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[Paladin VS Gangster]

Just as New York boasted a rich tapestry of ethnicities, its criminal underbelly was similarly diverse—Italian mafia, Irish gangs, Chinese syndicates, Russian mob...

Most of their members were low-level immigrants, struggling for livelihood amidst the city's hustle and bustle, resorting to the most primal forms of organization to survive beyond the norms of society.

These various gangs lurked amidst the city's shadows, navigating an underground world rife with vice—alcohol, drugs, and prostitution—a stark contrast to the city's glittering facade.

Artyom Ivanov led a Russian gang, hailing from Belarus; his father had immigrated to America when Belarus became part of the Soviet Union.

Ivanov ruled over a block in New York's underworld; each nightfall, he reigned supreme.

But tonight, he was no king.

Ivanov discreetly guided a middle-aged man in a suit and mustache down his territory.

This middle-aged man was none other than Anton Vanko, the Chief Technology Officer of Stark Industries. Dressed in a trench coat and black hat, he blended seamlessly into the night.

Despite Ivanov's position as gang leader, he knew his power paled in comparison to Stark Industries' top executives.

Moreover, Ivanov saw an opportunity. He and Anton Vanko shared a common heritage. If he could assist Vanko, Ivanov believed it could elevate his influence within New York's underworld.

"...There are two targets: a Caucasian named Dufran and an Indian named Cinchrub. They reside in a hotel nearby," Anton Vanke briefed, handing Ivanov an envelope. "Detailed information is enclosed."

Ivanov opened the envelope, finding a document and a check inside. The sum on the check quickened his pulse.

"This is merely an advance," Anton Vanke remarked coolly.

Ivanov took a deep breath. "You want them dead?"

"Absolutely. More importantly, they possess a glowing blue cobblestone. They're likely to have it in a square box. Retrieve it for me, and you shall be duly rewarded," Anton Vanke paused, "and earn my gratitude."

Ivanov nodded assuredly, patting his chest. "Fear not, Mr. Vanke. Within three days, I shall deliver the goods to you!"

Anton Vanke adjusted his black fedora. "There's no need to rush; discretion is key. I'd rather not see 'Anton Vanko Linked to New York Gangs' in tomorrow's headlines."

...

Manhattan's night was painted in a drizzle.

Dufran and Cinchrub emerged from a bar, the latter slightly tipsy, burping intermittently.

"First time at a bar?" Dufran quipped, opening an umbrella.

Cinchrub nodded, opening his own umbrella. "Before joining the Paladins, I lived half-feral, battling beasts in the Indian jungle. What about you, Dufran? I hear you were once a banker."

"Yes," Dufran acknowledged, walking under neon lights with a briefcase, reluctant to delve into his past. "But that's all behind me now."

"Speaking of which, what if the Soviets attempt to seize the energy stone?" Cinchrub asked suddenly.

"We'll visit Stark Tower again," Dufran replied confidently. "Though it's a remote possibility."

"Offer a three-hundred percent profit, and capitalists would sell the rope to hang themselves. Faced with such lucrative trade-offs, even ordinary folk might choose that path, let alone someone like Anton Vanke."

Pausing, Dufran added, "Should they come knocking, we'll have another bargaining chip."

Cinchrub nodded in agreement.

As they strolled through brightly-lit New York streets, Dufran slowed, sensing something amiss.

Swiftly, he retrieved sunglasses from his coat, donning them before glancing back.

Under the sunglasses, Dufran's eyes blazed with golden light, as the Eye of Reckoning scrutinized the figures trailing them.

A smile played on his lips. "They're here."

Through the lens of Eye of Reckoning , the bustling pedestrians shed their veneers, revealing the moral complexities beneath.

While most figures bore shades of yellow, some darker or lighter, a few stood out in blood-red hues.

More strikingly, these crimson figures shadowed Dufran and Cinchrub discreetly.

Cinchrub donned his own sunglasses, activating the Eye of Reckoning. Soon, he too spotted the trailing thugs.

"You were right, Dufran!" Cinchrub exclaimed. "What's our move?"

"Guide them to a quieter locale," Dufran said calmly, then turned, resuming his walk as if nothing had occurred, heading toward a sparsely-populated area.

Not far behind, a bald man whispered to his comrade, "Boss, I think they're onto us."

"So what?" replied Artyom Ivanov. "We have twenty able bodies and guns. Should we fear two men?"

"Alright."

"Keep an eye on that Indian. He's a tall one, nearly two meters," Ivanov instructed. "Let's go, boys."

The gangsters followed Dufran from a distance, navigating the streets of New York. As the city receded into the night, the number of pedestrians dwindled.

Eventually, they arrived at a quiet, deserted alley.

"Boss, this looks like the spot. Shall we proceed?" a gang member suggested.

Ivanov surveyed their surroundings—calm, secluded, with the moon obscured and the wind picking up—a perfect location for their task.

The gang quickened their pace, closing in on Dufran and Cinchrub, who had halted fifty meters ahead.

Unexpectedly, the unexpected happened.

Dufran and Cinchrub, standing side by side, abruptly halted, turned, and removed their sunglasses.

Simultaneously, four pairs of eyes illuminated with golden radiance pierced through the sunglasses, locking onto the gangsters across the street.