The news anchor’s voice droned on, his tone a mix of gravitas and barely concealed excitement as he leaned into the camera. "According to confessions from the captured escapees, after breaking out of Long Island Prison, Jason Walter actively recruited them. Nearly thirty fugitives have joined his organization."
He paused for dramatic effect, his eyes narrowing as if he’d cracked the case himself. "Based on this, I’ll make a bold prediction: that blood-soaked clown mural on the prison wall? It’s Jason’s handiwork. It’s a double-edged message—a blatant fuck-you to the authorities and a public declaration that his criminal empire, dubbed ’The Joker,’ is officially in business."
The anchor leaned back, adjusting his tie as he laid out his reasoning with the confidence of a man who’d spent too long in the spotlight. "If Jason wanted to stay under the radar, he’d keep his crew small, move quietly. Rounding up dozens of escapees is the opposite—it’s practically begging for attention. Looking at his rap sheet, this guy’s no idiot. So, I’m betting his goal isn’t just dodging the cops. He’s building a terrorist organization, gearing up for something big. Whether he’s targeting civilians or the government, we don’t know yet. But one thing’s clear: Jason Walter is a threat to national security, potentially more dangerous than even that guy." His voice dropped ominously, leaving the audience to fill in the blank with their worst fears.
"The military and government need to double down," He continued, his voice rising with urgency. "They’ve got to hunt him down now, before he digs in. A group of thirty-plus hardened criminals launching a coordinated attack? The consequences would be catastrophic, beyond anything we can imagine."
Jason set down his knife and fork, his breakfast plate cleared, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "This guy’s got some balls," He said, his tone laced with grudging respect. The anchor wasn’t wrong—this was the perfect time to crush his fledgling organization. If the cops didn’t catch him soon, they’d be chasing a ghost. Once he had his hooks in deep, rooting him out would be like trying to kill a cockroach in a nuclear apocalypse.
Harley glanced at the TV, her expression thoughtful as she sipped her coffee. "That’s one of the biggest anchors in the country," She said. "Millions of followers on social media. His takes on politics and crime always cut straight to the bone. People eat it up."
"So, every morning, a shit-ton of folks tune in to hear him preach," Jason mused, rubbing the stubble on his chin. A wicked grin spread across his face as he realized the implications. The more eyes on him, the more his legend grew. He could practically feel his reputation swelling with every word the anchor spat.
Sure enough, within ten minutes of the broadcast, a system notification came. His reputation points were skyrocketing. Half an hour later, they smashed through the 3000-point threshold.
[Ding! Reputation has exceeded 3000. One ally recruitment opportunity granted!]
[Ding! Villainous ally ’Christine Vineyard’ has been activated. Character source: Detective Conan!]
[Friendly reminder: In five seconds, a memory implant will be initiated for both the ally and the host!]
Christine? Jason’s brow furrowed. The name didn’t ring a single fucking bell—not from this life or the one before. Who the hell was this?
Before he could puzzle it out, a flood of memories slammed into his brain like a freight train. In this past, Christine was a sultry, blonde bombshell with cascading golden hair and a body that could stop traffic. She was his age, his childhood neighbor in the grimy heart of Hell’s Kitchen, practically a soulmate forged in the crucible of their fucked-up upbringings. His dad was a lowlife gangbanger, hers a degenerate gambler—two peas in a pod, both absolute garbage. That shared misery gave them plenty to bond over, and it wasn’t long before they were thick as thieves, literally.
As kids, they were partners in crime, pulling off petty heists—breaking into apartments, mugging passersby, splitting the cash fifty-fifty. They were the Bonnie and Clyde of Hell’s Kitchen, young and reckless, thriving on the thrill of the score. By fifteen, though, their luck ran out. A botched robbery landed Jason in cuffs, and to keep Christine out of juvie, he took the fall, claiming every crime as his own. The cops grilled him, but he kept his mouth shut, earning himself two years in a juvenile detention center.
