My Marvel Reincarnation Came with a Torture Bonus

The two punks had nothing left to offer.

Apart from some scattered bills, the only real treasures Val walked away with were the pair of Glock 17 with some rounds of bullet, a couple of cheap phones and two freshly plucked, bloody gold teeth—which, in hindsight, might have lowered their resale value.

As for the Jordans, which may or may not have been bootleg, Val didn't waste time verifying their authenticity. He just slid them on and walked off like they were custom-fitted.

With his emergency financial crisis somewhat handled, Val didn't hang around the alley any longer. He strolled onto the main street, flagged down a taxi, and set off for one of the locations Weasel had provided.

All of this—robbing low-tier criminals, chasing leads—was in pursuit of one thing only: a carefree future where he can do anything he likes without worrying about money. But if he didn't wrap up this job quickly, he would have to sleep on the streets in the next few days.

. . . . . . . . . . .

As night fell, the city roared to life. Neon signs flickered on, streetlights bathed the roads in gold, and the skyline pulsed like a giant, glowing circuit board.

New York, the city that never sleeps, was officially clocking in for the night shift.

On the west shore of Manhattan, an old, battered taxi idled on a quiet street.

"This should be the last one on the list."

Val stepped out, stretching his legs as he muttered to himself. "Weasel's intel seemed solid, but after running all over the city, I still haven't seen a single trace of this Iwan-whatever guy."

Was it an intelligence error? or a stroke of his trademark shitty luck?

Either way, he had crisscrossed New York like an unpaid Uber driver and still hadn't found his target.

Shaking off his irritation, Val approached an aging apartment complex, following the final lead. He slipped into the building, took the elevator, and pressed the button for the designated floor.

As the elevator hummed upward, Val went over his game plan.

No noise, no mess. Just find the guy, tail him, and—when the moment is right—put a hole in his head where there are no cameras or witnesses.

If it goes according to plan, there would be nothing to connect the incident with him since he was new and didn't have any prior contact with the underworld.

The reason he was being so cautious even if it was not necessary with his immortality was that The Red Ross gang backed Iwan, and Val really didn't want them knocking on his door five minutes after pulling the trigger.

He adjusted his grip on the pair of Glock 17s, watching the floor numbers tick up.

The door chimed.

DING~~

The elevator doors slid open.

Val's confident expression gradually froze.

A group of heavily armed Russian men stood outside, each gripping a sub machine gun—Vityaz-SNs, to be precise. In the center of the formation was his target—Iwan Kharastov—clutching a silver case, his gaze immediately locking onto Val.

Val hadn't even had the chance to look for the guy properly, and now here he was—delivered straight to him like an unwanted pizza.

For a moment, nobody moved.

The Russians stared.

Val stared.

Then, as if in sync, their gazes drifted downward—to the pair of Glock 17s still sitting in Val's hands.

The tension became suffocating.

Val, ever the improviser, cleared his throat and gave them his best I swear this isn't what it looks like smile. "Sooo... if I said I was just passing by, would you believe me?"

Silence.

Then—

"GET RID OF HIM!"

It wasn't clear who yelled it, but the next thing Val knew, the Russians had their triggers pinned.

BANG BANG BANG~~

A hailstorm of bullets tore into him.

Blood splattered against the elevator walls as the force of the shots drove him backward. His limbs jerked, his body rattling against the cold metal like a malfunctioning wind-up toy.

As his back squished against the wall, Val had one fleeting thought before darkness threatened to take him:

Why is it always the wall?

Seconds later, the gunfire died down. The Russians lowered their weapons, the elevator now thick with the smell of blood and gunpowder.

Iwan clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Who the fuck was that guy? Was he sent to kill me? " He scowled. "Or... do the other gangs know about our deal tonight?"

One of the men shook his head. "Doesn't seem like it. No backup. No sign of coordination."

Iwan scoffed, stepping into the elevator, barely giving Val's bullet-riddled corpse a second glance. "Then he was either desperate or a fool. Whatever. Not our problem anymore. Let's finish this job before Vladimir starts asking questions."

With that, he stepped into the elevator, paying no more attention to the bloodied body slumped against the wall.

He took the elevator to the ground floor of the apartment building and didn't notice that Val, who was supposed to be lying dead behind him, suddenly opened his eyes and stood up trembling.

Val's arms that were holding the Glocks tightly rose slowly, his aim steady, and before the guys in the elevator even knew what was happening—BANG! BANG! BANG!

Gunshots rang and five people fell to the ground. It was almost too easy. Val's attack being a surprise attack from behind, combined with the small distance between everyone made it easy for Val's shots to be perfect.

Only Iwan was left standing, his face looking like he just saw a ghost. Which, technically, he did.

Val exhaled as the 9x19mm Parabellum caliber bullets lodged inside him were forced out, clinking against the floor. His wounds sealed themselves shut, his body restoring itself as if nothing had happened.

He pressed a hand against his chest, grimacing. "Immortality should really come with pain resistance, This hurts like a bitch." he grumbled. The burning sensation of regenerating tissue still lingered, no matter how fast the process was. "At least my healing speed is better than Wade's or Wolverine's. I think."

Then, as if on cue, a system notification popped up.

[Unlock condition: Kill fifteen Certified criminals (1/15)]

"What the?" Val had question marks all over his face.

He had just taken down five gang members—why was only one counted?

After a moment of thought, he arrived at a single conclusion: the system had strict criteria. Not every gangster qualified as a "bona fide" criminal.

Apparently, out of the five dead gangsters, only one counted as a "bona fide criminal." The rest? Just… casual criminals? Discount criminals? Meesho-brand criminals?

His eyes shifted to Iwan.

[Target does not meet the conditions]

Val's doubts were resolved but his mood got more complicated.

For the record, Iwan in front of him wasn't anything like the two men before whose major crimes were robbery and peeking at male neighbors.

This was the same Iwan who had a rap sheet longer than a CVS receipt—illegal weapons, murder, arson, trafficking Drugs, any one of them could easily beat the record of the two gangsters from before. And yet, somehow, the system deemed him not worthy enough to be a certified criminal?

And more importantly… who among the five he just killed was vile enough to count?

Val let out a long sigh. This job was going to be a lot harder than he thought.