Playboy

Bang!

Hearing the gunshot, Mike muttered irritably, "It's the middle of the day. Can't a man get some sleep?"

Without realizing anything was off about that, he turned over and wrapped his arms around the soft body beside him.

"Mike! Mike!"

Jennifer shook Mike's shoulder hard, looking a little panicked.

"Who is it?"

A delicate yet unfamiliar face.

Mike froze for a moment, then flashed a charming smile and asked softly, "What's wrong, baby?"

Last night, bar, a ninety-point beauty, hitting on her, rolling in the sheets—Mike tried hard to remember, but ultimately failed to recall the beauty's name.

It didn't matter if he couldn't remember.

No panic!

As a playboy, this wasn't Mike's first time facing a situation like this.

Practice made perfect.

"Darling," "baby," "little cookie," "little strawberry"... they were all "correct answers."

Having lived two lives, Mike wielded such tricks with ease.

Of course, the key was still being handsome.

Jennifer's heart raced. Her two generous breasts pressed against Mike's chest, her waterfall of blonde hair spilling around them as she said, "There were gunshots downstairs."

"Oh, gunshots..." Mike said. "This is Hell's Kitchen. Isn't that normal?"

In the free United States, there was a gunfight every day—it wasn't just a saying.

Especially in Hell's Kitchen, known as the "criminals' playground," where the ammunition consumed every day could support an arms dealer's entire family.

"Forget it. I'll go take a look."

The gunshots seemed to be coming from directly downstairs, where there was a small supermarket—Mike's, specializing in Chinese groceries.

He went downstairs.

The supermarket's glass door stood open, but Mike didn't see anyone.

A few seconds later, Old Earl came in from outside, furious, carrying a loaded Remington shotgun.

Old Earl was the supermarket's only employee, an elderly Black man with graying hair.

"A robbery?" Mike frowned.

"No. It was a few Foot Gang bastards. When I saw them, I couldn't hold myself back..."

Once his anger subsided, Old Earl felt uneasy and ashamed.

Clearly, what he had done had brought trouble to Mike.

"The Foot Gang? The ones who've been making quite a name for themselves lately?" Mike asked.

"Yes." Old Earl nodded.

"Fine. Tell me why you fired." Mike lit a cigarette. "Old Earl, I'm not afraid of trouble, but I don't like trouble that comes out of nowhere. If you can't convince me, I'm afraid I can't keep you on. You understand, right?"

You had a story, and he had cigarettes.

"I understand." Old Earl began slowly. "There's a father and daughter in my neighborhood. The father, Benjamin, was a damned junkie and drug dealer. The daughter's name is Chloe. She was practically a little angel sent down to earth."

"Benjamin helped the Foot Gang distribute drugs, but he stole their goods. He overdosed and died, leaving behind only his daughter Chloe. The Foot Gang took Chloe away. Chloe was so young, so smart, so well-behaved..."

As he spoke, Old Earl choked up.

Mike fell silent.

A gang like the Foot Gang had no humanity. No matter what happened to her, Chloe would undoubtedly suffer terribly.

Old Earl took a small packet from his pocket, peeled away layers upon layers of waterproof wrapping, and revealed a stack of colorful old bills.

He placed the money on the table and pushed it toward Mike.

Old Earl had worked at the supermarket for nearly a year, yet no one had ever demanded protection money, aside from a few thefts and robberies at the beginning. The next day, the bosses of the thieves and robbers had personally come to apologize and compensate for the losses, as meek as harmless rabbits.

"Is this really Hell's Kitchen? What's with everyone? Trying to win an award for the most civilized neighborhood?" Old Earl had been dumbfounded.

"Everyone's actually pretty reasonable." Mike smiled.

That was quite the claim... If those bosses hadn't been in casts, on crutches, and bruised black and blue, Old Earl might have believed him.

From that point on, Old Earl knew the supermarket was merely a front, and that his boss was no ordinary man.

"Boss, please save Chloe. I'm begging you. She's still a child. This is my savings, all of it. I know it isn't enough, but..." Old Earl pleaded through tears.

The bills looked like a lot, but they were all small denominations. Despite the thick stack, it didn't add up to more than three thousand US dollars.

"You've been saving this money for a long time, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Is it worth it?"

