New York's Manhattan, a place that could be called both heaven and hell. Here, gold and diamonds are everywhere, but so are corpses and blood. On the seemingly glittering streets, millions of dollars ebb and flow like the tide, swaying with every moment. Even legendary figures like Warren Buffett and Bill Gates wouldn't dare to claim they are invincible titans in such an unpredictable world.
Wall Street, in the southern part of Manhattan, stretches from Broadway to the East River. It's less than a mile long, only 11 meters wide, yet this narrow street controls almost 40% of the financial power of the entire world, earning it the title of the "Financial Heart of the World." Legends and myths are born here, and everything of importance seems to revolve around this place.
At the far end of this street stands a building, filled with men in suits and women in business attire, all rushing to work, hustling for their lives and their dreams. Among them sits a man, dressed in casual sportswear, wearing a mask and a round casual hat. He sits on a bench, seemingly in a daze, staring at the entrance of the building in front of him.
"Hey! Charles, I've told you, I'm not lying. The family's loan issue... Alright, alright... Enough talking, I'll tell you straight, thirty million is non-negotiable! Even if they can't pay it, there's still the daughter, and two kids, plus the unborn one. A family of six can sell kidneys, donate blood, donate sperm... whatever it takes to scrape together a few million, right? Kidneys, lungs, even the heart. I don't care how you do it, this deal is happening..."
"Reeves Karkid?!"
The man hurriedly walks out of the building, phone in hand, unaware that someone on the opposite side of the street has taken out a photo, looked at it briefly, and then stood up. The figure jogs across the street and, without hesitation, taps him on the shoulder.
"Who are you?!"
"Davie's family sends their regards!"
The man, named Reeves, turns around, confused, and questions the stranger's identity. As the man answers, his pupils dilate—not because of the name "Davie," but because the stranger is holding a finely crafted handgun. The silver-black luster gleams under the sunlight, like the light of judgment from an angel of retribution. His vision is blurred as the light sears his eyes. A blink, and then pain takes away all his perception and life.
Bang...
"Ah!"
"There's been a murder!"
...
The crowd, already in a hurry, shrieks in panic at the gunshot. People scatter in every direction, trying to escape. Some may remember the man's appearance, but his mask keeps them from clearly seeing his face. The sounds of gunfire and screams spread quickly. People instinctively avoid the area where the shots came from. Even the street guards won't leave their posts to confront a killer whose firepower they don't know.
The assassin walks calmly through the street, then turns the corner. It's the only place without surveillance. He sheds his clothes and tosses them on the ground. In the corner of his bag is another coat. He changes, discards his hat, then puts on sunglasses and a round cap. With one swift motion, he grabs the ledge of a three-meter-high wall, pulling himself up like a spring.
Down another street, even though the gunshot was barely a few dozen meters away, the crowds keep flowing. During rush hour, no one cares who is dead or alive—they're all focused on making money, for themselves and their families...
The Old District Bar Just a wall separates this bar from Hell's Kitchen, a favorite hangout for gangsters and thugs. Despite its seedy clientele, it is also a place of great security. Even the police must follow the rules here. The bar's owner, Morris Grisca, a legendary figure, commands respect from all corners of the city.
At fifty, Morris is still in good health. He's a mob boss who has been involved in the underworld since he was eight years old, dabbling in all kinds of illegal activities. Yet, somehow, he's still alive today, defying all odds. In Hell's Kitchen, many have risen through the ranks, but no one has remained as influential and carefree as Morris for over forty years.
"Clocking in!"
"Peter, you're early today!"
By noon, the bar isn't crowded. A man wearing a woolen beanie enters, casually tossing his hat into a nearby trash bin. He sits at the bar, placing a black card in front of the bartender. The bartender smiles, takes the card, and prepares a cocktail for him before retreating to the back.
"Carl, you're not late either. How's work been?"
Peter turns around, and a burly man named Carl approaches. Carl is a truck driver, working short-distance routes, a lucrative industry. He keeps his personal opinions to himself, and the truckers operate in a grey area where neither law nor police have jurisdiction. Every driver has a boss behind the scenes, a shield protecting them in exchange for half their earnings.
"It's the same as always, but man, the Dave family is really in a tough spot. That bastard Kimbin's men are getting more ruthless."
Carl grabs a beer, drinks it in one gulp, and sighs, lamenting the state of things. Peter responds with a smile, taking a sip of his cocktail.
"Let's hope God protects his devout followers."
Carl almost spits out his beer and gives Peter the middle finger. Faith, he thinks, might exist, but relying on it as a lifeline is ridiculous. Faith doesn't feed you, especially in the lives of ordinary people.
"Better to give them a few fully-loaded submachine guns than pray to God. I heard that lawyer's going after Dave this afternoon. I wonder if Dave can handle it. Anyway, I'm off to work."
"See you."
Carl finishes his beer, uninterested in further conversation. He glances at his watch, waves, and leaves the bar. The bartender reappears, still smiling, bowing as she gestures for Peter to follow.
Behind the bar, two massive, muscle-bound men, each nearly two meters tall, wear suits that look like they might burst at the seams. With dark sunglasses, they let Peter through, leading him into a small room. In the center of the room sits an elderly man, sipping tea from a delicate cup. To Peter, it all looks like ordinary tea.
"Drinking this stuff is like throwing the best food to pigs."
Peter sits down, takes a sip, and then tries to reach for another cup, but the old man slaps his hand away. Peter chuckles awkwardly, and the old man resumes his tea ceremony.
A woman dressed in business attire enters from another door, walking over to Peter and the old man. She places a moderately heavy envelope on the table.
"Kimbin probably won't retaliate, but if he does, you can continue eye for an eye. Dave sold his truck for ten thousand bucks, exchanged for thirty million. Seems worth it, right? I don't understand why you've changed your mind and decided to do good like this."
Peter takes the envelope, counts the money inside, and listens to the old man. He shakes his head and explains.
"I just want to kill in a different way. No other reason."
"Whatever. This year's been full of crazy people. You're not the weirdest. Lester's back and hired by Kimbin. Kimbin also wants to hire you, starting at two million per job. Will you take it? He's clear, only killing the bad guys—not through your hands, though."
The old man watches Peter, noticing that despite his twenty-seven or twenty-eight years, he seems very mature. His Asian features are unremarkable, his build lean but muscular—a characteristic of Eastern men. Who would have thought that someone like him is now one of the most famous and unusual assassins in America, only killing bad guys and charging high prices.
"Forget it. I'm afraid I'll get itchy and end up killing him."
Kimbin is the head of the most powerful drug cartel in South America, known as the Underground Emperor of America. He dominates the underworld, ruthless, cold-blooded, and merciless. He's rich enough to rival entire countries, and most importantly, he's not a good person, even with all that money.
"Hehehe... If someone offered you money to kill Kimbin, how much would you charge?"
The old man picks up his teacup and sips leisurely. After about ten seconds, he finishes his tea and looks at Peter, who is counting the money.
"At least one hundred million, that's my target. Don't forget to come back to me next time you need work."
Peter stands up, about to leave when the old man calls out.
"I've got a job for 250 million. Want it?"
Peter turns around, curious.
"Who's worth that much? The President?"
"Tony Stark."
"I'll pass for now. I'm leaving."
"Think it over and get back to me. It took me a while to narrow down two targets. There's still more to discuss with Kimbin."
"Mm, thanks."