"What the fuck?" Jason muttered, his head spinning as the memories unfolded. ’This is supposed to be me?’ No way in hell. The Jason he knew would’ve sold out Christine faster than you could say "plea deal." Taking the rap for someone else? That was some romantic, self-sacrificing bullshit he’d never touch. ’What kind of sappy-ass script is this system writing?’
When he got out at seventeen, the world had shifted. Christine had blossomed into a stunning woman, her beauty turning heads wherever she went. She’d clawed her way out of Hell’s Kitchen, landing gigs as a theater actress in New York and renting her own place. Jason, fresh out of juvie with no cash and no prospects, was a mess. Feeling guilty for his sacrifice, Christine took him in, and it wasn’t long before their childhood bond reignited into something hotter. One thing led to another, and they crossed that line, tasting the forbidden fruit in a haze of passion.
Over the next few years, they both carved out their own paths. Jason joined Kingpin’s crew, rising through the ranks to become one of New York’s most feared enforcers. Christine, meanwhile, traded the stage for the silver screen, her star rising until she was a household name. Despite their wildly different worlds, their connection never frayed—it only grew stronger, twisted as it was.
Christine wasn’t some saintly starlet. To climb Hollywood’s cutthroat ladder, she played dirty, and Jason was her ace in the hole. She’d call him up to dig up dirt on rivals, snap compromising photos, or even arrange "accidents"—a brick to the head in a dark alley, a car crash that kept a competitor off a movie set. With Jason’s help, her career soared, culminating in an Oscar for Best Actress at twenty-four. In return, she funneled him clean money—millions in untraceable cash that he used to build his own crew, cementing his place as Kingpin’s right-hand man.
But success bred tension. Christine had seen the raw power Jason wielded, the thrill of holding life and death in her hands, and it hooked her like a drug. She craved more—more control, more chaos. Acting started to feel like a cage, a hollow performance where she had to smile for sleazy producers and parade around in skimpy outfits for their leering eyes, even in the pouring rain or freezing snow. She was done playing nice.
So, fresh off her Oscar win, she shocked the world by announcing an indefinite hiatus from acting. Then she turned to Jason with a proposition so insane it made even him flinch: kill Kingpin and rule New York’s underworld together as king and queen. The idea was pure madness, even for a guy like Jason, who lived for the edge. They had a blowout fight, screaming at each other until she stormed off, determined to forge her own path.
Christine headed to Los Angeles, where she built her own criminal empire from the ground up. Her love for black fashion and fine liquor shaped her organization’s aesthetic—every member decked out in sleek black suits or trench coats, with the higher-ups codenamed after her favorite drinks. Her own alias came from her go-to spirit, a fiery liquor called Vermouth.
---
Jason shook his head, exhaling a long, exasperated sigh as the memory dump finished. "This fucking system," He muttered. "What is this, a goddamn soap opera? Next thing you know, it’ll have me crying over a lost love in the rain." The whole thing reeked of melodramatic bullshit, but he couldn’t deny the system’s creativity. It deserved an Oscar for scripting this sappy, crime-fueled love story.
"Babe, I’m done!" Harley called, emerging from the bathroom with her makeup flawlessly applied, her favorite handbag slung over her shoulder. "Let’s hit the town!"
Jason sank onto the sofa, his expression shifting. "Change of plans. I need to pay a visit to an old friend."
Harley tilted her head, confused. "You’ve got friends in LA? I thought you said this was your first time here."
He smirked, a cryptic edge to his voice. "Yeah, well, it’s a familiar stranger."
He pulled out the phone, his fingers moving on instinct as he dialed Christine’s number. According to the system’s implanted memories, they hadn’t spoken in over a year, but her number was burned into his mind, as if it had been there forever. ’Fuck this lovesick nonsense,’ he thought, grimacing at the sappy sentiment the system had forced on him. The line rang, and he braced himself for what came next.
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