"He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows. He knows," pounded in my head. Maybe he knows about the organization too? And will sell me out to them for a lot of money? I need to kill him. He is dangerous. No, first interrogate him, then kill him. Here? No, his employees/allies might be nearby, or just interfering witnesses. Wait until he leaves, follow him, capture and interrogate him? And then I must kill him; no one should know his past so that the organization doesn't find him. Yes, no one must know, no one must know, no one must know, no one must know. Everyone who knows must be killed...
Quickly suppressing the emerging panic and bloodlust along with the stupid thoughts, I tried to maintain an expressionless face. Of course, Giran reads me like an open book even with this face, but it's not for him that I keep an expressionless face. I hate my weaknesses, and showing my true emotions when closing deals with people like him is a flagrant weakness. And being weak, for me and my goals, is death. Therefore, I must be able to hide my intentions behind various masks. And if I didn't manage to hide them this time or the last, I'll succeed next time. Didn't succeed? Try again. Besides, killing the broker is an extremely stupid idea; I still need him. And an interrogation on my part would ruin everything. Looking directly into Giran's eyes, I said.
"Fine. What needs to be taken? And tell me the time frame."
"The other day, the fuzz and heroes caught a smuggler. Honestly, I don't care about him; he should have known the risks of his profession. Но товар, который он вёз, крайне важен моему знакомому. But the cargo he was carrying is extremely important to an acquaintance of mine. These are quite rare medical preparations and drugs. They are currently in that station. I'll send you the layout of the building and where they might be stored to your email. You have a day or two. The medicines themselves are extremely temperamental and have a short shelf life. Bring them to the usual place."
The broker finished and took a puff of a new cigarette. Waiting a second for a possible continuation, I stood up from my seat.
"Well, since I'm short on time, I'll go."
"Good luck, Iori-kun. Don't worry about the reward; the information is accurate."
He couldn't see the mad smile that appeared on my face for a moment because my back was turned.
Arriving at my hideout—a small structure on one of the roofs, since it would be stupid to keep some things in a rented apartment—I began to put on the uniform I use for such orders. Gloves, boots with steel toes, a top and bottom that have weak protective characteristics but do not hinder movement, knives hidden in the uniform, a holster with a SIG Sauer P226 pistol, and a dark mask with a wide red smile and eye slits. The rest of the uniform was also dark. While I was putting all this on, I tried to suppress my impatience and the jumble of thoughts. It was naive of me to expect that after several months spent as a laboratory mouse, klithrophobia would be my only mental health problem. I realized this when, instead of running away from potential opponents like villains or thugs, I started killing them. It would seem that with my Quirk, I should just take what's needed and vanish into a wall or the ground using "Choice." So why fight, and especially why kill? I asked myself this question and answered it myself. The desire to prove my strength, my superiority. At the expense of others. Ordinary people would call it a rather petty, selfish, and immoral desire. And I would even agree. Because I never became confident in myself. Nightmares, fear, and panic have been with me ever since the first experiment was performed on me. They grew dull, slightly erased during my time in the white cell; despair and resignation made me apathetic. But after the escape, they came back with a new force. The fear that on a certain day my Quirk will simply disappear, as suddenly as it appeared, still chokes me. That I will again become a useless, helpless, second-class person. I want to be strong, to be confident in myself and my powers. But doubts grip my heart with a cold hold. As if another little me is saying in a nasal and confident tone.
"All your power is the result of a Quirk. Without it, you wouldn't be free. Without it, you are no one and nothing. Just pathetic livestock in the hands of the strong."
This was and is driving me crazy. I wanted to vent my indignation, fears, and hatred on my enemies. To prove my strength to myself, both with and without the Quirk. And how can this be done without comparing myself to others? Sparring with a trainer without using the Quirk helped a little. But deadly battles with strong villains, when lives are at stake and all means are used, made me laugh joyfully or smile madly in the end. Because in such moments, I no longer cared about the fear of losing the Quirk or that I am nothing without it. We used everything we could, including our Quirks, and the fact that I survived—isn't that proof that I am stronger and better trained than my now dead enemy? I could have caught even that Solvent guy alone and tortured everything needed out of him, and his group would have just fallen apart without him. But I wanted to test my strength in direct combat. Although I have to commit covert murders as well. After all, I am not a fool and I remember the main advantage of the villain I have become over the heroes. Stealth. No matter how strong the heroes are and no matter how many of them there are, if they can't find me and hit me with their attack, none of it matters.
Looking at my clenched fists while waiting for the data on the police station, I thought about the reward for this mission. Father. I want to find him no less than that organization and the scientists. He worked for some time in Japan after leaving me and Mama, but later he flew to the USA and disappeared there. There was no information about his heroics, and he didn't particularly like the attention of journalists and the public before. Information about families, personal lives, and the activities of heroes—unless they wanted to spread it—was carefully hidden by the government. Besides, the policy of providing benefits and preferences to heroes is common in all modern countries, which contributed to heroes moving from one country to another. In the past, countries with harsh conditions and great control over hero activities quickly lost their strongest Quirk users, which was equivalent to a loss of military power. Such countries collapsed and were absorbed by better-adapted ones quite quickly. Finally, the sound of a message arriving in my email came from the laptop on the desk. I need to review the information and later go scout the police station itself. I must manage to get there and find out everything I need before morning.
I look at my mask and my face involuntarily smiles. Papa, we'll meet soon, and I'll ask you a few questions. And your answers had better please me. Otherwise, you won't like my reaction. Very much.