Paul drove toward the warehouse, his hands steady on the wheel.
Two Russian mafia enforcers stood at the entrance, brandishing AK-47s likely sourced from an old Soviet stockpile, the kind the Red Room once used. Their eyes locked onto him with the same suspicion that Wilson Fisk's men showed newcomers in Hell's Kitchen.
Paul stepped out, raising his hands slightly in a non-threatening gesture. "I'm here for Vladimir."
One of the mafiosos grabbed a radio, speaking in a gruff voice: "Boss, Paul's here."
A pause. Then, static crackled. "Let him in."
The guards exchanged a look before lowering their weapons. Just as Paul was about to step forward, one of them smirked. "Wait. Hand over your weapons."
Paul held his palms up. "I'm unarmed."
The thug sneered, clearly enjoying the power trip. "We'll see about that." He reached for Paul's jacket.
A flicker of panic flashed in Paul's eyes. If they found the explosives, the plan would be over before it started.
From a hundred meters away, inside a black Mercedes-Benz, Jason tightened his grip on the pistol tucked in his waistband. His eyes stayed locked on Paul.
Morgan, lounging in the passenger seat, chuckled. "Well, well. Looks like your little scheme's about to go up in smoke."
Paul acted fast. He smacked the thug's hand away with a controlled slap.
"FUCK!" The Russians raised their rifles immediately.
Paul dusted off his jacket and gave them a cold look. "Is this how you Russians treat guests? Or just Jason's people?"
The thug's lip curled. "You're no guest. You're Jason's lapdog."
Paul snorted. "Then go find him yourself. I'm out." He turned as if to leave.
Through the radio, Vladimir's irritated voice rang out. "Why isn't he inside yet?"
The guard responded, "He refused a search. He's got something to hide."
"You idiot!" Vladimir snapped. "Even if he's armed, we have twenty men in here. Let him through!"
The mafioso clenched his jaw, humiliated. "Go in," he muttered.
Paul and Jason both exhaled subtly.
Walking through the rusted steel door, Paul entered an expansive two-story warehouse. It was exactly the kind of place Hydra or the Maggia would use dimly lit, stacked with crates of illegal weapons. Five unmarked vans were parked inside, loaded with ammunition, RPGs, and high-explosive grenades.
Around him, mafia soldiers busied themselves, but as soon as they noticed Paul, everything stopped.
The glares were murderous. Someone spit at his feet. Another blew cigarette smoke in his face. A third flipped him off.
"If you can't get to Jason, just take it out on me, huh?" Paul thought. He fought the urge to smirk. If only they knew he was about to turn this whole place into rubble.
He straightened his shoulders. "Where's Vladimir? Tell him to get down here."
A voice called from above. "I'm up here."
Paul looked up to see Vladimir leaning on the second-floor railing. His sharp eyes glinted under the warehouse lights, the way Zemo's once did.
"As promised, my men are ready, weapons loaded," Vladimir said. "Now, tell me where is Jason hiding?"
Paul kept his face neutral. "I don't like looking up at people. Come down here and say it to my face."
The mafia men bristled.
"Stupid nigger!" one spat.
"Jason's pet!" another jeered.
"You won't leave here alive!"
Paul stood still, letting their words bounce off.
Vladimir, intrigued by Paul's lack of fear, descended the stairs slowly. "You're either brave or stupid."
Paul smirked. "In Hell's Kitchen, you need both."
Vladimir stopped, eyes narrowing. "You're trying to get me to come closer."
Paul shrugged. "I just want a fair conversation."
But Vladimir was sharp. The way Paul had avoided the search, the way he stood something was off.
His expression darkened. "Wait… Shit! He's got a bomb!"
The room erupted into chaos.
Mafia goons tackled Paul to the ground, pinning him with brutal efficiency.
Paul struggled, gasping for breath.
From the Mercedes-Benz, Jason's eyes gleamed coldly as he pressed the detonator.
BOOM!
A fireball tore through the night sky, the explosion so massive it rattled Hell's Kitchen like a Kingpin turf war. The shockwave shattered nearby windows, sent car alarms wailing, and turned the warehouse into a roaring inferno.
Even from a hundred meters away, Jason felt the searing heat on his face.
He stepped out of the car, watching the towering flames consume the building. His lips curled into a grin.
"Surprise, motherfucker."
---
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATIONS]
Karma Mission Completed. +500 Villain Points.
Current Progress: 1515/3000.
Killed 21 Mafia Members. +2100 Villain Points.
Current Progress: 3615/3000.
Congratulations! Level Up to LV.4. +10 Attribute Points.
Current Progress: 615/4000.
---
Morgan rolled down the window. "Jason, about that payment…"
Jason drew a Glock 20 from his waistband. "Relax. I'm about to collect."
He checked the system prompt again. 21 confirmed kills. That meant three survivors.
Time to finish the job.
Gun in hand, Jason sprinted toward the burning warehouse.
Outside, a mafia thug who had stepped away to take a leak stared in horror.
He had left for two minutes now the entire base was a crater.
"Wh-what the fuck…?"
Jason didn't give him time to process.
BANG! BANG!
Two precise shots one to the chest, one to the head. The thug collapsed.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
Killed 1 Mafia Member. +100 Villain Points.
Current Progress: 715/4000.
Jason's gaze flicked toward the smoldering ruins. Rushing in now was suicide anyone left inside would be cooked by the heat.
Cough cough…
His ears pricked up. Someone was alive.
Quickly, he ducked into cover.
A moment later, two figures staggered from the blaze, one man supporting the other. Their suits were tattered, faces covered in soot.
One of them clutched a blue duffel bag.
Jason's eyes locked onto the bag.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Three shots, clean and precise.
"AHHH!"
Both men collapsed, clutching their bullet-riddled legs.
Jason smirked, stepping closer. "Let's see what we've got here…"
---