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The storm had passed, leaving the sky a brilliant, unblemished blue. Soft, golden sunlight streamed through the expansive glass walls of the villa's bedroom, bathing the room in a warm, inviting glow that felt almost sinful in its perfection.
Jason lay sprawled across the king-sized bed, alone, his chiseled features softened into an expression of serene tranquility. Only in the unguarded depths of sleep, when his mind and body surrendered to rest, did he reveal this rare, almost boyish vulnerability—a stark contrast to the hardened, ruthless man he was in waking hours.
The sunlight crept slowly up the bed, caressing his bare feet before climbing higher, kissing his muscular legs, his toned abdomen, and finally settling on his rugged face. He stirred, his brow furrowing as the brightness pierced his slumber. With a groan, he raised a calloused hand to shield his eyes, his thick lashes fluttering as he slowly opened them, squinting against the intrusive light.
Exhaustion had claimed him the night before, dragging him into a deep, dreamless sleep that lasted until noon. His body ached from the previous day's grueling trek, but the bed's plush embrace had cradled him like a lover, granting him a rare moment of peace.
Stretching his arms out to either side, he groped for the warm, soft presence of Harleen, but the sheets were cold, her absence leaving a faint pang in his chest. "Fuck," He muttered under his breath, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips as he imagined her sneaking off to cause some kind of mischief.
"Ahhh, shit," He groaned, letting out a long, satisfied yawn that echoed through the quiet room. Rolling out of bed, he stood in nothing but a pair of tight black boxer briefs that hugged his powerful thighs and accentuated the bulge of his arousal, a lingering remnant of last night's heated encounter with Harleen. He strode toward the gym area, his bare feet padding against the polished hardwood floor, his body radiating raw, primal energy.
Like Kingpin, Jason had a morning ritual—a brutal, sweat-drenched workout to jolt his body awake and sharpen his mind. He approached the gleaming fitness equipment, his eyes glinting with determination as he cranked the weights to their maximum. But for a man with his superhuman strength—63 points of pure, unyielding power—the heavy iron was child's play. He tore through the reps with relentless precision, his muscles flexing and rippling under his taut skin, veins popping as he pushed his body to its limits.
After thirty minutes of ferocious effort, only a faint sheen of sweat glistened on his sculpted frame, a testament to his extraordinary endurance. Stripping off his sweat-soaked briefs, he tossed them aside, his naked body a masterpiece of raw masculinity as he stepped into the bathroom. The hot water cascaded over him, steam rising in thick clouds as he lathered his skin, the soap sliding over every hard plane and curve of his physique. He closed his eyes, letting the heat seep into his bones, washing away the last traces of fatigue and leaving him invigorated.
When he emerged, towel slung low around his hips, water droplets still clinging to his chest, he froze at the sight of Harleen. She sauntered into the room, her hips swaying in a tight, scandalously short skirt that barely covered her thighs, her blouse unbuttoned just enough to tease a glimpse of her cleavage. In her hands, she carried several sleek shopping bags, her lips curled into a mischievous smile that promised trouble.
Jason's brow arched, his eyes raking over her with unabashed hunger. "Fuck me, Harleen," He said, his voice rough with surprise. "It's barely past noon, and you've already been out shopping?"
Harleen laughed, a sultry, throaty sound that sent a jolt straight to his groin. "Relax, big guy. I was just as wiped as you last night. I only got up an hour ago. These," She said, holding up the bags, "Are courtesy of Mrs. Robert. She went into town this morning to pick up some essentials."
She paused, her eyes gleaming with amusement as she added, "Don't worry, Franklin drove her. She wasn't alone."
Jason nodded, satisfied, and crossed the room to peer into one of the bags. Inside was a tailored black suit, the fabric so luxurious it practically screamed money. He pulled it out, running his fingers over the smooth material, already imagining how it would feel against his skin.
With practiced ease, he shed the towel, letting it fall to the floor as he began to dress, fully aware of Harleen's gaze burning into him. She leaned against the wall, her eyes devouring every inch of his body—his broad shoulders, his chiseled abs, the V of his hips that led to the thick, impressive length of him, still half-hard from the shower's warmth.
"What?" He teased, catching her stare as he stepped into the trousers. "Didn't get your fill last night?"
Harleen's lips parted, her voice low and dripping with desire. "A night with you? Not even close, Jason. I could spend a lifetime exploring that body and still want more."
He grinned, slipping into the jacket, transforming into a vision of dangerous elegance—a suited thug who radiated power and menace. Harleen stepped closer, her fingers deftly adjusting his tie, her touch lingering as she pressed herself against him, her curves soft and warm against his hard frame.
