Wade had left earlier to begin preparing for his next move against Francis, leaving Robert alone with Weasel, who was busy organizing papers behind the counter.
"So," Weasel said, glancing up. "You really want to be a mercenary?"
Robert nodded. "Yeah. I need money."
Weasel gave him a long, skeptical look.
Wade had already filled him in on the important bits—Robert's mysterious healing factor, the fire, the escape, the lab. Wade had even assumed Robert's powers came from the same experiment that altered his own genes. That wasn't entirely true.
In reality, Robert's abilities didn't come from mutant DNA at all.
They came from something far stranger—a system in his head that allowed him to unlock high school-level super talents, pulled from a world that shouldn't even exist here.
But Weasel didn't need to know that.
What mattered now was getting started.
"I need cash," Robert continued, "and more importantly, a legal identity. And Wade said you could help with that."
Weasel leaned back in his chair and scratched the back of his head. "Well… for Wade's sake, I guess I can set you up."
He reached under the counter and pulled out a small stack of black and gold laminated cards, setting them neatly on the bar.
"Let's walk through this quick," Weasel said. "Two main types of contracts around here—gold cards and black cards."
He held one up for emphasis.
"Gold cards are the light jobs. Petty threats, tailing a cheating husband, intimidating stalkers, scaring off a landlord. You might get yelled at, maybe a punch in the face, but the pay's trash. Usually fifty to two hundred bucks."
Robert raised an eyebrow. "And the black ones?"
Weasel flipped to a sleek, ominous-looking black card with red trim.
"These are for when things get serious. Hired hits, surveillance on dangerous people, kidnapping... yeah, the stuff that lands you in headlines if you mess it up."
Robert narrowed his eyes. "And you're just handing these out like it's a Halloween party?"
"Hey, I'm not your boss. I just hand out the jobs," Weasel said with a shrug. "What you do after you grab the card is none of my business. But you take a black card, you accept the consequences. Doesn't matter if you're Wade's friend or the Pope's nephew—I'm not covering your a** if things go sideways."
Robert nodded. "Understood."
"Good. Because I don't want to be scraping what's left of you off the sidewalk."
Weasel pushed the stack of cards toward him.
Robert flipped through the gold ones first. As expected, they were mostly harmless gigs:
Scare off ex-boyfriend at apartment complex.
Spy on cheating fiancée at yoga studio.
Deliver anonymous threat to a Wall Street intern.
The payments were laughable. It might keep him fed for a day, maybe two—but not nearly enough for forged documents, a fake ID, or the kind of gear he'd eventually need.
Then he got to the black cards.
The tone shifted instantly.
Assassinate Ross family enforcer, Jeff Mond – $1,000.
Surveillance on Blood Wolf Gang lieutenant, Warner Hewlett – $5,000.
Kidnap Ashley Suzanne, daughter of a real estate mogul – $100,000.
Robert exhaled slowly.
These weren't petty jobs. They were dangerous, likely illegal, and almost guaranteed to involve guns, gangs, and police chases.
He grimaced. This wasn't what he signed up for. He needed income, not an obituary. He didn't even know how to shoot properly.
Just as he was about to push the stack back across the bar, something pinged in his head.
[Title Triggered!]
["Wanted Order" – Requirements Met]
[Unlock Condition: Eliminate 15 high-threat criminals (0/15)]
[Reward: Title – Super High School-Level Sharpshooter]
His hand froze midair.
A new title? After nearly two months, another one had finally appeared!
Robert's eyes narrowed as he read the requirement again: kill 15 sinful criminals.
A black card fluttered out of the stack as if in agreement.
He remembered what the system had done for him last time. The Stuntman title had granted him immortality. That alone had saved him countless times.
Now… a Sharpshooter?
If the name meant what he thought it did, this title could give him the edge he desperately needed in a world filled with bullets and bloodthirsty mutants.
He looked back at the cards.
Murderers. Traffickers. Gang enforcers.
He didn't have to like it. But if he chose his targets carefully… he could do some good. These weren't innocent people. They were criminals. Killers. Predators.
And he needed power.
He reached for one of the black cards.
Weasel was already grabbing the pile back when Robert slapped a hand down to stop him.
"I'll take the gangster contracts," Robert said.
Weasel blinked. "Wait, what?"
"You heard me."
"But you just said you weren't looking to stir up trouble!"
Robert stood straighter, tone firm. "That was before. Now, it's not about money."
He paused.
"It's about fighting crime."
Weasel raised an eyebrow and pointed to the Coke bottle in Robert's other hand. "You're fighting crime with soda in one hand and illegal work in the other."
Robert sipped. "We all fight in our own way."
Weasel sighed. "You're gonna die, man."
Robert smiled. "Not today."
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