At 10:17 a.m., the neon sign of the Yellow Flag Bar looked pale and feeble beneath the daylight. Inside, the lighting was dim. Someone in a hoodie was speaking with Paul in a low voice at the bar; after taking a data chip, they headed for the door without looking back, brushing past John as he pushed his way in. They did not even exchange a glance.
Paul stood behind the bar, casually wiping the glass in his hand. Gladys drifted between the tables, as though searching for some dirty spot in need of cleaning.
Seeing John enter, Paul’s expression shifted slightly, then quickly returned to calm.
John paid no attention to these details. He went straight to the bar, and before Paul could speak, plopped himself down on a high stool. With two words, he choked back the tactful question Paul had spent hours thinking over—
“It’s done.”
“!” Paul set down the glass. Though he had already had his suspicions when he received the news in the early hours of the morning, having it confirmed still left him unable to hide his shock. He turned around, adjusting his expression as he took down a bottle of amber liquid, poured a small glass, and pushed it toward John.
“To drive off the chill. On me.”
John picked up the glass and took a sip of the liquor—hardly top-quality, but already rare enough for this district. As if suddenly remembering something, he reached into his coat.
“Knew you wouldn’t believe me. Good thing I came prepared!”
As he spoke, not waiting for Paul to deny it, he pulled out a playing card and slapped it onto the counter.
“I printed it myself. Pretty cool, right?”
In the dim light, the demon’s face with its half-spread wings seemed almost to be breathing. The stylized “Jo” signature in the upper right corner looked more like it had been written directly in blood.
Paul did not pick up the card. He only lowered his head and looked at it.
The intelligence from Peninsula Plaza had not yet spread. Most people thought it was only two gangs fighting over a territorial dispute. Not many knew that Wild Chicken had been headshot by a crossbow bolt, and even fewer knew there had been a card like this on the bolt.
For the kid to produce this thing only a few hours after the incident, Paul knew he wasn’t lying.
“You made quite a commotion.” Paul finally spoke, his tone carrying no blame, more like he was stating a fact. “It was supposed to be just cleaning up a small boss. Now two gangs are about to tear the whole street apart.”
John heard that Paul did not mean to blame him. Suddenly, he smiled—a kind of almost casual ease. This person, whose clear gaze had previously seemed tinged with stupidity, now spoke words that were somewhat cold:
“If I didn’t make it big, how was I supposed to paint the house with blood?”
Paul stared at him for two seconds, then nodded. Turning around, he took a bearer chip from beneath the bar.
“Same rules. I take a thirty percent broker’s fee.”
John did not take the chip. Instead, he called out to the side:
“Gladys!”
“What is it?” Gladys, who had been leaning against a booth with her eyes closed in a false doze, was already standing before her eyes even opened.
“Renew the rent. One month.” John pointed at the chip on the table. Gladys blinked, then swept her fingertip over the chip, her movement so practiced it looked like she had done it a thousand times.
“Done. I counted yesterday into your monthly rent too. Nine hundred and fifty. If you’re staying next month, remember to renew!”
“Got it!” Only then did John put away the chip with the few hundred credit points remaining, saying helplessly, “Give me another job. Still house-painting. Higher pay.”
Paul raised an eyebrow. “Not going to rest a bit?”
John rolled his eyes at that. “The pay for one little boss isn’t even enough for two months of rent. How am I supposed to rest?”
“High pay means high difficulty. Don’t end up painting the walls with your own blood.”
“As long as he leaves his house, I can kill him.” John’s tone could not be called confident. Rather, it was as flat and unruffled as if he were saying, The weather’s nice today.
Paul looked up into his eyes, hesitated for a moment, then took out a menu from beneath the bar that was clearly more refined than the previous one.
“Choose for yourself.”
John glanced at the menu and showed a look of disdain. “Tsk. Seeing how nervous you were, I thought it’d be some big job. Only five thousand?”
Paul merely said, “If you can pull this one off, then we’ll talk about bigger jobs.”
“You’re the middleman. Your call.” John spread his hands and casually pointed at a name that looked pleasing enough.
“Him, then.”
Seeing John make his choice, Paul said nothing more. He took a storage chip from under the counter. “The relevant information is in here.”
John picked up the chip, whistled, and got up to leave. Only when he reached the door did he suddenly turn back and wave.
“See you tomorrow.”
The faux-wood door closed behind him, and the hinges groaned once more.
Only after he left did Gladys walk over to the bar. She glanced at the demon-joker card in Paul’s hand and said faintly,
“You made an exception.”
Paul’s caution as a middleman was well known. To ensure a mission’s completion rate, he would assess every mercenary who took jobs, doing his best to match them with commissions they were willing to accept and capable of completing.
By the usual practice, a newcomer like John would need to complete several missions of the same level, and only after his strength had been evaluated would he be given higher-difficulty commissions. Raising the mission tier directly after he had taken only one commission—the three simple tasks did not count—completely went against Paul’s habits.
Faced with Gladys’s doubt, Paul did not answer at once. He held the card up to the light. In the dim glow, the demon’s wings seemed to truly tremble faintly.
“If this kid can still handle it this easily this time,” Paul suddenly said, his voice so low it was almost inaudible, “then I’ll probably have to make another exception.”
He put the card away, turned, and began organizing the liquor shelves. His mechanical fingers placed each bottle precisely in its designated spot, not off by the slightest fraction.
Hearing this, Gladys said nothing more. She merely let her gaze drift out the window. Across the street, a huge holographic advertisement was playing a breaking news bulletin. The image showed burning streets near Peninsula Plaza, and the host’s somewhat shrill voice bored into their ears along with it:
“The gang conflict continues to escalate. Casualties have already broken forty-seven. Friends who bought low can tear up your tickets now, but looking at the current situation, fifty probably won’t be enough to stop it… The betting window is still open. Viewers interested in taking a gamble can scan the QR code below…”
…
“I like firecracker-type characters the best. Too bad the mark from [Hatred] is independent. Otherwise, I could just send an alt up to get beaten and apply the mark.”
John walked down the street, looking over the information on this target while already starting to plan this operation in his head. Although the effect of [Hatred] was a little awkward, say what you would, the value of the “guaranteed hit” trait was still there. As long as the marked target was within his line of sight and within the weapon’s effective range, it did not matter whether bulletproof glass or reinforced resin stood between them—it could completely ignore all of it. He could even hang a playing card on the crossbow bolt!
What? The playing card would increase drag and affect aerodynamics? Take that up with my guaranteed hit!
But if he had to name a drawback… sure enough, he still had to let the target hit him once, didn’t he?