"It is!"

Old Earl did not waver in the slightest. A white ball of light floated above his head.

At that moment, lines of text appeared in Mike's mind—

[Old Earl's Commission: Save the orphaned girl Chloe]

[Commission Fee: 20,000 US dollars (the system takes a 90% cut after expenses)]

[Mission Description: Rescue the orphaned girl Chloe from the Foot Gang and deliver her to Old Earl.]

After the system took its cut, Mike would receive, at most, two thousand dollars.

In other words, he would lose money on this job.

Mike sighed. "Fine. I'll take it."

As soon as he finished speaking, the glowing white ball drifted before Mike and sank into his brow.

System Notification: [Soul Energy +1]

At this point, there was no need to pretend anymore. Time to lay his cards on the table!

Mike was a transmigrator. He had been reborn twenty-two years ago, and when he discovered that he was in the Marvel universe, he had been completely stunned.

Since I'm here, I might as well make the best of it. The worst that can happen is getting snapped out of existence.

Mike obediently followed the usual path through school, until he received his admission letter from Princeton University and his cheat ability arrived without warning.

On the surface, the cheat ability was the Mercenary System. In reality, it was [Fantasy Manifestation].

Ten portions of [Soul Energy] could be combined into one [Soul Fruit].

In addition, Soul Energy could strengthen the body.

At present, Mike's physical abilities were no weaker than Captain America's after receiving the Super-Soldier Serum.

"Boss, Boss..." Seeing Mike spacing out, Old Earl said, "Is this commission difficult?"

"Oh, no."

Mike came back to himself and said, "I was just thinking about something. By the way, do we need to sign a contract or issue a receipt?"

Old Earl repeatedly waved his hands. "No, no."

Mike added, "And let me make this clear beforehand: whether the commission succeeds or fails, the commission fee is nonrefundable."

Old Earl said, "Rules are rules. I understand... I trust you, Boss."

Mike took out an encrypted phone. Without avoiding Old Earl, he dialed the number labeled [Fat Jerry].

The call connected.

"Mike, it's been so long since you contacted me. I thought you'd forgotten about Fat Jerry. I'm so heartbroken."

A greasy voice came from the phone.

Mike said, "Speak normally."

Jerry said, "You're still the same as ever. I..."

Mike hung up expressionlessly.

A few seconds later.

The phone rang. Mike answered it, and Fat Jerry's helpless voice came through. "All right, all right. Tell me, who's about to have a bad day?"

"Do you know the Foot Gang?"

"Yeah. They've been jumping around a lot lately. It'd be impossible not to know them."

"The usual. Send the intel and the price to my email."

"Sure. As for the price, I'll give you five percent off." Fat Jerry looked pained.

"Heh, a discount? Now there's something I never thought I'd see." Mike sneered.

"Those scum have no bottom line. Sending them to Hell would be letting them off too easy!" Fat Jerry said indignantly.

For the Foot Gang to earn a discount from Fat Jerry, who was known as "Grandet Reborn," they definitely deserved to die.

After hanging up, Mike explained, "Fat Jerry is an intelligence broker. He's greedy, but his reputation has always been excellent."

After reassuring Old Earl, Mike went upstairs.

Jennifer lay on her side, the silk blanket having slipped aside to reveal her astonishing curves.

Mike swallowed and, with tremendous willpower, looked away. He turned on his computer and opened his email.

Fat Jerry was as efficient as ever. The intel had arrived.

After carefully reading it, Mike gained a basic understanding of the Foot Gang. It could be summed up in two words: animals. No wonder even Fat Jerry couldn't stand them.

The Foot Gang had originally been just a minor gang, obscure in Hell's Kitchen, until they connected with the Irish Crime Syndicate.

"Maggia?"

An image of an Irishman surfaced in Mike's mind: dreadlocks, gold-capped teeth, and a frivolous, crazed smile.

The Irish had considerable influence in Hell's Kitchen, on par with criminal syndicates from Italy, Russia, South Slav, Mexico, Japan, China, Vietnam, and the United States itself.

Tsk, tsk. Just one borough of Manhattan had gathered infamous criminal syndicates from all over the world.

Mike spared a second of sympathy for Hell's Kitchen's residents.