The next morning, Noah stood outside a six-story apartment building that looked like it had been designed by someone with strong opinions about urban decay. The paint peeled from its walls in artistic patterns, and the entire structure leaned slightly to one side as if it were tired of standing upright.
Home sweet home, Noah thought, comparing the building to the address Weasel had scrawled on a napkin. At least it's not a torture facility.
The neighborhood was what real estate agents would charitably describe as "developing character." It sat on the western edge of Manhattan, close enough to Hell's Kitchen that Noah could practically smell the organized crime wafting on the breeze. Pawn shops, check-cashing places, and businesses with names like "Tony's Totally Legitimate Import/Export" lined the streets.
Perfect, Noah decided. Close to my target demographic.
He climbed to the fourth floor and unlocked the door to his new apartment, immediately regretting his life choices as a wall of stale air hit him like a physical assault.
The interior looked like it had been decorated by someone whose understanding of home design came exclusively from crime scene photographs. A sofa that had apparently been mauled by wild animals sat in the center of the room, surrounded by carpet stains that told stories Noah didn't want to hear. Newspapers covered the windows, and a television from the Carter administration squatted in the corner like a technological artifact.
Well, Noah thought, setting down his briefcase full of criminal enhancement materials, at least the rent's reasonable.
He rolled up his sleeves and got to work.
Over the next few days, Noah established a routine that would have made efficiency experts weep with joy. He'd cleaned the apartment until it resembled actual human habitation, accepted several contracts from Weasel's ever-expanding criminal job board, and continued his research into the scientific principles of sin accumulation.
The process had become almost methodical. Find a target, isolate them from their associates, conduct several dozen "business transactions" involving the briefcase contents until they qualified as genuinely dangerous criminals, then provide them with the permanent retirement package they'd earned.
It was efficient, profitable, and had the added benefit of making New York's streets marginally safer—assuming you ignored the part where Noah was essentially manufacturing felons for the express purpose of killing them.
The greater good, Noah rationalized as he counted his latest payment. I'm just streamlining the justice system.
"Have you heard about this new freak running around the docks?"
Noah looked up from his Coke as two mercenaries at a nearby table engaged in the kind of gossip session that passed for news in Sister Margaret's.
"You mean the guy with the briefcase?" the second mercenary replied. "Yeah, I heard about him. Weird MO—he targets low-level gang members and forces them to buy his briefcase over and over again."
"Buy it with what?"
"That's the thing—he makes them pay him, then he pays them back to buy it again. Goes on for like an hour sometimes before he finally shoots them."
"What's the point of that?"
"Nobody knows. Some people think he's just a sadist who likes psychological torture. They're calling him the Box Demon."
Noah nearly choked on his drink. Box Demon? That's what they're calling me?
Weasel, who'd been eavesdropping with professional interest, turned to Noah with a knowing expression.
"So," Weasel said, "want to tell me why everyone's talking about a mysterious criminal with a briefcase who sounds suspiciously like someone I know?"
"That's a very serious accusation," Noah replied, trying to look innocent. "Do you have any evidence linking me to these alleged crimes?"
Weasel pointed at the briefcase sitting on the bar next to Noah's elbow. "You carry that thing everywhere. It's become part of your personality."
"Lots of people carry briefcases," Noah protested. "It's a common business accessory."
"The Box Demon uses a silver briefcase. Yours is black."
"Exactly. Completely different."
Weasel leaned closer and sniffed. "I can smell spray paint."
Damn, Noah thought. I should have let it dry longer.
"Alright," he admitted, "maybe I've been conducting some independent field research into criminal psychology. But I prefer to think of myself as a behavioral modification specialist, not a 'Box Demon.'"
"Behavioral modification," Weasel repeated flatly.
"I'm helping people reach their full potential," Noah explained. "Some individuals just have more criminal potential than others, and they need a little encouragement to actualize it."
Weasel stared at him with the expression of someone watching a train wreck in slow motion.
"You're manufacturing criminals so you can kill them with a clear conscience," Weasel said.
"I'm providing opportunities for career advancement in a challenging economic environment," Noah corrected. "It's very different."
"Jesus Christ, Noah. Even Wade isn't this methodically insane."
Noah checked his talent system interface, where his progress counter now read [7/15]. Half-way to his Ultimate Marksman achievement, and he'd learned valuable lessons about target selection, operational security, and the importance of proper paint drying time.
"The results speak for themselves," Noah said. "Crime rates in several neighborhoods have dropped significantly since I started my community outreach program."
"Because you've been killing all the criminals!"
"Exactly. It's a very direct approach to urban renewal."
Weasel rubbed his temples like he was developing a stress headache. "I've got some bad news for your community service project," he said. "The Russian mob has started asking questions about their missing associates and their stolen merchandise."
He nodded toward the briefcase. "They want their drugs back."
Noah considered this information with the seriousness it deserved. On one hand, having the Russian mob hunting for him was definitely a complication. On the other hand, he'd spent two months being tortured by Francis and had recently discovered that bullets were more of an inconvenience than a genuine threat.
"Let them ask questions," Noah said, patting the briefcase affectionately. "This is essential equipment for my ongoing research into criminal behavior modification. I'm not giving it up."
"They're not asking for it back," Weasel clarified. "They're planning to take it back. Along with your head, probably."
"Then they're welcome to try," Noah replied. "I've got experience dealing with people who think I'm easy prey."
As he sat in the mercenary bar, surrounded by armed criminals and wanted fugitives, discussing his growing reputation as a supernatural vigilante with a briefcase fetish, Noah couldn't help but reflect on how dramatically his life had changed.
Three weeks ago, he'd been nobody—a victim, a prisoner, a man with no identity and no future. Now he was the Box Demon, a name whispered in criminal circles with a mixture of fear and confused bewilderment.
_________________________________________________________________________
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