Iron streetlamps steadily receded past the taxi window.
A vintage hotel with a distinct Art Deco style grew larger in the field of view.
On the sidewalk, passersby—whether impeccably dressed gentlemen, hurried office workers, or idle vagrants—glanced over as the cab rolled past.
Their eyes met briefly with the passengers before tacitly looking away.
*Screech—* The taxi pulled smoothly to a stop in front of the hotel portico.
“That’s all for now.
Nice driving.” Inside the cab, Green pulled out two beautifully crafted gold coins, handed them to the driver in the front seat, and gave his shoulder a friendly pat.
“My pleasure, Mr.
Green.” The driver accepted the coins and nudged the brim of his hat lower in respect.
Green opened the door, retrieved his suitcase from the trunk, and climbed the steps into the hotel.
Laura followed close behind, carrying the blood-stained parcel that drew more than a few glances.
Amber crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow, enveloping the lobby in an understated luxury.
On dark brown leather sofas, guests read newspapers or stared at their phone screens, almost every one of them with a glass of liquor at their side.
Just like the people on the street outside, the moment Green stepped inside, professional instinct drew the eyes in the lobby toward him.
Surprise flashed in quite a few eyes, while others nodded politely from afar before withdrawing their gazes to return to their own “business.” “They all know you,” Laura whispered.
She could feel a faint, dangerous tension permeating the air like invisible threads.
With sharp perception, she noticed that when those glances swept past her, they lingered briefly on her head and heart.
Yet due to Green’s presence, those calculating looks quickly receded, instantly morphing into calm assessments of the building’s layout and foot traffic patterns.
“Mhm,” Green said, rolling his suitcase toward the front desk.
“This is the Continental.
Everyone outside, including that driver, is in the same line of work.” The Continental served as a platform for elite assassins.
Green took contracts here occasionally, but since he wasn’t part of the High Table’s core system, their commission cut was steep.
Unless he was bored out of his mind or had a specific need, he rarely prioritized taking contracts here.
“It’s not quite like what I saw in comic books.” “Assassins need to eat, too.
They have hobbies and psychological needs.” Green stood the suitcase beside the counter and turned to face her.
“Most of the time, they aren’t any different from ordinary people.” “Are we?” “We can be.
Among other things.” Her earlier performance had evidently earned his approval; he showed a bit more patience toward her instinctual and curious questions.
Approaching the front desk, an African concierge in a crisp suit was leaning over, focused on writing something.
“Charon, got a tan again, I see,” Green remarked casually, leaning against the marble counter.
“A pleasure to see you again, Mr.
Green.” The man looked up without a trace of irritation, clearly accustomed to Green’s irreverent nature.
Speaking in an elegant, unhurried British accent, he asked, “Will you be checking in, or is this a brief stay?” “Just passing through.
Hold onto this for me; I’ll pick it up in a bit.” Green patted the handle of the suitcase by his feet.
“Very well.” Charon bowed slightly and stepped out from behind the counter.
Green turned toward the side lounge.
After a few paces, as if remembering something, he reached into his pocket and tossed something over his shoulder without looking back.
Charon caught it smoothly—a milk candy wrapped in colorful foil.
A faint smile touched the corner of Charon’s mouth as he slipped the candy into his pocket.
He then took hold of the suitcase handle.
The moment his grip tightened, he knew exactly what was inside.
Yet his movement didn’t pause for a fraction of a second.
As if handling ordinary luggage, he smoothly wheeled it toward the holding room for proper storage.
Green brought Laura to the bar counter.
Laura stepped onto the footrest and climbed onto a high stool, her lower back resting against the cool metal curve of the chair back.
She looked around curiously.
Beethoven’s *Moonlight Sonata* flowed through the air at just the right volume—neither intrusive to conversation nor easily ignored.
There was no harsh overhead lighting, only localized downlights above each booth and the bar counter, slicing the space into warm yellow pockets of light.
“A glass of milk for her, and whatever dessert you recommend.” Green took out two gold coins and placed them on the bar, the metal clinking with a crisp, pleasant sound.
“Hey, Green.
How’ve you been?” A female bartender with arms full of tattoos blew a bubble with her gum, smiling as she collected the coins.
Almost instantly, a warm glass of milk and a colorful plate of macarons appeared before Laura.
“Fine,” Green replied tersely.
He lit a cigarette, took the chilled whiskey pushed toward him through a plume of smoke, and downed it in one gulp.
*Thump.* The bottom of the glass tapped the counter.
Seamlessly, the bartender slid a second glass of whiskey right to his hand.
Here, a single gold coin granted “bottomless refills,” food included.
The coins held immense value and couldn’t be bought, only earned or sold, with an exchange rate exceeding 1,000,000 USD each.
They served as the default hard currency across various hitman organizations, usually earned only by completing high-grade contracts.
Laura picked up a macaron and took a tentative bite.
Her eyes instantly lit up.
