"I know your rules. Every mediation costs one hundred thousand dollars."
Hood Kane had clearly done his homework. Either he had investigated Allens specifically, or at least learned about the "Persuader" of Hell's Kitchen—everyone knew that was his price for stepping in.
For a small gang, a hundred thousand dollars was steep. But for Kane's organization, it was nothing more than pocket change.
"No, no," Allens replied with a faint smile, his tone casual, almost like he was chatting with a friend. "It might be a hundred thousand for others, but for Mr. Hood Kane? That's too cheap. A hundred thousand is nothing to you. I think the fee should be higher… say, one million dollars."
Though his voice was calm, there was no room for negotiation in his words.
Allens had already seen through Kane's attitude—money didn't bother him. That's why he pushed the price up tenfold in an instant.
After a brief silence, Kane nodded. "You're right. One hundred thousand is beneath us. One million dollars—it's a fair price."
His group was wealthy enough that a mere hundred thousand wasn't even worth mentioning. One million, as Allens suggested, sounded much more appropriate.
"Good. Transfer it to this account, and tell me when the mediation will happen. I'll be there on time."
Allens walked to the only table in his cramped apartment, tore off a piece of paper, scribbled down his Citibank account number, and handed it to Kane.
"Tomorrow. Ten a.m. Wilson Street. Harvey's Bar."
Kane slipped the note into his pocket, put his sunglasses back on, and left without another word.
The door shut. Allens let out a laugh, clenching his fists in excitement. "Hahaha! This persuasion ability is incredible. Another million, just like that."
That was the reason Hood Kane had followed his words so easily. When Allens first activated his Golden Finger—the Heroes Rising System—he had been granted one free lottery spin. From it, he obtained the Persuasion ability.
It came from Eden McCain in the TV show Heroes. Her power allowed her to compel anyone who heard her words to obey her commands, believing they were acting out of their own free will.
Allens now had that same terrifying gift. With just a few words, he could convince anyone of anything—even to the point of suicide.
Of course, persuasion had its limits. It didn't make him stronger, faster, or tougher. Physically, he was still just an ordinary man. Against a gun, he was as fragile as anyone else in Hell's Kitchen.
But here, in this lawless, gang-infested neighborhood, persuasion was more powerful than any gun. With it, Allens had carved out a reputation in just three months. People called him the Persuader. His business? Mediation.
Hell's Kitchen was chaotic, but even gangsters didn't always want endless bloodshed. Sometimes they needed someone to step in—someone both sides would listen to. That was Allens's niche. Using his ability, he could make sworn enemies shake hands and walk away from fights they no longer cared about.
His business grew rapidly, and in just three months he had earned millions of dollars.
And yet, Allens still lived in the same dingy rental unit. Part of it was for appearances—it helped him stay close to his "clients." But the real reason was that every cent he earned went straight into Stark Industries stock.
As a time traveler, he knew exactly what was coming. The biggest guaranteed fortune in Marvel wasn't gambling or shady deals—it was investing in Tony Stark's company before Iron Man was born. Once that armor appeared, Stark Industries stock would skyrocket.
"Just one more year," Allens muttered to himself, staring at the distant Stark Tower with burning eyes. "Iron Man will rise… and then the Battle of New York."
He suppressed the excitement swelling in his chest. His system hadn't given him any new rewards since the first lottery spin. The lack of progress gnawed at him.
The next morning, after finishing his usual workout, Allens showered and dressed sharply in a white suit. A watch glimmered on his wrist as he left his apartment, heading toward Wilson Street.
He didn't bother trying to hide his identity. Hiding would be pointless anyway—S.H.I.E.L.D. could find him whenever they wanted. And besides, persuasion wasn't a flashy combat ability. Used sparingly, it looked like nothing more than charisma.
When he entered Harvey's Bar, the place was almost empty—it was still daytime. Calmly, Allens walked toward a private room. The moment he stepped inside, a group of Mexican gangsters in black suits appeared, surrounding him.
Their faces were twisted with malice, and each of them had a pistol leveled at him—sleek handguns stamped with the Stark Industries logo. The muzzles all pointed directly at Allens.
"Hey, fellas," he said casually, shrugging as if the guns didn't bother him at all. "If I were you, I'd put those away. Even in broad daylight, if one of those street vigilantes spotted you, you'd be in deep trouble."
Though his words were calm, a ripple of invisible force spread through them.
The gangsters exchanged uneasy glances.
"You're right. If that Daredevil guy sees us, we'll be in trouble."
"Yeah, firing here would bring heat down on all of us."
Reluctantly, they lowered their weapons, just as Allens had told them to.
"Are you the Persuader?"
The voice was cold, mocking. From the back, a man stepped forward. His presence alone radiated menace. His sharp eyes gleamed like a predator's, and his smile revealed gold-capped teeth.
It was Bronte Randolph—the leader of the Mexican cartel. Known as the Snake of Mexico, he was infamous for his ruthlessness. Once he sank his fangs into someone, nothing was left behind but bones.
"The feud between my cartel and the Skeleton Gang isn't something you can fix with a few parlor tricks," Randolph sneered. "If you're smart, you'll go home before you get yourself killed, boy."
Allens met his glare, unflinching. "Talking like that only shows your weakness. I can feel the fear you're hiding. Tell you what—why don't you raise that pistol of yours and press it against your temple? Maybe then you'll learn some manners."
His words carried a weight like a curse, sinking into Randolph's mind.
Click.
Without hesitation, Randolph drew his gun, pressed the barrel to his own head, and looked as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His eyes showed no resistance—only agreement, as if this was his own decision.
Allens's gaze hardened.
"Now you're standing on the edge of a choice. Agree to my mediation, abandon your grudge against the Skeleton Gang… and you live.
Refuse… and you die.
The choice is yours. Life or death, all in the space of a thought."
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