Chapter 313 Pain.

Chapter 313: 313 Pain.

"And that’s the whole miserable shape of it," I finished, staring blankly at the condensation dripping down the side of my beer bottle.

Steve let out a low, descending whistle that sounded exactly like a cartoon bomb dropping from the sky. "Yeah, that sucks pretty hard, my man," he said, shaking his head.

I sighed into my drink. "I’ll say."

Steve leaned over the sticky wooden table and patted my shoulder sympathetically.

Why’s everything so sticky?

I gave him a tired but genuinely grateful look. I didn’t have a lot of solid friends in this industry like Steve.

Actually, that wasn’t entirely true, because I could technically have dozens of Steves hanging around the bar right now if he actively wanted to duplicate himself.

God, that was a depressing thought.

"Ey, man, I completely know how it is. Corporate shit happens," Steve said, leaning back in his chair and waving his beer for emphasis. "You just gotta, ya know, go with the flow of the market. Life’s like a big old box of chocolates or somethin’.

"You got your crunchy peanuts, some chewy nougats, and like, sometimes those weird liquor ones that are actually really good if you’ve had a long shift. But you know? Ya never really know what you’re gonna get. Except..."

He paused, his brow furrowing as he stared at the ceiling, visibly losing his train of thought.

"Except if you actually take a look at the label under the cover of the box. You know the one? The little map that strictly lists off all the candies? And like, they all have the exact same number of chocolates in every box, actually.

"They gotta do that because they manufacture the plastic inserts with those little slots that the chocolates specifically fit into. Right? So, you know, the manufacturers actually know exactly what you’re getting. It’s a heavily regulated industry, man. The FDA doesn’t just let you put mystery nougat in a box."

I let out a slow breath and quietly tuned out Steve’s rambling, idly looking around McLaren’s to find some comfort in the old, familiar drinking hole.

It was genuinely nice to know that McLaren’s was always here. Come hell, high water, or a highly publicized alien invasion event, the bar was always open for business.

It was a crude system, but it worked flawlessly.

I sighed again, running a thumb over the label of my bottle. Because although there was a deep, comforting familiarity in McLaren’s, something was fundamentally different today.

I could physically sense it in the room. There was a noticeable, professional distance between me and almost everyone else sitting in the booths.

I wasn’t just another disposable, street-level contractor anymore. I was a somebody. I was a certified presence in the industry.

Yeah. I was somebody now.

And looking around the bar, I wasn’t entirely sure I liked it.

I swirled my beer, quietly lamenting my own rising market cap.

Back then, I had freedom. If a contract went completely south, or if a licensed hero decided to hold a personal grudge, I could just back out.

Now? I was a massive target. I was too culturally relevant to just blend back into the background. I couldn’t just drop the Iron Polaris name and start over.

But at the very least, Steve still treated me exactly the same.

I gave him another grateful look across the table. It really did show you who your true friends were when your tax bracket changed as violently as mine had.

I quickly tuned back into the conversation, sensing by his tone that he was finally getting to the grand conclusion of his rambling monologue.

"...and like chocolate, our lives are ultimately run by, like, a few massive conglomerates, man. Just a couple of holding companies that literally own everything on the shelf. But yeah, man, I guess life is more like the chocolate industry in general, you know? It’s all about supply and demand."

"Absolutely," I said, keeping my face perfectly straight.

Steve blinked, pausing for a second, and then looked at me. A wide, genuine grin split his face. "Eyyy, man! There you go! You got a smile again. I knew it’d cheer you up. Deep philosophy, man. It’s good for what ails ya."

"I’ll happily drink to that," I said, lifting my beer in a mock salute.

With a lazy grin, Steve did the exact same, clinking his brown glass bottle against mine before we both took a long, heavy draw.

I set my bottle back down, letting out a satisfied breath, feeling instantly refreshed with the cold brew. I was definitely a bit more relaxed than when I had first walked through the front doors.

But I wasn’t so relaxed that I didn’t immediately sense the guy making a beeline toward our table.

I had picked his magnetic signature out pretty early on, feeling his eyes intently boring a hole into the back of my head the absolute second I walked into the bar.

He had been sitting in a corner booth with Mighty Moth and some other villains I didn’t recognize. His incredibly excited, hushed conversation with his seatmates when I walked in had almost made me rethink coming inside, but in the end, I had ignored it to join Steve.

And now, it seemed like he was actively coming over to pitch me something.

I wasn’t particularly worried about my physical safety. The guy was wearing entirely too much heavy, unshielded metal for me to be even mildly concerned. Two massive, pressurized steel tanks of chemical accelerant sloshed heavily on his back, and a pair of custom-machined pistol flamethrowers were holstered loosely at his hips.

All of this was pretty standard, entry-level villain branding. Honestly, the bright white canvas apron he was wearing over his gear—which had ’Kill the Cook’ written across the chest in jagged red marker—was really what brought the whole aesthetic together.

"Hey there," the guy said, his voice slightly muffled behind the thick glass of the welding mask. "Mind if I join you guys?"

"A bit," I said flatly.

Steve eyed the newcomer with a distinctly unfriendly, protective look, clearly annoyed that his union break was being interrupted.

"Sorry. Sorry, my bad," the newcomer said, awkwardly hovering by the edge of our table. "I definitely should have properly introduced myself first. I’m Pro Pain. And these," he said, proudly tapping the heavy metal handles of the flamethrowers on his hips, "are my Pro Pain accessories."

"Interesting," I said, deadpan. "Anyway, Steve, I—"

"I was originally..."