“Vanilla,” the bartender said with a friendly smile.
“Mm.” Laura nodded, shoving the rest into her mouth and chewing vigorously.
Her posture was less like someone savoring a pastry and more like someone gnawing on bone-in meat.
Beside her, Green’s phone vibrated.
“Hello there, Mr.
Stane,” Green answered, his tone as relaxed as if greeting an old friend.
“Why is Tony Stark still alive?!” On the other end, Obadiah Stane’s voice burned with suppressed fury, like a volcano on the brink of eruption.
“He’s not dead?
What a shame.” Green took a sip of whiskey, not sounding remotely regretful.
“You told me yourself that you took care of him!” “Yeah, I did take care of him.
Maybe he accidentally stumbled past *Pet Sematary* on the way back and came back to life?” “Are you fucking playing me?!” Stane shattered a glass tumbler in his grip.
Sharp glass edges sliced open his palm, blood dripping down the edge of his desk.
Years of practiced composure completely collapsed the moment he learned Tony had survived.
The terror of exposure turned entirely into fury directed at Green.
“Don’t get so worked up.
After all…
you really aren’t as useful as Tony Stark.” Silence fell abruptly over the line, broken only by heavy, ragged breathing.
Stane’s face was likely turning purple.
He might accept being inferior to Howard Stark, but he could never stomach being outshone by a kid he had watched grow up.
Just as he was about to burst into a torrent of curses, Green’s next words splashed over him like ice water.
“However…
there is something that might let you become Tony Stark.
Or even…
surpass him.” “Speak,” Stane rasped through gritted teeth, his hands trembling with rage as he roughly tore off his tie to wrap his cut palm.
*Beep.* Green hung up.
Stane stared blankly at the disconnected phone, utterly baffled.
“Fuck…!!” He violently grabbed the laptop off his desk and slammed it against the opposite wall, sending fragments flying everywhere.
“How’s John Wick doing?” Green asked casually, saving a clip of the recorded call.
“He got married,” the bartender replied, her tone somewhat muted as she polished a glass.
“You don’t sound like you’re wishing him well,” Green teased.
“No shit!
Slept with me how many times, and now turns around to preach about ‘true love’?” The bartender cursed, poured herself a glass of hard liquor, and tossed it back.
“Did he pay?” “What do you think?” “Slept for free?
Tsk tsk, total scumbag,” Green chuckled.
Just then, the bartender leaned forward, resting her hands on the counter to get closer to Green, her voice dropping low.
“Honestly, I’d much rather get it for free from you.” *Snikt—!* Two bone claws instantly popped out from between Laura’s knuckles, extending between Green and the bartender.
“Heh, little girl’s getting worked up?” Looking at Laura’s fiercely cute expression, the bartender chuckled and stepped back.
At the same time, her dark-lipsticked lips parted, revealing a long, thin, forked serpent’s tongue that flicked out rapidly.
Sharp fangs flickered beneath her gums, and a translucent nictitating membrane swept across her pupils as she blinked.
“I’m a mutant, too.
You don’t scare me.
And besides…” She intentionally puffed out her chest, gave herself a squeeze to weigh her generous assets, and added, “To be a real woman, you need capital.
And right now…
you don’t have any.” Laura subconsciously looked down at her flat chest.
A rush of embarrassment and anger surged through her, and she made to pounce.
“Quiet.” Green patted her on the head, calming her down.
“Get me a rag.” “Sure thing.” Crossing her arms, the bartender lifted her chin triumphantly, turned, and pushed another plate of macarons over.
“Eat up, kid.
Help you grow.” “Hmph!” Laura snorted angrily, grabbed her glass of milk, and chugged it down while glaring at the bartender.
“Though no amount of milk will help much.
You’re…
lacking the raw talent, after all,” the bartender teased, handing Green a cloth soaked in warm water.
“Green!
I want to kill her!” “No.” Green took the rag and wiped the dried blood off Laura’s face and hands.
His movements weren’t overly gentle, but they were thorough.
“Mph…” Laura shook her head slightly, but didn’t resist further.
She sat quietly, letting him clean her up.
Beside them, the bartender watched while wiping glasses, a smile tugging at her lips.
A few seconds later, Green’s phone vibrated again.
“If you have a bad attitude, I’ll hang up again,” Green said languidly into the phone as he tossed the bloody cloth back to the bartender.
“*Sss—*” A sharp intake of breath came over the receiver as the person on the other end tried to force his breathing under control.
“What is this thing you mentioned?” “A prototype suit of armor Tony Stark built in a cave.
You’ll see what it can do once you get your hands on it.” “What do you want in exchange?” “It’s a gift.
Though it’s not exclusive.
I’m selling it to the local warlords, too, so if you want it, better hurry.” After all, since Stane had paid extra tip money, Green considered himself quite generous.
At the same time, Green noticed Winston, the manager of the hotel, walking into the bar.
