CH-13: A Regretted Decision

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"God damn it."

I muttered, crumpling the newspaper and tossing it into the trash.

It had only been two days since I left the Parkers and missing posters of me were already plastered around Queens and making their way onto the front pages.

Part of me wanted to give Ben a call and tell him not to waste his hard-earned money on those posters but the logical and paranoid side suggested letting events unfold naturally would make it look more convincing.

Shaking my head, I walked back toward the creaky bed and picked up the stack of twelve thousand dollars lying on top of it.

Over the past couple of days, I had been following the same routine, venturing out after sunset and taking down a few dealers.

I hadn't even reached double digits in my kill count yet, although most of them, aside from that Jule guy, had thousands of dollars in their pockets.

During this something piqued my interest, the recurring mention of 'The Bar'.

Every dealer seemed to bring it up right before I detached their heads.

My curiosity got the better of me and last night I probed one of the dealers about The Bar.

It turned out 'The Bar' was an abbreviation for 'The Bar with No Name'.

An establishment where the criminal underworld gathered to settle territorial disputes, secure loans for their illicit businesses and find shady job opportunities.

And that's exactly where I planned to pay a visit tonight.

I tucked the cash into my jacket and bounced out of the room, strutting down the stairs and out of the building.

Claire, the old lady at the front desk, couldn't care less about my existence anymore. As long as I cough up the extra cash and don't trash the room, she is cool.

I strolled through the streets, earning plenty of side-eye from the crowd thanks to my full body suit and the hoodie obscuring my face but I was getting used to the attention.

After a brisk 20-minute walk, I escaped Hell's Kitchen and found myself in front of this fancy-ass Victorian-looking joint wedged between the towering Queens and Manhattan skyscrapers.

The building had a bunch of floors, all decked out with black-tinted windows and a long line of folks waiting at the front entrance while security gave them the once-over.

But I didn't plan on using the main entrance, so I slowly walked past them and made a turn into the back alley.

Once I reached the back, I spotted four dudes guarding the back door. I sauntered over as they gave me the stink eye.

"What brings you here, pal?" One of them grunted, crossing his arms over his barrel chest.

"The Bar." I replied without missing a beat.

"I ain't seen you around before." Another guy stepped up, eyeing me suspiciously.

"Fresh meat." I shot back.

"Whatever." He grumbled, swinging the door open and gesturing toward a shorter dude in the crew. "Hey rookie, show this guy to The Bar."

The shorter fella hopped on over, giving me a look before nodding his head.

As I stepped inside, I noticed the door led me straight down to a lower level.

I let out a sigh and followed behind my escort, descending a good few floors until we reached an aesthetic basement decked out with black marble floors and a fancy chandelier dangling from above.

The place exuded an eerie yet intriguing atmosphere.

The shorter guy guided me through the dimly lit area, navigating past groups of shady characters engaged in hushed conversations.

I could feel all their eyes on me, sizing me up and questioning my presence, their minds assessing my worth, whether I was an easy prey or a tough nut.

The tension in the air was palpable but none seemed to stand up from their seat, which meant no trouble whatsoever.

I eventually reached a section of the base where the noise level increased.

Laughter, arguments and the clinking of glasses filled the air.

The rookie gestured for me to follow him further into the bustling area. I could see a long bar lined with a variety of people, their faces masked with intrigue, greed and a hint of danger.

I was sure I even saw some disfigured mutants in the crowd and they didn't seem out of place, nor did anyone seem bothered by their presence.

Tables were scattered throughout the area, with people engaged in intense discussions or counting stacks of money.

As I walked further into the room, I noticed a peculiar man seated at a secluded booth, surrounded by his entourage.

He had a certain simplicity about him, yet he commanded the attention of those around.

He was rocking a black tuxedo, clearly designer-made, with a long white cross hanging around his neck and a bow tie neatly positioned at the collar but what really caught my eye was his bald head and grayish skin.

There was something oddly familiar about his face. I swear I've seen him in one of the X-Men movies.

Man, it's been ages since I watched those films. I've forgotten half of the side characters.

While he had a refined presence, the woman he was conversing with had this punk rock vibe going on.

Her hair was wild, an eyepatch adorned the right side of her face and freckles dotted around her mouth.

The guy abruptly halted and signaled for me to approach the booth.

As I approached the booth, Caliban glanced in my direction before returning his attention to the ongoing conversation. Meanwhile, the rookie subtly retreated to one of the nearby tables.

I casually rested my hand on the table and took a seat, ensuring I left them some privacy. However, it seemed like the woman wasn't too concerned about that.

"We need the money, Caliban." She pleaded, her voice carrying a commanding tone that only amused him.

"Callisto, you know me." Caliban smiled. "I don't make losing investments, and the Morlocks are definitely one."

Callisto's eyes narrowed as she reached out and placed her hands over Caliban's.

"If you can't do it for them, do it for me." She stood up, leaning closer in an obvious attempt to seduce him.

"Woman, I keep my business and pleasure separate." He chuckled, pulling his gloved hands out of her grip and dusting them off.

"You belong with us, Cal." She growled, revealing her true colors.

