Chapter 402: The Dog-Loving, Money-Flinging Gold-Ranked Hitman
At this moment, inside Allen's private room at Arkham Asylum—
In an instant, Allen vanished into thin air.
However, the broadcast on the TV screen continued as if nothing had happened.
…
On this day, grief permeated the entire city.
Not long ago, humanity faced an unprecedented catastrophe. The heroes had sacrificed dearly to fend off the invaders and protect the world.
Among the fallen were many well-known superheroes.
To honor those who had perished, this day was declared the "Fallen Heroes Memorial Day."
Even the villains, for once, reached a consensus—not to cause any trouble on this solemn occasion.
"Stop right there!"
Two chubby white cops were huffing along as they chased a young man in a hospital gown.
That young man was, without a doubt, Allen.
He had just traveled to this world and, by sheer misfortune, materialized right in front of two donut-munching patrol officers.
Ordinarily, the officers wouldn't bother with what looked like just another mental case.
The problem was—just before the dimensional shift, Allen had his pants down around his knees while watching TV. And after crossing over, he forgot to pull them back up.
In broad daylight, someone casually airing his privates in public? That was an indecent exposure charge waiting to happen.
What made it worse was the small ring—like a finger ring—on that particular part of his anatomy. It was truly an eyesore.
So, in the name of justice, the brave American police launched into action to crack down on this deviant behavior.
Thus began the chase.
Allen ran with his ten fingers pressed together, upper body leaning back, arms swinging wildly. His gait was anything but normal.
While most people lean forward when running, Allen did the exact opposite.
After a few hundred meters, the overweight cops were already panting, scanning their surroundings in a daze at a subway corner.
"Where'd he go?"
"He was just right here!"
After a quick scan, they randomly picked a direction and continued the pursuit.
In one shadowy corner of the subway sat a pile of survival junk. A Black homeless man watched the officers leave, then patted a nearby tent and called out, "They're gone."
Allen unzipped the tent and poked his head out. "Thanks, Beggar Sect Leader," he said gratefully.
He was just about to crawl out.
"Hold on," the homeless man said, shaking a tin can. The coins inside clinked noisily.
"Aw, how could I…" Allen bashfully reached into the tin, his expression not even remotely apologetic.
The homeless man quickly pulled the can back with a scowl. "I meant you give me money."
Uh…
Allen turned out his empty pockets, a bitter smile on his face. "How about I beg for some and bring it back to you?"
"No cash? Then scram." The homeless man waved him off impatiently.
Just then, heavy footsteps echoed in the subway tunnel.
They looked up to see the same two cops frantically rushing back.
Seeing this, Allen zipped up the tent again and hid.
"HQ, requesting backup. Gunfire reported at Line 13 subway platform."
"To all units patrolling Brooklyn: avoid the following incident zone…"
The walkie-talkie broadcasted an evacuation order.
That made things interesting.
Hearing the call, the two officers cursed and quickly fled the scene, instantly recognizing it as a turf war between major underground groups.
After these battles, someone always came in afterward to wipe everything clean, like nothing had happened.
No way they were risking their lives for a $2,000 paycheck.
Not long after, a man in a business suit with shoulder-length hair staggered up to the homeless man's camp.
"Sorry…"
Clink!
Before the man could even finish, he dropped a gleaming gold coin into the homeless man's tin.
The homeless man froze for a moment, stunned—then his attitude changed immediately.
"Don't hide in that," he warned, stopping the suited man just as he was about to duck into the tent. Instead, he lifted a pile of filthy old clothes beside him and motioned with his eyes for him to crawl under there.
After a brief hesitation, the long-haired man grimaced at the moldy stench and dove in.
Less than a minute later, a group of cold-faced assassins arrived, guns drawn.
They boldly advanced and locked eyes with the homeless man.
"Have you seen John?" the leader asked coldly.
The homeless man was completely unfazed. He gave his tin a little shake—though the gold coin had already been well hidden—and replied in a raspy, calm voice, "Follow the rules."
The killers clearly held some fear toward the man. They didn't dare to get aggressive. But since they didn't have a gold coin to offer, the leader simply signaled his men: The target is in the tent.
This was a large hitman syndicate with a strict code: if you want another assassin's cooperation, you must pay them with at least one gold coin.
These coins weren't just symbolic. Each one could be exchanged for a million dollars. They were the syndicate's hard currency.
The assassins approached the tent, guns raised and ready to fire at a moment's notice.
"Ugh, it reeks!"
Suddenly, Allen burst out of the tent gasping for air, shouting, "Boss, when was the last time you showered?! The smell in there is like aged vinegar—sour and putrid. I swear I'll never eat dumplings again in my life."
"…"
The assassins stared dumbfounded at the strange young man before them.
The tent was wide open. The person they were looking for clearly wasn't inside.
"Move out!" barked the leader.
With no target in sight, they didn't waste time and continued their pursuit in another direction.
"Who were those guys?" Allen asked, watching their backs disappear. "That scene looked like something out of a movie…"
The homeless man ignored the crazy guy and instead pulled the injured John from under the pile of clothes.
John clutched his gunshot wound, face pale and weak.
"Constantine?!"
Allen clearly mistook him at first. But after a second look, he realized the truth. "Oh, it's you! The dog-loving guy from John Wick! The hitman who throws money around!"
Hearing that, the homeless man frowned slightly. "You're an assassin?"
"That was decades ago," Allen said, flipping his hair smugly. "I was once a trainee with the League of Assassins."
"…"
League of what now?
Never heard of it.
In New York, only the local Assassin's Council held real sway. An international group like the so-called League of Assassins? Totally irrelevant here.
"Take me to the Continental," John said faintly.
"Got it."
John pulled out another gold coin. Allen instantly snatched it, then slung the injured man onto his back without giving the homeless man a chance to object.
"…"
The homeless man silently watched them head off in the wrong direction.
"Hang in there, John! Think of your dog!"
Allen jogged effortlessly despite carrying a grown man. When John tried to speak up and point out the wrong direction, the jostling sent waves of pain through his wound, leaving him grimacing in silence.
"Sorry, your dog's dead. But hey, your wife's waiting for you—ah, right… she's dead too."
"…"
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