Interesting

The Black Youth's smile widened, his big mouth splitting open to reveal his back teeth. "Great! We were planning to go to a bar, but we didn't know the time. If you can tell us, we'll take you with us and buy you a drink while we're at it."

"What a coincidence. I was just thinking about having a drink."

Russell smiled and opened the car door, silently using the 'Item Card: M9.' The moment the door opened, the Black Youth found a pistol pressed to his forehead and began backing away step by step.

The other Hoodlums saw that things had gone bad and turned to run, but before they had taken more than two steps, they heard Russell's fierce shout.

"Whoever runs the fastest gets shot first!"

The Hoodlums stopped helplessly. They looked at one another, then, with practiced ease, placed their hands against the wall and stood in a row. In America, this was a basic survival skill. Nothing surprising about it.

"Man, we didn't mean any harm. We really just wanted to ask what time it was. Could you move the gun away?" The Black Youth was on the verge of tears. Their goal had been simple: borrow the car, then sell it afterward for some spending money.

"Sorry, you may not mean any harm, but I do!" Russell's smile remained unchanged. "Empty everything in your pockets. You each get one chance. If I search you and find that you hid something, my gun might accidentally go off when I get angry."

The Hoodlums cursed their bad luck inwardly and hung their heads in resignation. One by one, they pulled loose change, knives, Driver's Licenses, and other items from their pockets. After chasing them away, Russell picked through the pile on the ground. The largest bill was twenty dollars; excluding the coins, there was a total of eighty dollars.

"Not even a credit card..."

Russell sighed, then picked up a folding knife. The unexpected bonus was an Asian man's Driver's License. Judging from the photo, he had the face of a submissive pretty boy, probably a college student who was often bullied by those Hoodlums.

Russell used the Driver's License without a shred of guilt. To Americans, Asians had extremely low facial distinguishability; they all basically looked the same. Put Dong X Damu beside the two Jay Chous who sang "Nunchaku," and they definitely would not be able to tell them apart.

Bar!

It was already eight at night. Russell had spent ten dollars on dinner at Colonel Sanders, and honestly, the meal had been so large that he could not finish it.

After settling dinner, Russell crossed two streets to reach the bar. Under the bartender's speechless gaze, he tossed down a ten-dollar tip and ordered a glass of ice water.

The music in the bar was soft. Many people gathered here with friends after work. Russell found a corner and waited for Cross to arrive.

He was not worried that Cross would fail to find him. For a top-tier assassin, locating a rookie like him should have been effortless.

Second by second, time passed. Russell drank two glasses of ice water, yet his expression remained calm. He maintained an air of composure, neither anxious nor impatient. He knew Cross had to be observing him from the shadows, so he needed to project the bearing of an expert to make their upcoming meeting easier.

These were small tricks of negotiation—simple and practical, and enough to seize the initiative with ease.

"Ring-ring~~~ Ring-ring~~~"

His phone rang. Looking at the number on the screen, Russell curled his lips into a faint, steady smile, answered the call, and held it to his ear.

Cross's voice was still low, hoarse, and magnetic. He said coldly, "Damn it. I spent two hours looking for you and couldn't find you. Where the hell did you hide?"

Russell: "..."

Twenty minutes later, the travel-worn Cross arrived at the bar using the address Russell had given him. The two grown men each held a glass of ice water, both wearing speechless expressions.

Cross: "..."

Russell: "..."

Cross looked exactly like he sounded. His unkempt stubble gave him a somewhat despondent air, and he wore a gray denim jacket that did not appear special in any way. Yet this melancholy middle-aged man was one of the world's greatest assassins. No one could escape his assassination.

Cross was deeply embarrassed. Earlier, he had confidently claimed that he would find Russell, only to locate an empty pickup truck. If Russell had not given him the bar's address, he would probably still be wandering the streets.

Cross soon cast that awkwardness aside. He was a top assassin; his face... ahem, his mental fortitude was tough enough. He put on the smile of an old friend meeting another and took the initiative to strike up a conversation with Russell.

"This should be our first official meeting. Let me introduce myself. I'm Cross. You can call me that."

"Russell!"

Cross raised an eyebrow. "Russell? That sounds like the name of a basketball player. That superstar center from the Boston Celtics."

"You mean Lord of the Rings? I thought you were going to mention that Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle!"

Cross asked in confusion, "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle... who's that?"

Russell was speechless. The world he was in was the world of the films Assassin Alliance/Wanted, and the current timeline was the early 2000s. In this world, that Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle was still just a kid who had not earned an MVP with triple-doubles. Probably nobody knew who he was.

Russell once again gave thanks for the English Mastery skill. Otherwise, with English at the "'interesting, how's it going, experience, special'" level, he would never have been able to converse so fluently with Cross.

After some awkward small talk, Cross brought the conversation to the point. "I saw your fight on the rooftop. It was impressive. Ordinary people can't do what you did... You're very talented!"

Russell took the bait. "Talented at what?"

"Talented at becoming a top assassin!"

Russell: "..."

"Aren't you wondering why bullets can curve, or why human physical abilities can become strong enough to leap between buildings?" Seeing Russell remain silent, Cross continued.

Because of the screenwriter and director!

Russell gave the answer in his heart, but put on a confused expression. "Why?"

Cross smiled lightly. The fish had taken the bait.

"It's a technique, one that develops the hidden potential within the human body. With rigorous training, you can do it too."

Russell pretended to think, frowning deeply. "It sounds easy enough, but I've never seen anyone like that before. Hmm, I've never even heard of it!"

"That's only natural. Even a genius needs ten years to make bullets curve, and twenty years to master that technique at will."

Russell spread his hands. "Twenty years... That's an exaggerated number. I definitely couldn't do it. I couldn't keep at it for that long."

Cross chuckled and revealed a meaningful smile. "No. A genius needs twenty years, but you're different. You're a natural-born assassin!"

Russell: "..."

Which eye told you I'm a natural-born assassin? Keep spouting nonsense, and see if I don't elbow you!

Cross lifted his ice water and took a sip. "On the rooftop, at your most dangerous moment, didn't you feel as if you had entered some wondrous state? Your heartbeat accelerated wildly, you could clearly perceive the flow of air, and your opponent seemed to move in slow motion before your eyes... There's no need to deny it. I saw it clearly. At the final moment, you did it."

Russell: "..."

You seem to have misunderstood something.

Cross put down his ice water and lowered his voice. "Your heart rate exceeded four hundred beats per minute, filling your bloodstream with enormous amounts of adrenaline. You can observe and react faster than ordinary people. It's an inborn talent. Only a few people in the world possess it, and they are all the greatest assassins. Do you understand now?"

Russell nodded. He roughly understood what Cross meant. Top assassins did not have blood flowing through their veins—they had adrenaline!

"If I'm not mistaken..." Cross paused here, glanced at Russell, and continued, "one of your parents must have been a top assassin. That's where your talent came from."

Russell was stunned into silence. His parents really had been killers, but unfortunately, their daily routine consisted of playing mahjong and collecting rent. They had nothing to do with being top-tier.

"Looks like I guessed right!"

No, that was all in your imagination!

Failure Diary

Great. Once this book flopped, I could move on to flopping with the next one.

A flopping author begs for support!