2:30 AM. Sector 3, Lower East Side.
The heavy odor of wet rust and salt water filled the air beneath the Manhattan Bridge.
Jack stood in the shadows of an abandoned meat-packing cold storage unit. His dark charcoal trench coat was buttoned tight against the damp river chill, his gloved hands resting loosely inside his pockets.
Beside his boots sat a reinforced aluminum travel case containing the $4.5 million in stolen bearer bonds, raw uncut diamonds, and eight suppressed submachine guns harvested from Fisk’s dead hit-squad.
Headlights cut through the river fog.
A matte-black armored Cadillac Escalade rolled slowly into the alley, its engine purring with low, heavy power.
Two armed guards in dark tactical suits stepped out first, their hands resting on concealed holsters as they scanned the blind alleyways.
Then, the rear passenger door opened.
An elderly man with slicked-back gray hair, wearing a bespoke double-breasted coat and holding a silver-handled walking stick, stepped onto the wet asphalt.
"Mr. Jack, I presume?" the old man’s voice was smooth, carrying a sharp European accent.
This was Victor Vance—the premiere black-market fence in New York, a man who had laundered money for the Maggia, the Triads, and rogue S.H.I.E.L.D. contacts for three decades without ever getting caught.
"You're late, Vance," Jack said calmly. His voice carried zero emotion, his Poker Face (Tier 1) keeping his posture entirely unreadable.
Victor smiled thin, adjusting his leather gloves. "When a man claims to have four point five million in clean diamonds and bearer bonds from the Aurelia Gallery vault... precaution is necessary. Especially when the Kingpin is burning down Hell's Kitchen looking for them."
"Let's cut the pleasantries," Jack replied softly. He kicked the aluminum case forward with the heel of his boot.
CLACK.
One of Victor’s bodyguards stepped forward, kneeling to pop the heavy brass latches on the case.
Inside, rows of sparkling, uncut diamonds and pristine Swiss bearer bonds gleamed under the streetlights, flanked by eight tactical suppressed submachine guns.
Victor leaned over his cane, his eyes narrowing as he inspected the diamonds with a jeweler's loupe pulled from his pocket.
"Authentic..." Victor murmured, a rare flash of genuine surprise passing over his weathered face. "The Aurelia reserve. Untouched."
"I want forty percent in clean, untraceable cash," Jack stated coldly. "The rest is your commission for wiping the serials."
Victor looked up, his smile tightening. "Forty percent is high for hot mob property, son. Thirty percent is standard."
Jack stepped forward—a single, smooth movement.
His eyes locked onto Victor's. Through his 5.0% synchronization, an unnatural, suffocating aura of chaotic threat radiated from Jack's pale face.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't reach for a weapon.
"You take sixty percent profit on a four-point-five million yield," Jack purred softly, his voice dropping into a razor-thin whisper. "And in return, you get to walk back to your Cadillac without learning what happens when you inhale green fog."
Victor froze.
The old fence’s heart rate spiked—he had heard the leaked audio from the 46th Street cellar. He knew who was standing in front of him.
The "Laughing Demon" wasn't a myth.
Victor swallowed hard, stepping back half a pace. "Forty percent. Cash. Delivered via secure wire and physical dead-drops in six hours."
"Wise choice," Jack smiled, a wide, sharp grin slicing across his features in the dark alley.
Victor Vance snapped his fingers, and his heavy-set bodyguard immediately stepped forward with a sleek, encrypted hard-shell briefcase.
"Forty percent of four point five million comes out to $1,800,000.00," Victor said, his tone shifting from cold corporate arrogance to professional respect. "Consider this your first installment: $250,000.00 in clean, unmarked, non-sequential hundred-dollar bills, ready right now. The remaining $1,550,000.00 will hit your off-shore wire accounts by noon tomorrow."
Victor tapped his silver-handled cane against the wet asphalt.
"Consider the extra effort a gesture of good faith, Mr. Jack. In my business, staying alive means knowing which way the wind blows. And right now, you're making Hell's Kitchen very stormy."
"Smart man, Victor," Jack said smoothly, pulling the briefcase toward him.
"I don't just deal in diamonds, son," Victor continued, reaching into his inner jacket pocket and pulling out a small, leather-bound black ledger. He held it out toward Jack.
"Fisk has a secondary distribution hub at Pier 19. It’s disguised as a commercial fish cold-storage facility, but two levels down sits his private tactical armory—and a massive cache of industrial-grade chemical precursors he imported for his illicit pharmaceutical labs."
Jack’s eyes flickered with cold interest behind his mask.
"Chemical precursors?"
"High-yield neuro-solvents, industrial pressure tanks, and military-grade delivery canisters," Victor whispered with a thin smile. "Stuff Fisk bought to streamline his own operations. If you take that facility, you don't just hurt his wallet—you steal his raw materials."
Jack accepted the leather notebook, sliding it into his charcoal trench coat.
A translucent purple system notification bloomed brightly across his vision as Victor’s Cadillac vanished into the river mist.
【 Transaction & Intel Completed! 】
Laundered Proceeds Deposited: +$250,000.00 Cash (Initial Tranche)
Pending Wire Transfer: $1,550,000.00 (Processing)
Intel Unlocked: Fisk’s Pier 19 Armory & Chemical Reserve
【 Rewards Issued: 】
Synchronization: +0.3% (Current Total: 5.3%)
Jack stood alone under the Manhattan Bridge, holding a quarter-million dollars in hard cash with nearly two million more on the way.
Synchronization had crossed 5.3%.
【 Current Status 】
Host Synchronization: 5.3%
Liquid Cash On Hand: $254,404.00 ($4,404 + $250,000 advance)
Pending Capital: $1,550,000.00 (Wire transfer)
Active Inventory: 2x Laughing Gas Mark II Canisters, 1x Laughing Gas Mark I Canister
New Target: Kingpin’s Pier 19 Chemical Armory
Jack opened the cash briefcase, looking down at the stacks of pristine bills.
With a quarter-million dollars in liquid cash, a level-two chemical lab at Pier 54, and intel on Fisk's private chemical reserves, the groundwork for a true empire of chaos was officially laid.
"A chemical armory..." Jack murmured into the damp night air, his wide smile reflecting off the wet pavement.
"It would be rude not to drop by for a visit."
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