old house built by his parents and grandfather. It was sturdy, but hardly comfortable. Now that Zod had money, he wanted a proper, comfortable place to live.
"Boss, labor here is expensive. You might not have enough," Jadrey warned, sucking in a sharp breath when he heard how big Zod wanted the villa to be.
"What? That'll cost several million? We're not even in a big city," Zod said, genuinely baffled.
Forgive him—neither of his two lives had ever required him to care about mundane things like pricing. On Krypton, his father was part of the high council, his mother a top scientist. Money was irrelevant. On Earth, it hadn't mattered much either.
"In America, labor is the most expensive part. Many wealthy people commission handcrafted buildings to show off their status," Jadrey explained.
Labor in the States was notoriously costly. Whether mixing concrete or prepping rebar, it all required manpower.
A reinforced concrete villa? The cost would be outrageous. And property taxes included the demolition cost as well.
Only true tycoons chose reinforced concrete homes—taking them down someday would cost a fortune too.
"No problem. Money isn't an issue. Hire the workers."
Zod thought about how fast he could earn. It was manageable.
Superman was poor because he was kind and law-abiding. Zod wasn't. Twenty years on Krypton had rewritten his worldview. He'd been on battlefields, killed aliens. In the universe, the strong devoured the weak. Everything else was fantasy.
Once he finished loading all five hundred rounds, he decided next time he'd ask Kayala to load them for him.
He opened the black phone—the screen filled with missions.
His standards were high. Anything worth only tens of thousands or even a few hundred thousand dollars didn't interest him at all.
Jobs in the multimillion range were nightmares for most assassins—tasks requiring teams, planning, and luck.
But Zod worked alone.
Which made the money come fast.
/-\
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