"The waist could use a little tailoring," She murmured, her breath hot against his neck. "Next time, we'll get you something custom-made to hug that gorgeous body just right."
Jason shrugged, his voice gruff but playful. "As long as it fits, I don't give a shit. Clothes don't make the man, Harleen."
She scoffed, her hands sliding down his chest, her nails grazing the fabric. "Maybe not, but you're the fucking king of this operation now. The leader of the Joker's crew. You've got to look the part—every damn day."
"Oh, speaking of new beginnings," She said, stepping back with a dramatic flourish. "I'm done with my old identity. Last night, I gave myself a new name. Harley Quinn. What do you think?"
Jason's lips curved into a wicked grin, his eyes glinting with approval. "Harley Quinn, huh? Sexy as hell. Suits you perfectly."
She beamed, her smile radiant and dangerous. "Thanks, darling."
They descended to the villa's dining room, where Mrs. Robert was setting out a lavish lunch spread, the aroma of roasted meat and fresh bread filling the air. "Good afternoon, Mr. Walter," She said, her voice polite but tinged with caution. "Lunch is ready for you and your friends."
Jason's reputation as a volatile, unpredictable force preceded him. Now, having toppled Kingpin and claimed his empire, the Roberts couple treaded carefully, aware that his temper could flare at the slightest provocation.
He gave a curt nod, and Mrs. Robert excused herself, slipping out of the villa with practiced discretion. Jason took his place at the head of the table, his gaze sweeping over his inner circle—Franklin, John, and Harley. If Stan was here, his core crew would be complete.
As they dug into the meal, the conversation flowed, punctuated by the clink of cutlery and the occasional crude laugh. Franklin leaned forward, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Boss, I went with Mrs. Robert this morning. She was nervous as hell, but no funny business. Didn't so much as glance at a phone."
John set down his fork, his expression serious. "Same with the prisoners. They spent the morning fucking around—riding horses, shooting guns, playing cards. They're treating this place like a goddamn resort."
Jason sliced into a juicy steak, chewing thoughtfully. "They're fresh out of prison, so they're too busy enjoying their freedom to stir up shit—for now. But give it time. Men like that get restless. John, you've worked with organizations like this before. You know how to keep a crew in line. This afternoon, draft a set of rules. Tonight, we'll go over them, tighten them up. No rules, no order. We're not running a fucking circus here. I don't care how tough our enemies are—I'm more worried about dumbass teammates fucking it all up."
"Got it, boss," John said, nodding.
Harley leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "And what about me? What's my job?"
Jason paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "You?" He smirked, his gaze lingering on her lips, still remembering their taste from last night. "We just broke out of prison, Harley. The cops are probably losing their minds trying to hunt us down. For now, we lay low. Rest. Enjoy the good life. You've earned it."
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Meanwhile, in New York, a dark cloud hung over the state. From the governor to the lowliest beat cop, every official wore a grim expression, their faces etched with exhaustion and frustration.
The city was still reeling from a recent string of bombings, forcing police to patrol relentlessly, stopping and questioning every passerby. Crime rates had plummeted to historic lows, but the heavy-handed tactics had sparked outrage among citizens, who felt like prisoners in their own city.
For ten grueling days, the authorities held the line, and though no suspects were caught, the absence of further explosions offered a sliver of relief. Just as they began to dismantle the checkpoints, a bombshell hit: Long Island Prison had been overrun by an unknown armed group. Over seven hundred guards lay dead, slaughtered in a single night. Worse still, a thorough investigation revealed that hundreds of inmates—including the notorious Jason Walter—had escaped, vanishing into the night.
By dawn, the media had seized the story, blasting it across every channel and headline. The public's fury erupted. Tens of thousands of New Yorkers flooded the streets, protesting outside government offices and police headquarters, their anger snarling traffic into chaos. The escape of hundreds of violent felons, enabled by governmental incompetence, posed a dire threat to their safety and property.
Among the protesters were the families of the fallen guards—seven hundred broken households, their lives shattered. They demanded justice, compensation, and answers, their grief fueling their outrage.
The news reached the highest levels of government, leaving Congress and the President reeling. In an emergency press conference at the White House, the President declared the prison attack a meticulously planned terrorist act. He vowed a thorough investigation, promising to hold all responsible parties accountable and issuing a nationwide bounty for the capture of every escaped convict.
Within hours, a wave of resignations swept through the Justice Department, the NYPD, and the FBI, as top officials publicly apologized, their careers crumbling under the weight of public scorn. The law enforcement hierarchy underwent a brutal overhaul, with new leaders stepping into the spotlight.
The incoming officials took to social media, pledging to flood New York with additional agents and officers, vowing to recapture Jason and his fellow escapees in record time. The hunt was on, and the stakes had never been higher.
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