Here's my new story, hope you all enjoy I'll plug my Discord and let you all get to enjoying for now
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Behind the rugged man stood another, younger and sharper in posture. Neither wore masks, but it was obvious who held the power here. The older man—seasoned, calculated—stood at the forefront, while the younger one remained fixed, eyes scanning, waiting.
"Sit down. We can talk about the package in a minute. Just relax for now," I said, my tone almost mocking as I waved a hand at the assortment of worn chairs surrounding the battered table.
After a second of hesitation, the older man sat. The younger one, likely a guard or a watchdog—remained standing, his stance that of a man expecting trouble.
"What's your name? Or at least tell me what I should call you." I leaned back, feigning laziness, punctuating my words with a slow yawn.
"Frank Callahan. You can call me Mr. Callahan—now, if we could get to business—"
"Frank," I cut him off, letting the name roll off my tongue. "Frank, Frank, Frank..." I repeated it, slow and deliberate, as if tasting it.
Frank's jaw tightened slightly, though he worked to suppress it.
"Frank, yeah—it's a perfect name for a bitch like you."
The younger guard shifted before his boss could, moving like a dog catching the scent of a fight. "Watch your tongue, kid. You don't know who you're talking to."
I turned my gaze to the guard, expression unfazed. "No, watch your mouth. I'm sure your boss won't be happy if he doesn't get his little package today because of you. Isn't that right, Frank?"
"Stay quiet, Luca," Frank said, regaining control. His tone held authority, but his patience was thinning. "Mr. Jackal, I've heard about the deaths of your teammates. If you feel you deserve more compensation in return for our package, I can understand that, and I think we can come to a pleasant agreement."
I tilted my head slightly, studying him, before exhaling. "I don't think you understand, Frank... No, this won't work. Of course, a bitch like you wouldn't understand."
Frank's eyes darkened, he was obviously slightly annoyed
"Oh, but don't misunderstand me, Frank. I'm not calling you a bitch in a derogatory sense. I'm calling you a bitch because that's all you are. A dog. A creature that follows orders, that heels when called. That's why someone like you can't understand. I'd like to talk to your boss."
Multiple expressions flickered across Frank's face in an instant, but he kept them buried. "What do you mean? I was the one who solicited this job—"
I laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. "Don't try to bullshit me, Frank. If your boss wants the package, then you'll get him to talk to me. I don't care if it's face-to-face or over a call, but you'll do as I say."
"I've had enough of this!" Luca growled, striding toward me as he yanked his gun from his side. The steel muzzle pressed against my skull, but I didn't flinch. "You're playing too many games, kid. You're forgetting—this isn't a playground. The underworld doesn't have room for amateurs. Newbies like you come and go every damn day."
"What is this? A shitty game of good cop, bad cop?" I replied, voice unshaken.
"Are you playing with us, kid?" Luca snarled, ripping my mask off and jamming the gun harder between my eyes. "This is a Desert Eagle. One shot from this, and your brains will be all over the walls."
"Sure, if you pull the trigger," I said smoothly, eyes locked on his. "But I have an ability, Luca. I sense danger. And not once, in this entire conversation, have I felt even the slightest threat." I reached up, gripping the barrel of his gun, and pulled both the weapon and the man holding it closer. "In fact, I'd say I've never felt safer."
[Confidence unsettles people like this.]
"So pull the damn trigger." My voice was calm. "You understand the cost, don't you? Your package? Gone forever. Your connection to the underworld? Severed the moment you kill a player in the middle of a hub. You'd be lucky to make it out of here alive. Even criminals have their own set of unspoken rules. And that's before we even get to the real problem—your boss."
Luca hesitated, and I pushed harder. "If you survive this room, if you somehow walk away, do you think your boss will be pleased when the consequences of your stupidity come knocking? No. He'll have you killed before you even get a chance to run."
I watched the flicker in his eyes—conviction melting into doubt, into realization. "Just like you guys sent those mercenaries to kill me and my crew. Right?"