Winston saw him as well and gave a subtle nod.
“…Green,” the line went silent for a few seconds before Stane’s voice turned heavy, still clinging to a sliver of hope.
“Tony Stark…
is he really not dead?” He had seen those photos.
Tony looked as dead as a corpse, and Green’s reputation wasn’t one to fake evidence in photos.
“He technically died for a few seconds.” “Tree cobra venom causes a violent near-death shock response when injected.
Based on the dose I gave him, it stops the heart for about three to five seconds.
For the price you paid, that’s all the death you bought.” Green spoke while rising and walking over to Winston’s window-side table, taking a seat across from him naturally.
A waiter appeared at just the right moment, placing two exquisite French dishes in front of them.
“Understood.” The call disconnected.
“You’ve been busy lately,” Winston said, spreading a napkin across his lap with refined elegance.
“Same to you.
Eating dinner at this hour?
Does this stuff even fill you up?” Green picked up a knife and fork, speared a piece of steak, and took a huge bite.
Laura followed him over.
He casually handed her a piece, and she grabbed it with her hands, tearing into it directly.
“Your apprentice?” Winston looked at Laura with a warm smile.
Laura ignored him, focusing entirely on gnawing the steak.
Her instinct told her this man was like a cunning old fox, so it was best to leave talking to Green.
*Mmm, the meat is good.* “Yeah, brought her along to get familiar with the faces.” Green wiped away a smudge of steak juice from the corner of his mouth.
“Heh.” Winston pressed no further, respecting the boundaries between friends.
He cut a small piece of foie gras with his cutlery, spread it evenly over a cracker, and was just about to bring it to his mouth.
Right then, his phone rang.
“Pardon me,” Winston smiled politely, putting down his food.
“Go ahead.” Sitting opposite him, Green slid his entire plate toward Laura, along with a few more pieces of steak.
“This is Winston,” he answered.
Upon hearing the voice on the other end, an odd, almost amused look settled on his face.
He handed the phone across to Green.
“For you.” “Huh?” Green took the phone, silent.
“Are you listening?
I am a VIP client of the hotel.
Register an open contract immediately.
Target: Green Morgan.” While Stane waited in confusion on the other end, that familiar voice came through the receiver: “Mr.
Stane, I’ll take this contract.
Just to confirm—you want my head, right?” Green chuckled, his voice echoing through the signal as clearly as a whisper in his ear.
In an instant, Stane went rigid, his eyes filled with incredulous horror.
He lapsed into silence, hearing nothing but the sudden violent thumping of his own heart.
“Hello~?” Green called out “warmly” from the other side.
Stane slammed the line shut, clutching his tight chest as his breathing became rapid and strained.
The pressure was getting to be too much.
Yet he couldn’t stop, nor did he dare to.
Green knew too much.
Only when Green was dead could Stane rest at night.
With trembling fingers, he dialed another number.
He took a deep breath, fighting to keep his voice steady.
“Sloan, I want to issue an open contract of the highest tier.
Send every single one of your people out.” Back at the dining table.
“What’s he afraid of?
It’s not like I eat people.” Green pushed the phone back to Winston, slapping away Laura’s little hand as she tried to sneak a reach for his wine glass.
Winston chewed his duck-fat cracker unhurriedly, took a sip of red wine, nodded in satisfaction, and then spoke: “It seems we’re about to lose another VIP client.” “Heh, what, were you gonna leave an inactive account on the books?” Green scoffed, pushing away Laura’s face with the back of his hand as she leaned close again.
He stood up, picked up the glass of red wine on the table, and downed it in one breath under Laura’s curious gaze.
“Ugh…” Green set down the glass, his face screwing up.
“Tastes awful.” Laura looked at him flatly, completely unamused.
*Do you think I’m that easy to fool?* As if completely failing to catch her contemptuous glare, Green turned and raised his empty glass toward Winston.
“Thanks for the hospitality.” Winston said nothing, merely raising his glass in response, an accustomed gentle smile on his face as he watched Green leave with his scowling sidekick in tow.
However, once Green stepped past the bar exit, the smile on Winston’s face gradually faded into absolute calm.
It wasn’t that he was intentionally favoring Green, nor was handing over Stane’s call an act of malice—though doing so was tantamount to rejecting Stane’s hit right to his face.
It was simply because Green himself was an entity “forbidden” from being hunted.
There was a reason why the High Table could maintain its detached authority and order in a world where supernatural powers were increasingly coming to light.
They knew full well that certain beings were beyond the reach of conventional rules, impossible to measure by money or force of arms.
They understood restraint, and had secretly compiled a list for that exact purpose.
Green Morgan’s name stood prominently at the top.
Stane’s was nowhere to be found.
Therefore, from the moment Winston answered that phone and recognized Stane’s voice, the outcome was already sealed.
The Continental had unilaterally and permanently excommunicated Obadiah Stane.
It wasn’t a choice; it was the rule.