Chapter 222 Tricky.

Chapter 222: 222 Tricky.

Hoo boy. This was going to be tricky.

"What I do is offer a service," I said, keeping my tone carefully measured to match a corporate consultant explaining a pivot. "Something like a fixed, televised demonstration of force for heroes looking to build their public profile.

"That’s essentially what I’m offering here. It can be brutally difficult to get noticed as an independent hero starting out in a market saturated with legacy capes.

"What I do is, essentially, put you in the national spotlight by letting you thwart me. Raise your Q-rating and establish your brand in the city."

"So I fight you and beat you on camera to gain fame?" she asked, her voice tight with disbelief.

"Precisely."

Vanessa shifted her gaze to Mystic. "Is this actually a thing?"

The red-headed hero nodded calmly, taking a slow sip of water. "It is."

"Then... what happened to the Bureau downtown?" Vanessa pressed, her eye narrowing. "Was that staged?"

Mystic grimaced, shaking her head. "No. That was... an entirely different matter."

"It’s all completely above board," I jumped in to clarify. "No innocent bystanders get caught in the crossfire, and any property damage is budgeted for and paid out of pocket. It’s entirely safe."

"Paid for by who?" Vanessa demanded, her attention snapping back to me with a sharp edge.

"Me," I said. "I use the capital earned from my standard contracts to cover the logistics, permits, and venue rentals for the heist."

"I mean, who actually pays you?" she retorted suspiciously. "Because I am not giving a single red cent of my own money to a criminal so he can take a fake dive for me."

Damn. She was sharp. I had been quietly hoping she wouldn’t look that particular gift horse in the mouth, though I couldn’t really blame her for being skeptical.

At the same time, telling her that her estranged, eldritch-horror father had handed me fifty million dollars in unmarked cash to throw a match for her probably wasn’t going to win me any warm hugs.

Still, I wasn’t going to lie to her face. Lies in the underworld always came home to roost, usually at the absolute worst possible moment.

"Your father," I admitted quietly.

Fuck!

I could see her tense up instantly, her body locking like a frightened cat, jerking backward against the vinyl booth as if I’d placed a live rattlesnake on the table.

"He said he wanted to ensure you succeeded in your hero career," I rushed to explain, holding my hands out defensively. "And he contracted me to lose to you so your public profile would skyrocket."

"My father is a manipulative bastard!" she snapped, her fists clenching so hard her silver bangles jingled violently. "You two have a lot in common."

"Well... okay, fair point, I’m not going to argue that one," I conceded. "But he’s footing the bill, so you’d actually be doing me a massive professional favor if you just... you know. Showed up, beat me up, and thwarted my evil scheme."

"I don’t believe you," she said, shaking her head angrily. "You’re working for him. This is just an elaborate trap to drag me back home."

"He mentioned you were going through a rebellious phase," I said. "So... I don’t know, maybe he’s trying to play some weird long-game parenting move. But he honestly seemed a lot more concerned that you actually succeed as a hero.

"He was fiercely intent on making sure you reached the top tier of the hero community. Me? I don’t care about family dynamics."

I offered a casual shrug. "I’m just a contractor. I’m here to execute a project. But I assure you, I’m a professional. I’m not taking orders from your dad, I’m taking the job. I’m running the show, and I’ll keep you in the loop every step of the way. No bullshit. No hidden clauses. Completely straight."

"And what if this is just a scheme by him?" she challenged, glaring across the table. "Or maybe you just took the gig as an excuse to hurt me again."

...Ouch.

"...Well," I said, coughing lightly into my fist. "I can’t entirely rule out that first part. But I promise you, he has zero say in how I manage the operations. He has no creative input or role in the execution. And if he tries to interfere or pull strings behind the scenes, I’ll deal with him."

"You?" she said, her tone dripping with heavy skepticism.

"Well," I said with a mild grin. "It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to tell a megalomaniac where to stick it."

Vanessa went completely silent, which, honestly, was a massive improvement. She was actually chewing on the proposal instead of immediately telling me to go fuck myself.

She clearly knew about my run-in with Captain Zero from a while back; the business grapevine operated like high-speed fiber-optic cable.

She eyed me with lingering suspicion, but it was a damn sight better than the raw hostility she’d walked in with.

"If I do agree," she said slowly, her voice dropping an octave as she leaned forward over the laminate table. "What, exactly, had you pictured for the script?"

Hell yes. Hook, line, and sinker. She was nibbling. All I had to do was sell the production values, and on that front, I was an absolute virtuoso.

"Here’s what I’m thinking," I said, tapping a finger against the wood. "Your primary kit is magic-based, right?"

"Yes," she admitted cautiously.

I swallowed the minor panic that thought induced and kept my face neutral. "Right. So we’ll obviously want to build the set pieces around that aesthetic.

"Fortunately, I’m a freelance generalist, not a single-gimmick specialist, which means I can pull off high-end heists that standard mercs can’t touch.

"Since you’re a magic-user, I want our debut clash to match that energy. I’ll need to run some numbers with my technical crew, but I’m leaning toward a high-profile museum exhibit or a rare antiquities gallery."

I watched her start to bristle instantly. "You wouldn’t dare—"

"All the high-value artifacts would be durable replicas," I assured her immediately. "Anything in the predicted damage radius would be pre-rigged to shatter safely so you don’t have to pull your punches or worry about collateral damage.

"There are a couple of exclusive art galas coming up in the district next week that would make a fantastic backdrop. Alternatively, we could hit a tech lab, but given your skill set, I don’t know if industrial espionage is theatrical enough."

"I don’t pick my targets based on theatricality," Vanessa corrected sharply, though her posture relaxed a fraction. "I fight villains to protect innocent people."

"Absolutely, and that’s a very noble baseline," I agreed smoothly. "But this gets you noticed by the right people. Maybe even triggers an outreach program from a major coalition or a top-tier guild looking to recruit fresh talent.

"Let’s be real—you can do a lot more systemic good fighting heavyweight, mythic-tier threats than wasting your time trying to stop some low-rent guy with rubber limbs from knocking over a 7-Eleven."

Vanessa frowned, but I could tell the logic was hitting home. She was genuinely chewing on it.

And right as she was about to answer, a heavy, familiar pair of footsteps approached our booth, followed by the clatter of porcelain.

"Here you go. The Hero’s Slice Specials."

"Oh, thanks," I started, reaching for a menu before I caught a glimpse of the server out of the corner of my eye.

Holy shit.

I whipped my head around, staring in absolute, unadulterated shock at the hulking, broad-shouldered man standing beside our table.

He was wearing a nervous, hesitant smile—an expression I had literally never seen on his face before.

Though, to be fair, the last few times our paths had crossed, his face had either been locked in a cold, brainwashed stupor or slack with post-hypnotic relief.

Rick Steel—better known to the global population as the indestructible Mister Invincible—stood right beside our booth.

He had traded his iconic, form-fitting red-and-blue hero spandex for a casual gray sleeveless undershirt and a grease-stained apron tied securely around his massive, barrel-like waist.

Neither garment did anything to disguise the fact that he was built like a reinforced concrete bridge.

I gaped at him, my jaw practically hitting the floorboards.

"You...?"