Chapter 244 Stop.

Chapter 244: 244 Stop.

Getting a direct summons from Arman Glint was never a good way to spend a Tuesday afternoon.

I actively went out of my way to avoid crossing into his territory.

Technically, everything you could legally tie his name to was above board—shipping logistics, commercial real estate, and the promotion rights for the local underground fighting circuits.

But trusting that paper trail was like saying a bear trap is a safe piece of yard art as long as you don’t step on the trigger.

Scratch the surface of any contract with Glint’s signature on the bottom line, and the bodies would inevitably start floating to the surface of the Metropolis harbor.

Unfortunately, in my line of work, staying entirely off his radar was an impossible task.

You needed hard, defined boundaries in the freelance villain business, or it was way too easy to step over the edge and end up on a slab.

Plenty of ambitious hotheads who got called into Arman’s executive office left the building in a lot more pieces than they entered.

I wasn’t exactly sweating bullets about that specific outcome, though. I was no pushover.

The last time we had a private chat in this building, things got tense, I magnetically warped the structural rebar inside his walls to make my point, and we reached a polite, mutual understanding to stay out of each other’s business.

But I also wasn’t stupid enough to throw myself into the heart of a major crime league’s operation on a whim.

Ignoring Arman’s text wasn’t going to win me any survival points. He would just track me down for a conversation somewhere far less convenient.

I hadn’t done anything to his operations that would warrant him looking for a turf war, but in the underworld, you could never be completely sure.

So, before I even pulled the Cruiser into the venue’s parking lot, I took a detour down a quiet service alley.

I popped a hidden compartment under my seat, pulling out a stack of ultra-thin tungsten plating. With a precise flex of my power, I floated the metal out and slipped it directly beneath the fabric of my tailored suit.

The plates locked seamlessly together along my ribs and spine, snapping tight against my undershirt.

It was stiff, heavy, and ruined the drape of the jacket, but I preferred looking a little bulky over catching a hollow-point bullet in the lung. Better safe than sorry.

I pulled into the private lot behind the massive, brutalist cement dome of the Death Rumble.

Two of Arman’s personal guards were waiting for me at the heavy steel loading doors.

They were incredibly top-heavy guys whose craggy, uneven skin was composed of actual, literal rock.

The guy on the left looked like he had been roughly chiseled out of a slab of granite, while the guy on the right resembled a walking brick wall, complete with thick white mortar lines running down the side of his jaw.

Both of them were stuffed into expensive, custom-tailored suits that strained dangerously across their massive shoulders.

Guys that big who dressed that sharp fell into a very specific category of the ecosystem—goons.

The general public usually lumped them in with standard henchmen, but the two were entirely different breeds.

Henchmen worked for the bad guy because of radical ideology, telepathic brainwashing, or a desperate desire to watch society burn to the ground.

Goons, on the other hand, worked strictly for direct deposit and a solid dental plan.

In my professional opinion, that made them drastically smarter than your average costumed minion.

A goon wasn’t going to fight a flying superhero to the death over a philosophical disagreement. You could negotiate with a goon. You could bribe them.

"Boys," I said, offering a tight, polite nod as I approached the doors.

"Boss is waiting for you," the brick-faced guard grunted, his voice sounding like two cinderblocks grinding together.

"Let’s not keep him waiting, then," I replied.

The pair turned, slotting themselves heavily on either side of my shoulders in a standard pincer escort.

It was the oldest intimidation tactic in the criminal handbook, designed to make you feel boxed in and claustrophobic.

I’d had cosmic warlords threaten to turn my blood to ash, so a couple of living gargoyles flanking me down a hallway didn’t exactly rattle my nerves.

I was mostly just annoyed by the heavy, echoing thud of their stone boots against the linoleum as we marched through the service corridors.

I glanced around at the empty ticket booths and the powered-down concession stands.

We passed a wide glass viewing window looking down into the main arena. The massive chain-link fighting cage was dark, the stadium seating empty and silent.

The air smelled of stale beer, industrial bleach, and dried sweat. Arman had deliberately scheduled this meeting during the daytime downtime between his exhibition fights.

That meant he wanted absolute privacy. Which meant he either wanted to propose a highly illegal partnership, or he wanted to bury me under the arena floorboards with no witnesses.

I supposed I would find out which way the wind was blowing soon enough.

The two goons brought me up the stairs to the executive suite on the upper level, stopping in front of a pair of heavy oak doors. They pushed them open, admitting me into the inner sanctum.

I had to give Arman credit where it was due; the man knew how to decorate like a classic mob boss.

The floor was covered in a deep red rug that was undeniably soft and highly practical for hiding bloodstains.

An imposing, solid mahogany desk sat directly in front of a massive bay window overlooking the empty fighting cage below.

It was the perfect, high-backed chair to loom in while browbeating a failed lieutenant with cutting sarcasm or pleasant, smiling threats.

I glanced at the walls, which were lined with reinforced glass display cases showing off various rare geodes, raw ores, and uncut gemstones, all meticulously labeled on small brass plaques. A highly fitting collectible hobby for a man like Arman.

Arman Glint himself waited at the far end of the room, sitting back in his reinforced leather chair in all his bulky, terrifying glory.

Arman was built like a heavyweight prizefighter, but he sparkled in a very literal, dangerous way. His entire physiology was composed of living, flawless diamond.

He used his impenetrable skin and heavy fists to claw his way to the absolute top of the local crime league.

He confronted me with a wide, glittering smile, his roughly hewn hands clasped casually on the desk in front of him.

The overhead lights in the office were deliberately kept low so I wouldn’t be completely blinded by the glare refracting off his body.

"Miles," Arman said. His voice was a deep, gravelly rumble that made a distinct effort to sound welcoming and pleasant. "So glad you could stop by."