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The night deepened, and the club’s dance floor swelled with a growing throng of men and women, their bodies pressed close in a haze of sweat, liquor, and pulsing music. Jason lounged in his chair, his body relaxed but his mind sharp, a faint flush coloring his cheeks from the steady stream of Scotch whisky he’d been nursing. The bottle on the table was nearly empty, its amber contents reduced to a thin layer at the bottom. His eyes, half-lidded and glassy, betrayed the alcohol’s influence, but his senses remained alert, scanning the chaotic scene around him.
In a private room tucked away from the main floor, Franklin emerged, propped up by two tall, curvaceous dancers whose sultry smiles matched their revealing outfits. His grin was wide, almost boyish, radiating satisfaction from the private show he’d just enjoyed. "Yo, boss!" He called, his voice cutting through the noise. "It’s gettin’ late. Lemme drive you back."
Jason rose slowly, his lips curling into a teasing smirk. "You sure you can handle a wheel, soft-legs? You look like you’re still floatin’ from those girls."
Franklin puffed out his chest, his pride unshaken. "Ain’t much I’m good at, but drivin’? Man, I ain’t met nobody who can outrun me."
They left the grimy club behind, the sour stench of the entrance fading as they headed to a nearby parking lot. Franklin’s ride was a white Dodge Challenger, its paint chipped and body slightly worn—a secondhand purchase he’d scraped together over years. It wasn’t flashy, but it had character, much like its owner.
They climbed in, and Franklin glanced at Jason. "Where to, boss?"
Jason rattled off an address, and Franklin’s brows shot up. "Yo, that’s all the warehouses out there. You really crashin’ in a spot like that?"
"I’m wanted by every cop and crook in the city," Jason said, his tone flat. "Safehouses are my only option."
"Shit, man," Franklin said, shaking his head. "If you’re cool with it, you can stay at my place."
"You live alone?" Jason asked, skeptical.
"Nah," Franklin admitted. "My folks died when I was a kid. My aunt Denise took me in. I live with her."
So, he’s mooching off family too, Jason thought, a flicker of sympathy crossing his mind. "Thanks, but I’ll stick to the warehouse."
Franklin shook his head vigorously. "Nah, man, it’s no trouble. My aunt’s greedy as hell. Slip her some cash, and she’ll let you stay forever."
The drive to Franklin’s place was short, just five minutes from the club. The house was a modest two-story standalone with a small garden and a garage—an oasis of stability in a neighborhood overrun with vagrants and decay. Compared to Wesley’s sprawling mansion, it was humble, but in the slums, it was practically a palace.
Franklin pulled the Challenger into the garage and unlocked the front door. His room was a cramped ten-square-meter space off the entryway, barely more than a closet. Jason noted the setup with a pang of pity. Aunt Denise didn’t seem like the generous type.
A heavyset Black woman descended the stairs, her voice booming. "Hey, you freeloading punk! You finally decided to show your face?" Her eyes landed on Jason, narrowing with suspicion. "And who’s this? I told you, no bringing your deadbeat friends here."
Franklin bristled at her tone, but Jason stepped forward, cutting him off with a calming hand on his shoulder. He pulled out a stack of bills—three or four thousand dollars—and held it out to Denise with a charming smile. "Evening, ma’am. I’m a friend of Franklin’s. I’ll be staying a while. This is for the rent."
Denise’s scowl vanished as she snatched the cash, her face lighting up like a kid on Christmas. "Well, damn! Didn’t know this boy had friends with deep pockets. There’s an empty room next door. Franklin can fix it up for you." With that, she turned, her ample backside swaying as she climbed the stairs, already counting her windfall.
Franklin muttered under his breath, "Boss, you gave her way too much."
Jason shrugged, his eyes lingering on Denise’s retreating figure. "A little cash saves a lot of arguing. Worth it."
Franklin grimaced, clearly unconvinced. Three grand was a fortune to a guy like him—God knows how many jobs he’d have to pull to make that back.
While Franklin cleaned the spare room, Jason took a quick shower, the hot water washing away the grime of the night. He collapsed onto the stiff, creaky wooden bed, the mattress offering little comfort but enough for his exhausted body. The whisky’s lingering warmth lulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning, Jason woke to the familiar glow of the system interface.
[Ding! Villain ally ’Franklin Clinton’ successfully recruited.]
[Ally: Franklin Clinton]
[Abilities: Theft Mastery (Level 4), Driving Mastery (Level 6)]
[Market: Click Here]
Note 1: Abilities purchased for allies in the market receive a 50% discount and ignore individual attribute requirements.
Note 2: Allies recruited through the system possess absolute loyalty.
Jason blinked, rereading the notes. A 50% discount on ally upgrades, no attribute restrictions? What the hell—am I the protagonist, or is Franklin? But the second note quelled his unease. After Paul’s betrayal, trust didn’t come easy. Jason had learned the hard way that loyalty was just a matter of price. Knowing Franklin’s allegiance was ironclad, guaranteed by the system, eased his paranoia. A disloyal ally with boosted skills would be a liability he couldn’t afford.
He pushed open the bedroom door, and the savory aroma of frying bacon hit him like a wave. In the kitchen, Franklin stood at the stove, apron tied on, flipping strips of meat with practiced ease. "Yo, boss, breakfast’s almost ready. Grab a seat."
Jason nodded, pulling out a chair. "Where’s your aunt?"
Franklin snorted, his tone dripping with disdain. "Out shopping with her trash friends. Bet you anything she’ll burn through that cash in a few days."
The mention of money sparked a thought. Jason needed $1 million to upgrade Firearms Mastery to Level 6. Propping his chin in his hand, he mulled over his options. "What do you do for cash, Franklin?"
"Uh... vehicle recovery," Franklin said, a bit sheepish.
Jason raised an eyebrow. "What’s that?"
"Folks buy cars on loans they can’t pay back. My job’s to repo those rides for the dealers."
"Sounds like a small change. Anything else?"
Franklin shrugged. "Stealin’ cars, drivin’ cabs, haulin’ garbage, towing... anything with wheels, I’ve done it."
His Level 6 Driving Mastery wasn’t just talk—this kid lived behind the wheel. Jason’s mind flashed to Kingpin’s crew, specifically the biker gang known as the Speed Freaks. Dressed in garish cyberpunk gear, they roared through the city on tricked-out motorcycles, using their speed to courier drugs and boost cars on the side.
Franklin set a plate of bacon and eggs on the table, but Jason stood, his mind elsewhere. "Eat up. I’ve got a call to make."
Back in the bedroom, he dialed Wesley’s number.
"Hey," Jason said.
Wesley’s voice exploded through the line. "Hey?! What the hell, man? Thanks to you, every gang in New York’s losing their damn minds!"
Jason picked at his ear, unfazed. "What’s the problem?"
"You wiped out the Russian mafia!" Wesley snapped. "Now every crew’s paranoid, thinking you’re either coming for them next or you’ll get nabbed by the cops and rat them out. The whole underworld’s a powder keg."
Jason’s lips curled into a cold smile. "They’re right to be scared."
Wesley scoffed. "Oh, really? Well, guess what? Every gang in the city pooled their cash. They’re offering $15 million for your head. International hitmen are already circling."
Jason’s grip on the phone tightened, but his voice stayed steady. "..."
Wesley’s tone softened, almost pleading. "Jason, give it up. You can’t survive this. Not with the streets and the feds both gunning for you."
Jason stared at the floor, his silence stretching long and heavy. Then, a spark of defiance ignited in his eyes. "Let them come."
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