Tony Stark had never considered himself easily swayed by others' opinions.
Yet Jason's words had struck a chord deep within him. He'd originally planned a romantic evening with the twin Penthouse cover models, but suddenly found himself completely disinterested in the prospect.
He stared at Jason intently. "You want me to join you?"
Jason regarded him silently for a long moment before his lips curved into a subtle smile. "I'm sorry, but we're not currently recruiting unqualified personnel. However, we can accept your contribution in another form."
The phrase "unqualified personnel" sparked a flicker of anger in Stark's eyes, but curiosity quickly overshadowed his indignation. "What form?"
"Money," Jason replied simply. "Lots of money."
Stark gritted his teeth. How could I—the most brilliant mind on the planet—be worth less than mere cash? The thought was profoundly irritating.
With a theatrical display of offense, he raised his middle finger at Jason and turned to leave. "What a dump. Did you honestly think I'd want to join you here? I make several million dollars per minute. Playing superhero with you guys? Can you even afford me?"
Jason remained completely unfazed by the outburst as he escorted Stark to the door. "When you truly understand what I've said today, Stark, you'll become the hero you're meant to be."
His only response was the roar of a sports car engine and another raised middle finger as Stark sped away.
Jason shrugged as he watched Stark's departure. The guy's about to head to Afghanistan, where his life will change forever. How could I possibly alter that trajectory now?
Besides, without the months of brutal captivity in that cave, would the Iron Man born from Stark's brilliance and desperation still be the same hero the world needed?
A sudden thought occurred to Jason—he needed to find an opportunity to pass the "Iron Man" name to Stark. That way, Jason would be the first Iron Man, and Stark merely the second generation.
Better yet, I could make the wealthy Stark buy the name from me. If he refuses, I'll convince Jameson at the Daily Bugle to call him "The Human Can" on national television!
The vampire community had fallen into unprecedented chaos.
After several days of continuous media coverage, tens of millions of Americans took to the streets in protest. The entire country teetered on the edge of paralysis until the President finally addressed the situation.
He declared all vampires illegal within United States territory and established a specialized agency: the Vampire Removal Unit. The White House released the official "Vampire Hunting Manual" and began equipping police departments nationwide with anti-vampire weaponry.
These measures triggered a wave of vampire hunting across America. Much like Indian scalps had once been exchanged for government bounties in America's darker past, vampire fangs became valuable currency on the black market.
Vampire hunting evolved into the trendiest recreational activity among certain youth demographics.
Under these circumstances, vampires with obvious weaknesses suffered devastating losses. Those who survived retreated deeper into the shadows.
Jason and David monitored the situation closely, satisfied with the results. Public attention had been effectively diverted from "Hell's Butcher," allowing Jason to prioritize his revenge against the Hell's Kitchen gangs.
It was during this period that an unexpected visitor arrived at the church—Wesley Gibson, the man whose life had been crushed by misfortune and mediocrity.
His eyes reflected profound confusion as he entered, hands clasped tightly together as if protecting something precious. Upon reaching Hopewell Sanctuary, he sat silently on a bench, unresponsive until Jason approached him.
Jason frowned with concern. "Wesley, what's wrong?"
Wesley had visited several times since their first meeting, with Jason providing heartfelt guidance and encouragement on each occasion. To Wesley, who had been mercilessly battered by life's cruelties, Jason had become nothing less than a spiritual mentor.
Wesley extended his clasped hands toward Jason and slowly opened them, revealing two flies with their wings torn off. They writhed feebly, nearly dead from his tight grip during the journey.
"Father, the change you predicted has already happened. You couldn't possibly imagine what I've discovered!" Wesley's voice trembled with excitement. "I... I shot the wings off flies!"
Jason paused, recognizing that the predicted storyline was unfolding. The Fraternity—a secret society of assassins—received targets through coded messages in fabric woven by a mystical loom. These names represented individuals destined to commit terrible acts, allowing the Fraternity to maintain world order through preemptive elimination.
But the current Fraternity leader, Sloan, had fallen from grace, consumed by greed for money and power. He had begun exploiting the organization's elite killers for personal profit.
Wesley's father, Cross, had discovered this corruption, prompting Sloan to silence him. When Cross proved too formidable to eliminate directly, Sloan's attention turned to Wesley himself. His plan: train Wesley and manipulate him into killing his own father.
Jason placed a reassuring hand on Wesley's shoulder. "Did you meet some interesting people today?"
"Yes, there was a big boss, a beautiful woman, and... others."
"What did you think of them?"
Wesley's excitement calmed slightly. He raised his head with newfound determination. "My life is complete shit. They're offering me something different—I want to try it."
Jason shrugged casually. "Then go ahead and try."
Wesley fell silent, confused by Jason's easy acquiescence. In their previous conversations, Jason had repeatedly cautioned against making hasty decisions. Why wasn't he trying to dissuade him now?
Jason smiled knowingly. "I'm encouraging you to learn from them. They'll train you to become an elite assassin. But when they assign you a mission, come see me first—especially when they ask you to avenge your father's death."
Wesley's eyes widened with shock. "Avenge my father's death? What do you mean?"
Jason shook his head solemnly, gesturing toward the crucifix behind him. "Destiny cannot be predicted with certainty, but God has revealed the path to salvation. When you return here next, everything will become clear to you."
Jason's campaign of vengeance had officially begun.
His recent investigations had identified six major criminal organizations responsible for issuing the bounty on Hell's Butcher: the Russian Mafia, Algerian Mafia, Gambino Family, Irish Mob, Kingpin, and the shadowy ninja clan known as The Hand.
That night, with David's technical assistance, Jason infiltrated a luxurious estate in New Jersey, situated near the Hudson River directly across from Manhattan. In stark contrast to Manhattan's dazzling lights and ostentatious displays of wealth, this neighborhood maintained a deliberately low profile.
This was the domain of the Gambino Family—a powerful Mafia organization that had contributed $800,000 to the bounty on Hell's Butcher, along with over a dozen gunmen. Their primary enterprise involved arms trafficking; they had supplied the RPG that nearly killed Jason during that fateful confrontation.
As Jason penetrated the estate's defenses, he moved with lethal precision and supernatural speed. Each guard fell before they could even register his presence, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake.
When he reached the main building, the lights remained dimmed. However, his infrared vision easily penetrated the walls, revealing several armed figures concealed behind the structure's various partitions.
Jason replaced his standard sidearm with a custom weapon specially modified by Whistler. Though classified as a handgun, it more closely resembled a compact cannon—featuring single-shot loading, a 20mm caliber, double-charge capacity, and specialized spiral armor-piercing rounds. The recoil would shatter an ordinary person's wrist.
Jason had named it "The Executioner."
BOOM!
The first round tore through the concrete wall as if it were paper, obliterating the head of the figure hiding behind it.
Nine shots later, the Gambino Family had been erased from existence.
The few servants cowering in the staff quarters heard only muffled gunfire and footsteps before silence descended once more. When police later questioned them, they appeared genuinely bewildered, their knowledge of the events even more limited than the investigators'.
News of the massacre quickly reached Commissioner George Stacy, who harbored growing suspicions that Hell's Butcher had returned. But glancing at the mountain of paperwork on his desk—all related to the vampire crisis—he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and handed the file back to his subordinates.
"Handle it discreetly," he instructed.
Afterward, he returned to the vampire-related cases consuming the department's resources.
These government officials concealed the existence of vampires to protect their own interests, he thought bitterly. Now that public outrage has erupted, why are we—the police—the ones bearing the consequences?
What a farce.
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