Playboy
Bang!
Hearing the gunshot, Mike grumbled irritably, "Can't a guy get some sleep in the middle of the day?"
He rolled over and hugged the soft body beside him.
"Mike! Mike!"
Jennifer shook his shoulder vigorously, a hint of panic in her voice.
"Who is it?"
Mike blinked at the unfamiliar yet delicate face. He was slightly stunned.
Fortunately, it wasn't the first time he'd woken up like this. Offering his trademark charming smile, he murmured, "What's wrong, baby?"
Last night. A bar. A beauty—nine out of ten. Flirting, hooking up, ending in bed.
Mike strained to recall her name but came up blank.
Don't panic!
It didn't matter if he couldn't remember.
"Dear," "baby," "cookie," "strawberry"… they were all correct answers.
Having lived two lives, Mike had perfected the art. Of course, it helped that he was handsome.
Jennifer's heart pounded like a trapped deer. Her waterfall-like golden hair cascaded over her shoulders as she said, "Someone's shooting downstairs!"
"Shooting…" Mike yawned. "This is Hell's Kitchen—it's normal."
Free America. Gunfights were practically a national tradition.
Especially in Hell's Kitchen, nicknamed the "Criminal's Playground," where the daily ammo usage could support a small army.
"Fine, I'll go check it out."
The shot sounded close—likely right downstairs. And downstairs was Mike's small supermarket.
Throwing on some clothes, he headed down. The glass door was wide open, but no one was in sight.
Moments later, a furious Old Earl stormed in, carrying a Remington shotgun.
Old Earl—the store's only employee—was a gray-haired Black man, pushing seventy.
"Someone tried to rob us?" Mike asked, frowning.
"No… just some punks from the Big Foot Gang. I… couldn't hold back."
Old Earl stammered, looking ashamed.
Regardless of the reason, it was clear his actions had stirred up trouble.
"The Big Foot Gang? The ones getting attention lately?"
Old Earl nodded. "Yeah."
"Alright then, tell me what happened." Mike lit a cigarette. You have a story, I have a cigarette.
"There's a father and daughter in the neighborhood. The dad's name is Benjamin—a damn junkie, used to deal drugs."
"And the daughter?"
"Chloe. That girl… she's an angel. Pure-hearted, smart, kind."
"Benjamin worked for the Big Foot Gang. He overdosed after using their stash. Now he's dead, and they've taken Chloe."
Old Earl's eyes welled with tears.
Mike was silent.
He knew Chloe's fate wouldn't be pretty—child labor in drug labs, abused by wealthy predators with sick tastes, maybe even sold for organ harvesting…
Old Earl pulled a small packet from his coat. Inside, wrapped in layers of waterproofing, was a stack of worn, colorful bills.
He placed the money on the counter and pushed it toward Mike.
Old Earl had worked here almost a year. Strangely, no one demanded protection fees. Aside from a few thefts early on, the place had been eerily safe.
And when something did happen, the next day the thieves' bosses came to apologize—bringing compensation and bowing humbly.
"Is this still Hell's Kitchen?" Old Earl had once asked, completely baffled.
"They're actually quite reasonable," Mike had said.
If those bosses hadn't been leaning on crutches, wearing casts, and sporting bruised faces, Old Earl might've believed him.
That day, Old Earl understood—the store was just a front. Mike ran a "handyman" business, dealing with all sorts of trouble.
"Boss, save Chloe. Please. She's just a kid. This is all I've got. My entire savings. I know it's not much but—"
His voice cracked.
The stack of money looked thick, but it was all small bills—not even three thousand dollars.
"You've been saving this for a long time, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"Is it worth it?"
"It is!"
Old Earl's voice was firm. A glowing white orb floated above his head.
At that moment, text appeared in Mike's mind:
> [Old Earl's Request: Rescue the Orphaned Girl, Chloe]
[Commission: $20,000 (System deduction 90% after expenses)]
[Objective: Rescue Chloe from the Big Foot Gang and deliver her safely to Old Earl.]
After deductions, Mike would get no more than $2,000.
In short, a loss.
Under Old Earl's anxious gaze, Mike sighed. "Alright. I'll take the job."
As he spoke, the glowing orb drifted toward him and merged with his forehead.
> System Notification: [Soul Energy +1]
Now that it's come to this, no point hiding it anymore.
Mike was a transmigrator. He'd lived in this world for 24 years.
When he realized he was in Marvel, he nearly fainted.
Well, if I'm stuck here, I might as well make it work.
Worst-case scenario? Half the universe gets dusted.
He played it safe, studied hard, got into Princeton, and then—his golden finger appeared.
A mercenary system… or so it seemed.
Its real purpose? Accumulate 10 units of Soul Energy to synthesize a Soul Fruit and unlock Fantasy Manifestation.
Plus, soul energy enhanced his body.
At this point, Mike's physique rivaled that of Captain America, post-serum.
"Boss…?" Old Earl called nervously. "Is it too difficult?"
"Oh, no," Mike replied, snapping out of his thoughts. "Just remembering something."
"Do I need to sign anything? A contract? A receipt?"
Old Earl waved his hands. "No, no need."
"One last thing. No matter the outcome, the fee's non-refundable."
"I understand. I know the rules."
Mike pulled out his encrypted phone and dialed a number labeled Fat Jerry.
It connected.
"Mike! Long time, man. I thought you forgot about ol' Fat Jerry. I'm heartbroken."
"Speak human."
"You're still as cold as ever, I—"
Mike hung up.
Seconds later, his phone rang again.
He answered.
Jerry sighed. "Alright, alright. Who's the unlucky target?"
"You know the Big Foot Gang?"
"Of course. They've been real active lately. Hard to miss."
"Same deal as always. Send the intel and the invoice to my email."
"Got it. I'll give you a 5% discount, too."
Mike chuckled. "Wow, a discount? A once-in-a-lifetime miracle."
Jerry muttered, "Those bastards don't deserve mercy. Sending them to hell would be too kind."
After ending the call, Mike explained, "Fat Jerry's an info broker. Greedy, but reliable."
Reassuring Old Earl, he headed back upstairs.
Jennifer lay on her side, the silk quilt slipped down, revealing her stunning curves.
From the front—a ridge. From the side—a peak. Near or far, high or low… absolute art.
Mike swallowed hard, but with great willpower, averted his gaze.
He booted up his computer and opened his email.
Fat Jerry was as efficient as ever. The intel had already arrived.
After reading through it, Mike had only one thought about the Big Foot Gang: monsters.
Even Fat Jerry couldn't stomach their depravity.
The gang had started small—nobodies in Hell's Kitchen—until they partnered with the Irish mob.
"Magenta?"
A wild Irishman appeared in his mind—dreadlocks, gold teeth, and a crazy laugh.
The Irish had deep roots in Hell's Kitchen, rivaled only by the Italians, Russians, Yugoslavians, Mexicans, Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese, and local syndicates.
One borough, and every major criminal empire's represented. Tsk.
My heart aches for the residents of Hell's Kitchen.