Marvel: The Game of Talents

Ethan left Sister Margaret's bar, the dim neon sign flickering behind him. Walking through a poorly lit alley, he idly twirled a black card between his fingers.

The card detailed his first assignment: kill Jeff Mond, a low-level member of the Russian Ross gang, for a reward of one thousand dollars.

Among the stack of black cards Weasel had offered, this was the most manageable. Ethan wanted to take on something more lucrative, but there was a catch—before accepting an assignment, mercenaries were required to pay a deposit equal to 10% of the commission.

Broke as he was, Ethan had no choice but to accept Weasel's generosity when the bartender offered to cover the deposit temporarily. Now equipped with basic intel about his target, including frequented locations, Ethan faced another hurdle: navigation.

Unfamiliar with the city and too broke to hail a cab, he trudged along on foot.

"Hey, Asian guy!"

Ethan glanced up to see two young men blocking his path. Both were Black, one grinning wide enough to reveal two gold teeth that glinted in the dim light.

"Hand over your money and phone," the one with the gold teeth demanded.

Before he could finish, Ethan moved. A swift kick landed square between the thug's legs, dropping him to his knees. His grin dissolved into a wide-eyed expression of agony, and he crumpled onto the ground, whimpering incoherently.

The other man, sporting a head of dirty braids, froze in disbelief. Resistance wasn't unusual in their line of work, but this level of brutality was new.

When Ethan's eyes locked on him, the dreadlocked man flinched, instinctively shielding his groin. Before he could act further, Ethan's fist connected with his jaw, sending him sprawling.

Ethan rifled through the first thug's pockets and smirked as he pulled out a pistol.

"God bless America," he muttered. "The loot drop rate here puts other countries to shame."

He turned his attention to the second thug, who was now lying face down on the pavement with his hands clasped behind his head. The man's compliance was so immediate, Ethan wondered if he'd been rehearsing for this exact scenario.

"Misunderstanding, man!" the dreadlocked thug stammered. "We were just joking!"

"Great," Ethan replied, flipping the pistol's safety off. He pressed the muzzle against the man's temple, smiling brightly. "Now let's hear about all the bad things you've done. Depending on how impressive your résumé is, I might let you live."

The dreadlocked man blinked in confusion. "What the hell—"

"Start talking," Ethan interrupted, nudging him with the gun.

Begrudgingly, the thug began listing his misdeeds. "I've robbed a couple of people... took their cash and phones."

Ethan glanced at the panel hovering in his peripheral vision.

[Target does not meet the conditions.]

"Not bad enough," he said flatly.

The thug's face twisted in frustration. "I skip out on paying for—uh—services."

"Still not bad enough."

"I peeked at my neighbor while she was showering!"

"Creepy, but not bad enough."

"I—uh—"

Once he started, the thug couldn't stop confessing. Ethan listened patiently, more amused than impressed. After all, extracting full criminal histories was something even the NYPD struggled to do, yet here he was achieving it with a pistol and some persistence.

But despite the lengthy list of petty crimes, the panel's judgment didn't budge.

Ethan shook his head, disappointed. "That's it? With crimes like these, you've got no business calling yourself a bad guy. You're embarrassing the profession."

The thug said nothing, too terrified to respond.

"Forget it." Ethan sighed, holstering the pistol. "I knew unlocking this achievement wouldn't be easy."

He then patted down the thug's pockets and confiscated a second pistol. Stepping back, he gestured toward the pair.

"Now, take out everything of value. Phones, cash, jewelry—don't hold out on me. And you," he pointed to the man with gold teeth, "get some help from your buddy if you can't manage on your own."

Realizing they had no choice, the two thugs emptied their pockets, piling up cash, phones, and other valuables. Ethan inspected the haul, frowning.

"I said everything of value. That includes the gold teeth. And," he glanced down at the dreadlocked man's sneakers, "are those AJs authentic?"

The thug with dreadlocks sighed, resigned.

Compared to the devil standing before them, their own criminal exploits seemed laughable.