MARVEL'S BIG VILLAIN

Jason secured his S.H.I.E.L.D.-grade body armor, clipped two Oscorp-manufactured grenades to his chest, and loaded the magazines into his tactical belt. Every firearm was locked and ready.

Unzipping a bulging black duffel bag, stacks of hundred-dollar bills filled the interior—totaling $530,000. Like most criminals in Hell's Kitchen, Jason preferred cash over banks.

First, because every dollar he owned was dirty money, which would never survive an IRS audit.

Second, because he knew firsthand what happened when Wilson Fisk—Kingpin—decided to cut loose ends. If the NYPD, Daredevil, or any of the Avengers' street-level operatives ever froze his accounts, all his wealth would be gone.

Escaping with such a heavy bag would slow him down. Jason hesitated, then tapped a holographic interface on his wrist—a feature from StarkTech black market dealings. He exchanged all the cash for system points.

[Ding! Points redeemed successfully. Current balance: 53 points!]

Tossing the now-empty duffel aside, Jason walked onto the Midtown apartment balcony, carrying a reinforced Wakandan-designed rappelling rope.

He hooked the titanium-alloy buckle to the thickest guardrail, then let the rope unfurl down 80 meters—just enough for a clean descent.

BOOM!

A thunderous crash erupted outside his door. The Bratva enforcers were breaching in.

Jason crouched near the bedroom entrance, opening the door just a crack.

BOOM!

Another explosion. Plaster rained from the ceiling, and dust filled the air.

BOOM!

With the third impact, the apartment's security door shattered. Seven or eight Russian mobsters, all masked, charged inside, their AK-47s sweeping the space.

Jason yanked the pin from a Stark-designed fragmentation grenade, hurled it into the room, and shouted:

"Fire in the hole!"

The grenade landed precisely at their feet.

"Ah, cyka blyat—"

BOOM!

A fiery blast tore through the room. Limbs, shattered bones, and blood splattered across the apartment walls. The smoke alarm activated, sprinklers rained down, and the once-luxurious Midtown apartment turned into a war zone.

[Ding! Three mafia eliminated—300 villain points gained. Current progress: 320/1000.]

[Ding! Two mafia injured—100 villain points gained. Current progress: 420/1000.]

Five down, but Jason wasn't celebrating yet.

"Jason! There's no escape! Surrender now!"

The thick Russian accent belonged to Vladimir Ranskahov—one of the Bratva brothers who once ran guns in New York's Kitchen before aligning with Kingpin.

Jason smirked, his hands moving swiftly to plant a tripwire grenade at the bedroom entrance.

"Wanna bet, Vlad? How about I wager that I'll make it out alive—on the same thing resting between your shoulders?"

"FUCK YOU, JASON! YOU'RE DEAD!"

That was Anatoly Ranskahov, Vladimir's hot-headed younger brother.

A year ago, the Bratva arrived in Hell's Kitchen, desperate for power. No turf, no resources—just a lot of stolen Chitauri tech and bad attitudes.

They had no choice but to kneel before Wilson Fisk, handling his dirty work: assassinations, arms deals, and human trafficking.

But the Russians were reckless. They didn't respect Kingpin. They drank Stolichnaya vodka, acted untouchable, and once, after a drunken brawl, Anatoly even put a gun to Jason's head.

Fisk never forgave disrespect. Sending the Bratva after Jason was Fisk's way of cleaning house—a perfect excuse to kill two birds with one stone.

Jason chuckled darkly.

"That fat bastard is smarter than he looks."

Outside, Anatoly snarled and hoisted an RPG-7, ready to obliterate Jason's apartment.

"Brother! I'll blow this American dog to hell!"

Vladimir shoved the launcher aside.

"No! Fisk said we get land only if Jason is taken alive!"

He turned back toward the door.

"Jason, drop your weapons! I swear on my mother's grave—we won't kill you!"

Silence.

"Jason?"

Nothing.

Because half a minute ago, Jason had already vaulted over the balcony, beginning his controlled descent.

---

Midtown, New York – 3:15 AM

The series of explosions shook the neighborhood, waking bystanders and lighting up the Manhattan skyline.

Pedestrians gathered, murmuring in alarm.

"What the hell was that?!"

"A gas explosion?"

"No—someone's rappelling from the building!"

A hooded figure in military-grade tactical gear, armed to the teeth, was fast-roping down from a high-rise balcony—an image straight out of an MCU action sequence.

"Call 911!"

"No—film this first! Holy shit!"

---

Inside the Apartment

Thirty seconds later, another blast erupted.

Someone had tripped Jason's booby-trap grenade.

[Ding! One mafia eliminated—100 villain points gained. Current progress: 520/1000.]

Jason scoffed.

"Only one? What a waste of good explosives."

But the real goal wasn't just killing—it was buying time.

The delay had already given him an extra minute, and he was now only 40 meters from the ground.

Not safe yet.

Jason reached for his Beretta M9 from the thigh holster.

Mid-rappel, he swung slightly, aiming upward at the balcony.

A shadow appeared—one of the Bratva goons peering down, scanning for him.

Jason squeezed the trigger.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Three gunshots.

A scream.

The figure toppled backward into the apartment.

[Ding! One mafia wounded—20 villain points gained. Current progress: 540/1000.]

Jason grimaced.

"Damn, only 20 points? Must've just grazed him."

Holding a rappelling rope in one hand and shooting with the other was insanely difficult, especially aiming upward at a moving target from 40 meters away.

Still, the psychological effect was what mattered. No one dared peek over the balcony now.

Seizing the opportunity, Jason accelerated his descent.

Now just 20 meters from the ground.

The escape wasn't over yet.

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