Frank's expression barely shifted, but his eyes? They gave him away. Surprise, followed by a cold, careful calculation. But Luca? His emotions played out in real-time—shock, confusion, and more.
"Luca, let it go," Frank said with a weary sigh. "Your intimidation act won't work on him. His danger sense won't let it."
Luca looked like he wanted to argue, jaw tightening, but after a second, he simply exhaled sharply. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulled the gun away from my forehead, his fingers tightening briefly before releasing his grip. The barrel hovered in the space between us for half a second more—then, finally, he holstered it.
Frank analyzed me, his gaze dragging over every detail—the darkness in my eyes, the mess of my hair, the paleness of my skin, and the exhaustion hanging under my gaze like a shadow. "Alright, have it your way. You can talk to the master," he muttered, reaching into his bag. A thin laptop emerged, swiftly placed on the desk. With practiced efficiency, he powered it up, his fingers moving across the keyboard. Within ten seconds, the screen flipped in my direction, revealing a call in progress.
No image. Just a void where the caller image should be.
"Can he hear me?" The voice on the other end was subtly distorted, an artificial barrier between us.
"Yes, sir," Frank confirmed.
"Good. I've heard everything. You were so anxious to speak to me, 'Jackal.' You've got my interest. So, what is it?"
"Anxious? Hardly." My voice was deliberate. "What's your name?"
"You can call me Midas."
[Midas? He's considered a legend to the point that his existence is questioned. They say he could buy your life before you knew it was for sale, just as easily as he could take it.]
"And you?" Midas continued. "What should I call you?"
"Jackal is fine—"
"No, I mean should I call you Jason Mavis? That's the name you normally go by, is it not?" His tone was casual, but the words cut deep.
I said nothing.
"Or maybe Jonah Greaves? Elias Crane? How does Fred Mercer sound today?"
Silence. I let him speak.
"Why so quiet now? Did you think I wouldn't do my research?" Midas let the question hang before continuing, unhurried, dissecting me piece by piece. "You only became active a few months ago here, from what I can tell. For the most part, you've stuck to low-risk gigs. But you've spent a significant amount of your earnings on collecting new identities. It's like an addiction for you. So before we start talking, I just have one thing to say."
He paused, as if savoring the moment.
"No matter how carefully you try to hide, I can find you. No matter where you hole yourself up, there's no escaping me. Adrian Voss. Who would have thought? A mere seventeen-year-old. A recent runaway orphan. A boy who became a ghost, but even ghosts can be dragged back into the light."
[He knows about your past.]
So what? If that's all he knows, then his research was sloppy and rushed.
My fingers flexed, but I kept my expression neutral. "Then you should know—I have nothing to lose. And I don't plan on hiding. But don't worry, you'll get your package, Midas."
"How did you know the mission was a setup?" Midas asked, his voice still carrying that eerily calm weight.
"I'll just explain everything to you so you can get an idea of all I know. That would make this easier for both of us," I replied.
"When the two cars arrived at the beach, my suspicions were already growing. The vehicles were different, but upon closer inspection, the similarities in modifications became apparent—light armor, tinted bulletproof windows, and reinforced tires. Even the brands matched."
"So what? It's common knowledge that some vehicle brands are easier to modify, and professional contractors often adhere to similar security standards," Midas countered.
"Yes, that's true, so my suspicions were mostly baseless at that point," I admitted, nodding. "But just because a thought is baseless doesn't mean I should ignore it. And as we exited our vehicles, more coincidences started piling up. The two professionals picking up the package from the boat—they both wore loose-fitting clothes, their firearms appeared to be of similar size, and their mannerisms mirrored each other."
"Professional contractors tend to have similarities; that's implied by the very nature of their work. Clothing is also a personal choice, is it not?" Midas challenged.
I continued, "Then I looked behind me and saw the other two contractors exiting their vehicle—same loose-fitting clothes. I was too far to verify their firearm sizes, but that didn't matter. What caught my attention was one of them approaching Karina. But we'll get back to that."
