The quiet after a storm was always the most dangerous time in Hell’s Kitchen.
Through his wiretapping rig, Jack listened as the street chatter went dead silent.
James Wesley’s incident at Pier 42 had sent a shockwave straight to the top of Wilson Fisk’s organization.
Private security teams were quietly sweeping the streets, checking low-level informants, and monitoring chemical distributors across New York.
Kingpin was hunting.
Inside his underground cellar, Jack locked the heavy wooden crossbar into place.
He didn't panic. He didn't run.
Instead, he turned on his workbench lamp, pulled his industrial mask over his face, and ignited the heating mantle.
At 3.3% synchronization, his Chemical Intuition (Basic) had deepened significantly.
The limitations of Laughing Gas Mark I—its short range, weak aerosol stability, and ten-minute limit—were glaring flaws in his mind now.
"Mark One was a party trick for small rooms," Jack whispered behind his mask, his pale eyes reflecting the amber flame.
"Mark Two needs to take over an entire hallway."
Jack pulled his remaining cash from his coat pocket to review his budget for chemical precursors and lab upgrades.
【 Current Financial Status 】
Host Synchronization: 3.3%
Available Cash: $2,904.00
Hidden Reserve: $4.5M in Bearer Bonds & Diamonds
He spent $1,200.00 purchasing specialized precursor agents through three different dummy accounts he had set up across Queens:
A refined synthetic polymer binder to increase gas density and atmospheric suspension time.
A stabilized catalyst that allowed the chemical compound to react instantly upon contact with skin or clothing, not just inhalation.
Pressurized micro-fragmentation canisters designed for wider directional dispersion.
Total remaining cash: $1,704.00.
For six continuous hours, Jack worked in absolute, rhythmic concentration.
He distilled the active neuro-toxin under higher thermal pressure, bonding it with the aerosolized polymer binder.
The resulting vapor was no longer a pale-green mist that dissipated in rain.
It was a dense, microscopic emerald fog—capable of lingering in enclosed air currents for up to forty-five minutes and penetrating standard cloth masks.
Hiss...
The vibrant emerald vapor condensed smoothly inside the heavy borosilicate glass flask.
The improvements of Laughing Gas Mark II were devastating:
Extended Radius: Coverage expanded from 5 feet to over 25 feet per canister.
Transdermal Absorption: Inhalation was no longer strictly necessary; skin contact sped up nerve paralysis.
Duration & Severity: Paralysis and involuntary muscular contractions lasted up to 30 minutes, accompanied by severe disorientation.
Jack carefully transferred the emerald compound into four new heavy-duty steel canisters equipped with directional release valves.
Click.
He lined all four canisters neatly beside his custom shortwave radio.
A brilliant, deep violet notification bloomed across his vision in the dim laboratory light.
【 System Milestone Reached! 】
Achievement: Synthesize advanced chemical weaponry (Laughing Gas Mark II).
【 Rewards Issued: 】
Synchronization: +0.4% (Current Total: 3.7%)
System Cash Deposited: $600.00
Jack felt a cold, exhilarating surge of neural speed ripple through his body.
His reflexes sharpened, his perception of sound refined, and the chaotic clarity of the Joker template fused even deeper into his mind.
Synchronization reached 3.7%.
【 Current Status 】
Host Synchronization: 3.7%
Total Available Cash: $2,304.00 ($1,704 + $600 reward)
Active Inventory:
4x Laughing Gas Mark II Canisters
1x Laughing Gas Mark I Canister
Hidden Reserve: $4.5M in Bearer Bonds & Diamonds
Unlocked Traits: Poker Face (Tier 1), Basic Instincts of Chaos, Street Brawling, Chemical Intuition (Basic)
Jack removed his mask, taking a slow, deep breath of the damp cellar air.
His reflection in the glass beaker showed his eyes gleaming with icy, uncontrollable amusement.
He now had four canisters of a chemical weapon capable of shutting down an entire security squad in seconds.
"Three point seven percent," Jack purred softly into the dark.
"Now... let's see how Kingpin's hunters handle a real fog."
2:15 AM.
The rain over Sector 4 had turned into a torrential downpour.
Inside the dark cellar, Jack sat completely motionlessness at his workbench, his headphones pressed tightly to his ears.
Through the static of the encrypted hit-squad frequency, three crisp radio clicks cut through the noise:
"Team Alpha in position near 46th. Team Bravo covering the rear alleyway. The target's radio trace leads right to this condemned meatpacking block."
"Orders from Mr. Wesley?"
"No survivors. Clear the building floor by floor."
Jack took off his headphones and placed them gently on the table.
His face was an unreadable mask—cold, motionless, and serene.
His Basic Instincts of Chaos mapped out the approaching threat in under three seconds: eight heavily armed mob enforcers equipped with suppressed submachine guns, tactical body armor, and night-vision optics.
"Eight men," Jack whispered into the pitch-black basement. "A very generous greeting party."