"I will decide where I belong, Callisto." He smirked, before his expression turned serious. "Now get out of my bar, you've overstayed your welcome."

She gritted her teeth and banged the table, which attracted attention from the surrounding patrons.

She stomped her way out but not before letting out a swear.

"Fuck you, Cal!" She yelled one last time.

"I believe we did enough of that." He replied nonchalantly before slowly moving towards me.

"I'm sorry you had to witness that." Caliban sighed, placing a plain glass in front of me and pouring a drink.

"This one's on the house." He pushed the drink closer to me as he poured one for himself.

"I don't drink." I replied casually.

"Really?" He asked, his glass halfway to his mouth.

"Yeah." I nodded.

"Well, a guy who doesn't drink walking into this place is a rare sight." He chuckled, swiping the glass on my side and dumping its contents into his own.

"So, what can I do for you this evening, my fine gentleman?" He asked, gulping down the remains of his drink and striking a butler pose.

"Do you have any... um... contract killings?" I blurted out.

He gave me a skeptical look, narrowing his eyes as he pondered.

"You're new to this, huh?" He remarked, clearly seeing right through my lack of experience, there was a brief moment of silence. "Well, regardless, I do have some entry-level jobs available."

He carried on, seemingly unperturbed by my silence. I suppose my non-response answered his question.

He pulled out a file from under the table, spreading out photos and corresponding prices.

I reached out and flipped through the pages slowly.

The file contained images and descriptions of a few politicians, a couple of judges and high-ranking officials. It had a total of twelve pages with the highest rate set at twenty grand.

Closing the file with a sigh, I passed it back to him, earning an amused raise of his eyebrows.

"These are too low." Caliban almost scoffed at my words but stopped himself, sighing heavily.

"I can show you some high-profile targets, but you'll need to pay a ten grand advance as insurance." He tapped the book, eyeing me curiously.

"Insurance?" I asked, incredulous.

"Yeah." He nodded, stepping out from behind the bar. He moved closer, leaning against my side as I activated my mutation to read his mind.

"Let's say you decide to take the job and kill the target." Caliban began, pouring another drink.

"But due to bad luck or lack of skill, you're unable to finish the job and you die. The target would be alerted about the price on their head, leading to increased security. So, the next time someone tries to kill them, they'll have to face additional obstacles because you didn't complete your job, in that case, I'd have to increase the price, that's how insurance works, got it?"

I let out a weary sigh as I stopped reading his mind. Everything he said was true but I needed vocal confirmation to be sure he wasn't pulling my leg.

"Really?"

"Yeah." He smiled and nodded, gulping down his drink.

I shook my head, confirming once again that he was telling the truth.

"Fine." I sighed, placing the cash on the table.

"Wow, you really are loaded." Caliban whistled as he picked up the notes and began counting them.

Leaning back in my chair, I waited for him to finish. Once he did, he pulled out a sleek black file from the table, clearly designed to exude quality.

"…"

Why do I feel like a generic isekai protagonist going through quests in an adventurer's guild?

I opened the file and read the name of the target.

"Silvio Manfredi." I muttered, reading through his description.

He was a middle-aged man from an old crime family called Manfredi. Although the family was practically non-existent now, they still had some influence in Hell's Kitchen.

The file contained details about his favorite local spots and his preferred restaurant. It seemed fairly easy and the pay was a whopping 80 grand.

No reason to say no.

"Once you finish.." Caliban started again. "If you finish this job, make sure to take proof of completion. A photo will suffice."

"I don't have a phone." I added without taking my eyes off the file as I went through it carefully.

"Take this burner." He handed me a vintage-looking flip phone and I gave him a questioning look. He smiled. "Consider it a favor from one mutant to another."

Fuck. I cursed internally as my eyes widened, remembering who he was. This guy appeared in Logan, the one who can sense mutants.

I sighed standing up as I was about to leave with the file but suddenly someone placed a long cane on top of it.

My gaze shifted to the person holding the cane and Caliban did the same. He was an old man with graying white hair, sprinkled with black. He was possibly in his 60s and wore black sunglasses, even in the dimly lit bar, as if he were blind.

"I've decided to take that, young man. It's best if you drop it." The old guy said, tapping the file with his cane.

I looked at him, then shook my head.

"Can't do." I rejected, swiping the file with force.

"Come on, Stick, let the newbie take it." Caliban commented from behind me.

My eyes widened as I recognized the name. Stick, he was Daredevil's teacher in the comics, which means he really is blind, well, he certainly looks different in reality.

"Not today, Cal." He sighed, placing his cane down.

He turned toward me, his ears perking up and his face tilting low to give the impression that he was staring down at me.

"What's your name, young man?" He asked.

I took a moment to breathe. Obviously, I wasn't dumb enough to use my real name here, so I came up with a fake one.

"Venom." I replied and he let out a chuckle.

[Yeah?]

'Not you.'

Don't blame me I can't just think of a cool fake name in a situation like this.

"Venom, I hope our paths don't cross." He warned before slowly leaving the booth and climbing up the stairs.

I turned to Caliban, who simply shrugged and returned to his booth.

Once again, I sighed and looked at the file with one thought lingering about the turn of events.

"Well, fuck it."