"Aegis and I went to pick up our package. I deliberately stopped him from taking ours first—I wanted the other contractors to receive theirs first. Initially, it was suspicious that both contractors seemed to be waiting on us to claim our package first, although I ignored this originally, even though it was suspicious. When the contractors received their packages, the contents were secure but unremarkable—a suitcase, a duffel bag, maybe fitted with strong locks and padding. The kind of thing expected for a job like this, nothing that screamed 'high value.' But our package? It was different. A briefcase that looked practically indestructible, weighed down like it was built to withstand a hurricane. It was strange—why would professional contractors each have just one regular-looking package, yet the supposed underworld thugs were the ones picking up something that looked like it belonged in a vault?"
"So you suspected their packages were just decoys?" Midas asked.
I nodded. "It wasn't just that. The fact that there were only three packages was a red flag. Why would a ship come to shore for a secret exchange just to transport three 'low-value' packages and then just leave right afterward? It didn't add up—unless one or all of them were of exceptionally high value. Something too risky to move in bulk, something worth being transported alone. The duffel bag didn't seem to fit that profile, and the suitcase seemed extremely light, like it didn't even have anything; it didn't compare to the briefcase in my hand."
"That's when the details started to align. One of the professional vehicles had parked to our SUV's left, the other to the right. Different individuals stepped out—on our left, the driver went to retrieve the package; on our right, it was the passenger. They were positioning themselves to flank us."
"What are you getting at? You weren't attacked on the beach," Midas said, sounding skeptical.
"You're right. But we were bugged at the beach, weren't we? When I got back in the car, I needed to know if Karina had spoken to the contractor approaching from the right. I found an excuse to ask her, and that's when I learned she had. She was distracted, which gave the contractor on the left an opportunity to bug our car. Karina wouldn't have been facing him, after all. It was as simple as reaching under the vehicle and planting whatever tracking device they needed."
"So you suspected we didn't have a long-range scout? That's why you were so confident about your freight yard escape plan." Midas asked.
"Of course. Do you know how rare long-range scouts are? The idea that someone would risk deploying one just to kill low-ranking contractors like us is ridiculous. At most, you had short-range trackers in play. But either way, it didn't matter."
"That's why you called the police on the highway. You already suspected you were being hunted and needed a way to shake a tracker," Midas mused, then let out a sharp laugh. "It's almost comical—a criminal calling the police." He paused, then his tone darkened. "But you went far in your plan, even sacrificing your teammates."
"It was for the best, you wanted them dead, didn't you?" He continued. "Think of it as my gift to you. It's a lot easier to convince you not to kill me than it is to convince you not to kill me along with two other idiots."
"I see," Midas murmured. "And you figured out the job was a setup for the same reason, didn't you? The apparent value and low quantity of the packages were suspicious. But if your package was the true high-value item, then why would anyone else have been there picking up anything at all—especially something that appeared so... ordinary?"
I nodded. "Only someone who knew about our job could have been there. The most likely candidate? Our client. But then I had to ask myself—why would our client want us dead? It couldn't be about money. We've already established that the package in my possession is an item of high value, which means you, Mr. Midas, obviously aren't cheap. That alone ruled out petty motives."
I let the thought hang for a moment before continuing. "But something didn't add up. You clearly have resources. The collection point for the package was nearby, a bit over an hour upstate. You have private contractors on demand. So why send us just to be eliminated? That's when the real answer hit me—the package. Whatever it is, you don't just want possession of it. You want it to disappear."
[A loose end isn't truly tied off unless it ceases to exist.]
"You didn't plan to kill us over money or spite," I continued, voice steady, measuring his reaction. "You wanted to erase all traces of this package. You couldn't risk anyone you don't control knowing about it. That's why you orchestrated the entire setup, ensuring that our deaths would look like nothing more than another skirmish between supers—just some regular criminals dying in a fight."
I leaned forward slightly, my gaze focused. "So that, when the dust settled, no one would even suspect that on that day, a package was collected. Am I wrong?"