My Marvel Reincarnation Came with a Torture Bonus

As the Russian boss and the head of the warehouse studied Val, they came to a chilling realization.

This wasn't just a man willing to die—he was the kind of lunatic who found amusement in the chaos of it.

Trained suicide bombers, no matter how extreme, had a mission. Their actions followed logic, however twisted. That made them predictable. Containable.

But this guy? He'd go boom just because he felt like it.

Val had strapped himself with a bomb that he couldn't even control and walked into a warehouse full of armed men, completely indifferent to the consequences.

This kind of madness was far more dangerous than ideology. It was erratic. Unstoppable.

Neither of them dared to move recklessly. They weren't just trying to survive anymore. They were trying to avoid spooking the crazy guy with the trigger-happy explosives vest.

After a long, tense silence, the Russian boss finally cleared his throat and carefully asked.

"Now that we're sitting and talking… may I ask what business brings you here?"

Val shrugged as if the entire situation was nothing more than a casual misunderstanding.

"Oh, nothing in particular. I was just taking a walk and happened to pass by. Got curious about the warehouse, so I figured I'd check it out."

The Russian boss and the warehouse head exchanged disbelieving glances.

A stroll?

Who the hell just wanders into a warehouse full of armed men—with a bomb strapped to their chest—out of curiosity?

Val ignored their expressions and gestured toward the gang members surrounding him.

"Don't mind me. Just go about your business. Pretend I'm not here. Once you're done, I'll be on my way."

The tension in the room didn't ease. No one moved.

Then, a younger Russian gangster, still sweating bullets, hesitantly muttered, "But… the deal was over a long time ago."

Val's expression didn't change. He simply crossed his legs, tapped his fingers on the table, and replied smoothly,

"Then let's trade again." His voice carried an air of quiet authority, as if he were now in charge. "You'll inspect the goods. You'll count the money. Double-check everything. I mean, we wouldn't want any mistakes, right?"

His fingers tapped idly on the table before he added, almost as an afterthought—

"Because if there are any issues… well, let's just say I will be handling the refunds personally."

Silence.

No one needed further clarification. This was no longer their operation. It was his.

The two warehouse workers assigned to inspect the goods exchanged nervous glances, while the Ross gang's money counters hesitated, looking to their leader for guidance.

Val had said he would leave once they were finished, but no one was willing to take his words at face value.

After a long silence, the Russian boss finally gave a stiff nod. "Count the money."

Across from him, the warehouse head took a deep breath and did the same. "Inspect the goods."

No one dared disobey.

The room was thick with tension, every man hyper-aware of the lunatic at the center of it all—the lunatic wearing a bomb.

Still, they were professionals. They tried their best to go through the motions of a normal exchange.

Unfortunately for them, Val wasn't planning to to act sane.

His eyes flickered over their work, studying every detail with unsettling precision. Then, out of nowhere, he jabbed a finger at one of the warehouse workers and exploded—

"Ah-ha! I knew it! You, my friend, are the worst liar I've ever seen! The way you inspected that bag? Suspicious. The way you looked at your buddy? Suspicious. Breathing too? Extremely suspicious."

The accused worker stiffened, sweat dripping down his face.

Val slammed a hand on the table. "I'll bet my bomb on it—you're an undercover agent! And you know what happens to spies, don't you?"

The red light on his chest started blinking faster.

The gangsters didn't even hesitate.

Goods were thrown, cash abandoned, and bodies hit the floor in pure terror.

"Boss, please! They're just kids!" The two bosses scrambled to de-escalate, voices cracking under pressure.

But Val wasn't done. "I mean, come on! How can I trust anything counted or inspected by a guy who clearly looks like he's considering a career change?"

The warehouse boss hesitated—then, with no other options, whipped around and clocked the accused worker in the jaw.

The poor guy barely had time to yelp before another punch sent him sprawling.

The warehouse boss dusted off his hands and turned to Val, completely serious.

"You were right. He was an undercover agent."

A tense pause.

Then, nodding as if this all made perfect sense, he added:

"Now that the matter is settled… shall we continue?"

Val tilted his head, considering. Then, he grinned and gave a slow, approving thumbs-up.

The beeping slowed.

With the lesson seared into their minds, the subordinates no longer dared to slack off.

At least on the surface, they inspected every bill and every package with exaggerated diligence. Every so often, one of them would mutter, "The goods are intact," or "The money is accounted for," or, strangely, "I want to eat pork,"—as if reinforcing their sincerity would keep Val from questioning them again.

Val, meanwhile, had returned to his seat, his mood eerily casual. He picked up a deck of worn poker cards from the metal table, shuffling them idly.

"Since they're busy, why don't we play a game?" he suggested, tilting his head slightly. "Three-card game. Simple rules. Fast rounds. Keeps the mind sharp."

The Russian boss and the warehouse leader exchanged looks. Was this lunatic seriously suggesting a casual game of cards right now?

But Val had not asked.

With forced smiles, they nodded, quickly picking up the rules. Then, Val casually raised the stakes.

"$1,000 per round. Nothing too crazy. Just enough to keep things interesting."

Neither the Russian boss nor the warehouse leader wanted to play, but under Val's gaze, refusal wasn't an option.

The first round. Val won.

The second round. Val won again.

Silently, they handed over the money, though neither of them was focused on the game. Their attention remained on their subordinates, anxiously waiting for them to finish their work.

Then, finally, a shift. The workers straightened up, subtly glancing at their bosses.

The Russian boss caught on first. His dull expression suddenly lit up. "Look! The inspection is done!"

The warehouse leader immediately followed. "Yes! Everything's in order!"

They turned to Val, expectant.

Val didn't look up. He continued counting his winnings, stacking the crisp bills with careful precision. "Oh?" he murmured. "And the deal?"

"Yes! It's finished!" the Russian boss confirmed quickly. "We're all very satisfied. No problems at all. Fantastic deal."

The warehouse leader nodded frantically. "Really smooth transaction. No complaints. Best deal ever."

A beat of silence. Then, cautiously, the Russian boss tried, "So… since the deal is done, I suppose you'll be leaving now? Or, um… if you prefer, we can leave instead?"

The warehouse leader shot him a glare. You're trying to dump this lunatic on me?!

Val finally looked up, tilting his head thoughtfully.

"That's true," he admitted. Then, his lips curled into a faint smile. "But our card game has just started."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

"We can't be disturbed by such trivial things," Val continued. "Let them inspect the goods again. Make another deal. No one leaves until you've won at least 20 rounds."

The two men stared at him, their stomachs sinking.

This night wasn't ending anytime soon.

. . . . . . . . . . .