My Marvel Reincarnation Came with a Torture Bonus

Val stepped out of the mercenary bar, slipping into the dimly lit alley outside.

He turned the sleek black card over in his hand, reading its inscription once more:

{Kill Russian Ross mobster Iwan Kharastov – $1,000}

It was one of the lower-risk black card contracts—The kind of job you'd take when you were just dipping your toes into the whole "murder-for-hire" business.

Not that Val wouldn't have preferred a higher-paying job, but black card assignments required a 10% deposit upfront before the broker would approve them. And Val? He was flat broke.

Fortunately, Weasel had begrudgingly covered the deposit for him. Though, judging by the way Weasel had handed over the money while muttering about "bad investments," Val suspected interest rates would be involved.

Along with the job, Weasel had provided some intel on the target, including a list of bars and locations Kharastov was known to frequent. The problem? All of them were far from here.

To make things worse, Val wasn't familiar with this part of town. He didn't even know which direction to start walking.

Under normal circumstances, the smart thing to do would be to take a taxi. But his current situation was not under any normal circumstances—mainly because Val's net worth was currently zero dollars and zero cents.

So, unless he planned on robbing a taxi driver (which, let's be real, seemed counterproductive to his whole "fighting crime" thing), he was going to have to figure something else out.

"Hey, you there. You pretty face."

Before Val could even walk out of the alley, two young men suddenly blocked his way. One of them—a grinning thug with two gleaming gold front teeth—flashed a predatory smile. "Hand over your money and phone..."

However, before Gold Tooth could even finish his sentence, Val sent a swift, no-mercy kick straight between his legs.

For a moment, time seemed to freeze.

Gold Tooth's eyes bulged so far out of his skull, Val briefly wondered if they were going to pop out Looney Tunes style. Then, like a puppet whose strings had been cut, the guy collapsed onto his knees, hands clutching his precious jewels as a soft, pitiful whimper escaped his throat.

His friend, a guy with long braids, just stood frozen, mouth slightly open.

Sure, they had people resisting them before—some tried to run, some even fought back. But this? This was a man who skipped the whole hesitation phase and went straight for a kill shot.

Sensing what could happen next, the man with braids hurriedly covered his crotch area with his hands.

He was ready to defend his vital part but, in the process, he forgot to defend his even more vital part, his face.

Val without any ceremony punched the man's face and knocked him down.

Val then stretched out his hand to loot the man with braid who was down. He took out a Glock 17 from his waist.

"No hate but, as expected of Free America, a 100% weapon drop rate."

Val sighed and then pointed the Glock at the man with braids.

Facing the long black muzzle of the gun, without saying a word, Braids raised his hands and put them on the back of his head decisively. He then laid down on the ground, expressing that he did not wish to resist at all.

The movements were so smooth that even Val wondered if he had rehearsed in advance.

The man sensing a tiny chance of survival, forced a nervous chuckle. "Uh... buddy, this might be a misunderstanding. We were just joking with you."

"Oh, it's okay, I like to joke too. My bed mate is expert at that." Val's grin widened as he flicked the Glock's safety off with a click.

He pressed the muzzle to Braid's forehead, his smile almost too friendly.

"Now... Tell me. What's the worst thing you've done?"

Braid Guy's face was puzzled. "The hell kinda question is that?"

Val rolled his eyes. "C'mon, buddy—answer quickly, or I pull the trigger."

Under the gentle persuasion of potential death, Braids quickly confessed whatever came to his mind, "I—I've robbed a few people, took their money, stole some phones—"

Val squinted and glanced at his system panel. A new line of text had appeared next to his mission conditions:

[Target does not meet the conditions.]

He let out a disappointed sigh and shook his head.

"Damn. You're just mid."

Braids nearly choked on his own breath. He had spent years carving out a name for himself in these streets—only to be dismissed like an underachieving student by Val.

Braids having his pride hurt, continued unwillingly, "I don't pay after sleeping with girls in the strip clubs."

Val raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Still not bad enough."

Braids gulped. "I… peeked at my married neighbor while they were showering!"

Val smirked. "That's kinda scummy, but still not bad enough."

"It was a man."

"…Okay, that's crazy, but we're still in 'mildly shady' territory."

"I…"

At this point, Braids had become a full-blown confession machine, spilling his crimes like a contestant on America's Dumbest Criminals: Uncut Edition.

This was the kind of scenario the NYPD dreamed about—perps breaking down and singing like a canary. Yet, somehow, Val was getting it for free, and he wasn't even enjoying it.

Val glanced at the floating system panel that still refused to acknowledge these confessions as worthy. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're telling me this is it? This is the best you got?" He shook his head in disappointment. "Damn, I'm embarrassed to even tell people that you guys tried to rob me."

Braids was stunned into silence.

Val waved him off. "Forget it. I should've known unlocking achievements wouldn't be this easy." He shook his head and, with a dramatic sigh, reached for another Glock 17 tucked into the waistband of the other unconscious guy. Then, pointing it at them casually, he said, "Alright, enough small talk. Empty your pockets. All valuables. And don't try any funny business."

Braids and his companion, who was still groaning on the floor like a turtle flipped on its back, didn't hesitate. They fumbled through their clothes, pulling out wallets, phones, and whatever loose cash they had.

Val, inspecting the loot, clicked his tongue. "Hate to say it, but this is disappointing. You guys are criminals—where's the drip? No watches? No chains?" He eyed the other guy's mouth and suddenly grinned. "You know what? Those two gold teeth… yeah, those too."

Braids' eyes widened in astonishment.

"Oh, and your Jordans. They look my size."

And in that moment, Braids finally understood—compared to the devil standing before him, his own misdeeds were indeed not up to the mark.