As Peter took a drag from his cigarette, he glanced at his watch. It was now seven-thirty in the evening, and before him stood one of New York's renowned private clubs. Tonight at eight, a gathering would take place, hosted by Adams Modric, a criminal who had just been released from court two days prior due to insufficient evidence. He had spent over two hundred forty thousand dollars to win a case that everyone believed he was guilty of.
Peter should be grateful to him; he now had thirty thousand in pocket money and thirty points in rewards. His grenades had essentially been gifted to him by this wealthy and charming man. Of course, a small price and a token of gratitude were also in order. Watching the streetlights flicker on, he saw an extended Lincoln pull up—a perfect display of wealth.
He tossed the cigarette to the ground and crushed it underfoot. Pulling down his cap, he positioned himself at the crosswalk, waiting for the red light to turn green. The limousine came to a stop at the entrance of the club. With his handgun ready, he noticed the bodyguards and, without hesitation, opened fire, creating a bloody scene as he took them out, simultaneously shooting out the tires of the luxury vehicle.
"Don't kill me! Don't kill me! Whoever paid you, I'll give you ten times that!"
"Adams Modric?!"
"Tiger sends his regards!"
Inside the Lincoln, Adams Modric's terrified expression was all too familiar; lately, it seemed everyone he killed had worn the same look. Upon hearing his name, Modric nodded, as if he saw a glimmer of hope. But the next moment, as Peter spoke, despair washed over him. A bullet pierced through his skull, and a grenade was tossed into the vehicle. Without a backward glance, Peter turned and headed toward the street corner.
Boom…
Killing was wrong; it was a criminal act. Yet there was a distinction between necessity and choice. Peter belonged to the former category. His killings were meant to prevent others from becoming stained by blood and suffering. Imagine being pushed into a corner, unable to seek revenge; the thought of personally killing the perpetrator could ruin the rest of your life. Then, a killer appears who can take on that burden for you. How would you choose? Would you spend your life to exchange for that scum's life, or would you gather all your savings in cash to hire the assassin?
A photo of Tiger's wife lay next to the burning Lincoln. The woman in the picture, smiling brightly, appeared even happier against the flames. Perhaps this was the notion of karma; he was not the demon punishing criminals in the afterlife, but rather an angel delivering justice upon the wicked in the real world.
His expertise lay in sending all criminals to meet their maker, and any explanations were between God and the criminals—an affair he had little connection to.
Calmly crossing the street, he slipped into an underground parking lot of a nearby building. After winding through the corridors, he retrieved his prepared backpack, changing into a new disguise. Approaching the elevator, he heard footsteps behind him but did not turn around. Instead, he pretended to read the newspaper, like an ordinary passerby.
Ding…
The elevator doors opened, and Peter stepped inside, turning to face the entrance. There stood Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, smiling with a gun aimed at him. Peter maintained his calm demeanor, folding the newspaper and raising his hands without a hint of evasion in his gaze.
"Excuse me, miss, do we have some sort of grudge?"
Peter's unnervingly composed demeanor made the Black Widow laugh. Looking at this seemingly ordinary man, she thought that if she hadn't read the files, she wouldn't have guessed he was a murderous devil. She had witnessed the entire process of Adams Modric being killed just moments ago, and she recognized the person in the photo. But that didn't excuse Peter's actions; her current objective was to delay until her agents could arrive.
"'K' is quite a lame code name. Are you trying to play dumb? The clothes you just discarded are still lying in the corner."
"What are you talking about? I don't quite understand. If you suspect I'm a bad guy, feel free to call the police!"
"Haha…"
She pressed the number one button in the elevator, and Peter remained unfazed. With surveillance cameras around, it would be interesting if the Black Widow truly attempted to harm him. He would make a grand spectacle of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s actions, perhaps broadcasting Nick Fury's entire personal information across the internet, accompanied by recorded footage—oh, how amusing that would be...
"Are you a mutant?"
Every time they collected clothes, hats, and other tools from his crimes, they failed to match the DNA at the hospital, as if this information didn't exist. If it were just once, it could be overlooked, but if it happened repeatedly, it became suspicious. Peter's methods resembled those of a mutant, like Mystique, who utilized her shapeshifting abilities to commit crimes. However, Mystique's genes were traceable, while this man seemed entirely untraceable.
