Goodbye, Fury

Howard watched reluctantly as the check was stuffed into Deathstroke's backpack. He had no idea why Deathstroke wanted his blood in addition to his money.

But whether it was the wrist that had just been bled or the wallet that had just been bled, both hurt terribly.

Still, he was very good at comforting himself. He told himself that after Deathstroke accepted payment, his service attitude seemed to have improved a little.

Before this, every word he said had been shot down, every remark stabbed straight into his heart and tore open old wounds. This was not hiring a Mercenary—it was hiring a stand-up comedian.

"We can't get anything more from the corpse. Leave it here. I'll have someone deal with it."

Deathstroke tossed the corpse by the roadside, casually wiped the blood from the hood, and climbed into the passenger seat.

Later, he would find a public phone and call Gin, asking her to send someone to haul the corpse back to the academy for Holloway to examine. Su Ming only needed to wait for the autopsy report.

Howard got into the driver's seat and started the engine as he complained, "Why is the client driving? Aren't you the bodyguard?"

The air on the street reeked of blood. Su Ming turned his head toward the window. "Caspian Camp."

"Why are you ignoring me? Is this what improved service is supposed to look like?" Howard took a deep breath, then slowly let it out.

"Stop if we pass a public phone," Su Ming added.

"Why won't you answer my question?" Howard started the car unwillingly, and the black sports car slowly drove out of the dark street.

"..."

Deathstroke did not answer. Beneath that black-and-yellow mask, it was as though the man had already fallen asleep.

Howard put a cigar