Instead of escaping through the ceiling ventilation shaft, Jack stood up and adjusted his charcoal coat.
He didn't run. He set his trap.
He took three of his newly synthesized Laughing Gas Mark II canisters and placed them strategically:
Canister #1: Mounted on the back of the iron basement entrance door, wired to a low-tension tripwire across the threshold.
Canister #2: Concealed inside an empty metal drum near the central support pillar.
Canister #3: Kept in his right coat pocket, ready for manual deployment.
Jack walked to the back corner of the room, stepping into the absolute darkness behind the heavy oak workbench. He pulled his filtration mask over his face and waited.
CLACK.
The heavy rusted padlock outside was cut with hydraulic shears.
Footsteps echoed down the concrete stairs—slow, tactical, and methodical.
"Door's unlocked," a voice whispered in low Russian. "Point man, break the wooden crossbar. Breach on three."
BOOM!
The iron basement door was kicked inward, slamming hard against the inner concrete wall.
The tripwire snapped instantly.
PSSSSSSSSSSSSH!
Canister #1 detonated with a sharp pneumatic pop, discharging a concentrated wave of dense, emerald-green fog directly into the narrow doorway.
"Gas! Gas! Fall back—"
It was already too late.
The Mark II compound didn't wait for them to inhale.
The dense aerosol polymer passed through their tactical masks and bonded directly with their exposed skin and eyes.
Within three seconds, the first four hit-squad operatives collapsed onto the narrow stairwell, their weapons clattering onto the concrete floor.
"Hah... Haa... Hahahahaha!"
Violent, unnatural laughter erupted from the doorway.
The operatives clawed frantically at their throats as their jaw muscles locked into rigid, terrifying grins.
The skin contact triggered instant nerve paralysis, shutting down their motor function while forcing continuous, suffocating laughter through their locked jaws.
"Alpha Team is down! What the hell is that stuff?!" the remaining four men in the alley shouted, pushing forward with their weapons raised into the green-tinted doorway.
Jack stepped smoothly out from behind the workbench in the dark cellar.
He held a flare gun in his left hand—a ten-dollar marine rescue tool he had bought days ago.
Jack pulled the trigger.
FWOOSH!
The bright crimson magnesium flare shot through the dense emerald fog, blinding the night-vision goggles of the four men entering the room.
Before they could adjust, Jack tossed Canister #2 right into their center.
PSSSSSSSSSSSSH!
A second cloud of thick emerald fog erupted, filling the entire 400-square-foot cellar within four seconds.
The remaining four operatives fell to their knees like dominoes, clutching their chests as uncontrollable, hysterical laughter tore through their lungs in the blind red light of the flare.
Hahaha... Heh... HAHAHAHA!
Eight elite hitmen. Eight paralyzing smiles. Zero shots fired.
Jack walked slowly through the swirling green mist, his heavy leather boots making quiet crunching sounds on the spent brass shell casings scattered on the floor.
He stopped in front of the team leader, who lay flat on his back, hyperventilating with a wide, frozen grin beneath his military optics.
Jack knelt down, pulling a small silver recorder from his trench coat pocket.
He pressed record, holding the microphone close to the leader's laughing, gasping face.
"Tell Mr. Wesley..." Jack murmured smoothly, his pale eyes glowing with cold, intoxicating malice behind his mask.
"...that if he wants to send a cleaning crew, he needs to send men who know how to laugh."
Jack stood up, collected all eight tactical submachine guns, harvested $3,100.00 in high-denomination cash from their tactical vests, and slipped out the rear ventilation hatch into the Manhattan rain.
A brilliant, deep violet prompt illuminated his vision as he reached the rooftop above.
【 System Mission Completed! 】
Objective: Eliminate Wilson Fisk’s hit-squad using Laughing Gas Mark II — SUCCESS.
【 Rewards Issued: 】
Synchronization: +0.5% (Current Total: 4.2%)
System Cash Deposited: $1,000.00
Jack felt a massive, exhilarating surge of neural authority flood every cell in his brain.
The Joker template fused deeper than ever before.
At 4.2% synchronization, his physical reflexes, spatial tactical awareness, and resistance to psychological pressure reached a terrifying new baseline.
【 Current Status 】
Host Synchronization: 4.2%
Total Available Cash: $6,404.00 ($2,304 + $3,100 looted + $1,000 reward)
Active Inventory:
2x Laughing Gas Mark II Canisters
1x Laughing Gas Mark I Canister
8x Tactical Suppressed Submachine Guns (For sale or staging)
Hidden Reserve: $4.5M in Bearer Bonds & Diamonds
Unlocked Traits: Poker Face (Tier 1), Basic Instincts of Chaos, Street Brawling, Chemical Intuition (Basic)
Jack stood on the edge of the rain-soaked rooftop overlooking 11th Avenue.
He had destroyed Kingpin's hit-squad, harvested their money and weapons, and pushed his synchronization past 4.0%.
The game was no longer about hiding in a cellar. It was time to expand.
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