"I undergo health checks at the hospital every year, and my blood samples are on file there."
"Wow, you really are calm. But it's better to be honest; otherwise, you'll regret the consequences!"
Peter's composure began to apply pressure on the Black Widow. As he prepared to leave the elevator, he gestured for her to enter. Natasha hesitated for a moment but eventually stepped inside. The two exchanged glances, standing less than a meter apart. When the elevator doors opened again, Natasha instinctively glanced outside. In that split second of distraction, Peter's plan was set in motion.
Bang…
He pulled the trigger, the bullet grazing his face as he struck Natasha's wrist, sending her gun clattering to the ground. He surged forward, and Natasha, like flowing water, pressed against him, wrapping her legs around his waist. She raised her hand to stab Peter in the neck, and the electromagnetic pulse on her wrist released a surge of electricity. Peter felt the current wash over him; the anticipated experience of spasms and paralysis did not occur. Instead, his mind returned to familiar memories from when he was twelve—or rather, this body's twelve. He had gone through at least a hundred of these electrical shocks annually to train his willpower. Even the year he crossed over, he endured three to four electrical sessions, making him almost immune to electric shocks.
"You should be grateful that no one wants to pay to kill you, Miss Romanoff!"
The powerful current had little effect on Peter, but it did impact Natasha. Peter pressed his hand against her face, and the electricity coursed through her body, overwhelming her with a bone-deep sensation that caused her to lose consciousness in an instant. When the elevator doors opened again, the second floor appeared empty. After adjusting his clothing and glancing back at Natasha, who lay on the ground with a look of blissful surrender, he shook his head and pressed the button for the top floor as he exited the elevator.
***
"Time to clock in."
Returning to the bar, Peter noticed that Morse seemed to have been rather idle lately. Two envelopes were handed to him, each containing a black card and a mission. One of the tasks had already been paid for. Opening the envelope, he looked at the contents with mild confusion. Morse then explained.
"That kid committed suicide. This is all the money he had left, and he wanted to thank you. He witnessed you kill that man, and now he feels unburdened."
"Don't tell me you're splitting three thousand again?!"
Even criminals can have a conscience. Perhaps conscience is a cheap commodity, but in the eyes of wrongdoers, it still holds a price. Morse shook his head, prompting a slight smile from Peter as he opened both envelopes and began counting the money.
"I don't want this blood money. While it may be the cleanest money in the world, I'm not worthy of it!"
"I'm being targeted by S.H.I.E.L.D."
As he counted the cash, Peter mentioned another issue. S.H.I.E.L.D. was a considerable headache, and he felt overwhelmed by the trivial matters piling up. Morse paused mid-drag on his cigar, the name evoking anxiety. S.H.I.E.L.D. was synonymous with bad luck, and it seemed Peter had drawn the short straw.
"That organization is rumored to be incredibly formidable. How did they end up targeting you?"
"I've been killing too many people too frequently. I need a change of scenery. I'll take any case, anywhere in the U.S. or the world!"
People in the criminal underworld had heard snippets about S.H.I.E.L.D. but mostly described it as mysterious, powerful, and unreasonable—an organization that had ties to the government. This was not something anyone wanted to provoke, nor could they afford to do so. After hearing Peter's explanation, Morse seemed genuinely concerned.
"Are you not going to lay low for a while?"
"I just don't want to kill those who haven't paid me, but that doesn't mean I won't kill!"
Peter shook his head in response. He planned to purchase a plot of land in Nassau County on Long Island that was at least ten thousand square feet, complete with plans for schools and orphanages, and a series of luxury amenities. The hospital would focus on researching pediatric and congenital diseases, creating a worry-free environment for children to grow up in.
Of course, as the children grew up, he would also help them find jobs and provide ongoing support based on their situations. Achieving all this would require money—substantial amounts of money. Currently, he had only about seven or eight hundred thousand, which was hardly enough to resolve any issues. With such little money, he had no time to consider hiding away...
"I really need money right now!"