It's over, this warehouse is," Dyson, frozen, wanted to cry. These people didn't look like good news, and renting such a warehouse was simply asking for trouble.
"It's over!" The thugs from the warehouse also wanted to cry.
Recently, there were two people in Hell's Kitchen you couldn't provoke: one was the Punisher, and the other was the young grocery store owner.
The Punisher, well, there's no need to mention him; even if you don't provoke him, he'll come knocking. All you can do is pray your luck isn't too bad.
As for the supermarket owner, he didn't seem to actively seek trouble with others; it was just that some people were blind and went looking for a beating.
It was well known that the gold sports car was the supermarket owner's new ride. Everyone stayed as far away as possible, and if they couldn't, they'd act like good little babies. As for stealing… haha, have their legs never been broken?
"Heh heh." Mike found it amusing.
Dyson noticed the thugs' behavior was a bit strange but didn't think too much of it. He just wanted to be a handsome man in the car, quietly waiting for the thugs to leave. Although experience told him that trouble couldn't be avoided and wouldn't spare him just because he was cowardly. Everyone knew this: the more cowardly you were, the more others would bully you.
What could he do? He was desperate too. Cowardly, get bullied; not cowardly, get beaten or even die.
Between psychological and physical trauma, Dyson chose the former, commonly known as cowardice.
So most of the time, he could only pray.
"You, don't move." Mike got out of the car.
"Uh…"
The thugs looked at each other, instantly as if struck by a magic immobilization spell; no one moved.
This magical scene… Dyson didn't know what to say.
"Could this handsome young man be even more terrifying than these people? Then wouldn't I be…" Dyson's sphincter instinctively tightened. Don't ask why he did it instinctively; if he told, it could be a tragedy written with blood, tears, and excrement.
"What are you doing in there?" Mike asked. If they were making powder inside, Mike wouldn't consider this place.
"We saw the warehouse was empty, so we occasionally come here to play." The black guy with the thickest gold chain replied. Apparently, they determined their status by the thickness of their gold chains.
They didn't lie… Mike waved his hand, "Go."
The thugs continued to look at each other.
That's it?
Mike said clearly and distinctly, "Scram!"
This time, the thugs felt the brutality. Most thugs knew that if you made a mistake and your boss smiled kindly and spoke softly, it meant you could write your will or say your last goodbyes.
So, Mike's attitude actually made them feel relieved. They took off running, disappearing without a trace in the blink of an eye.
"With that speed, why are they thugs? Wouldn't track and field be better? They're just asking for it!"
After chasing the people away, the three entered the warehouse.
Since they had come all this way and were at the entrance, they couldn't just leave without even looking.
The smell of dust mixed with the scent of marijuana.
The ground was paved with cement, and weeds stubbornly grew out of the cracks. Various sundries were piled around, and a clear area in the middle had an unknown secondhand sofa and table.
Cigarette butts littered the floor.
"How does it feel?" Mike asked Skye.
"Not bad, the size is right, and it's relatively close." Skye was quite satisfied but still wanted to look at other places.
Maybe they'd find something even more satisfactory.
Just like women shopping, the more satisfying clothes are always in the next store. This tireless pursuit allows women to crush most males in the skill of shopping.
After spending more than an hour looking at two other warehouses, Skye decided to rent the first one, which was also like a woman shopping. After walking a dozen streets, she suddenly realized that the clothes she liked most were the first ones she tried on in the first store.
Dyson held the contract, feeling both happy and worried. Happy because the deal was signed, a joy similar to that of struggling writers who sign a few books before getting a contract, thinking it's the start of their rise, but it's just the second stage of their struggle. Worried because the area around the warehouse wasn't very safe; otherwise, the warehouse would have been rented out long ago.
One could only say that Dyson was a good person.
Back at the supermarket, Old Earl was chatting with Winston, the atmosphere lively, occasionally waving his hand and clenching his fist, showing a commanding presence.
"Mike, he's here for you." Old Earl reluctantly closed his mouth.
"Winston."
"Mike."
Their hands clasped together.
"A private chat?" Winston requested.
"No problem, please wait a moment."
"Alright."
Upstairs.
"Your friend?" Skye asked.
"No, I knocked him out once. Strictly speaking, I'm in the wrong."
"Oh, then apologize properly."
"Okay." Mike nodded.
In this World, it's not like making a mistake and apologizing makes everything fine. There's a disgusting thing in this World called "being tolerant on behalf of others."
Mike was willing to apologize, and he would be absolutely sincere. The key was Winston, or more precisely, whether the High Table behind the Continental Hotel was willing to reconcile.
For reconciliation, Mike was willing to pay an acceptable price.
If there was no reconciliation and they became enemies, Mike didn't mind.
Skye wasn't too worried.
Downstairs.
"Mike, is that alright to call you, or do you prefer 'Jo'?" Winston leisurely sipped his black tea, teasing a bit.
Jo was the waiter Mike knocked out outside the hotel; he used his transformation Jutsu to change into Jo's appearance.
"Heh heh, suit yourself."
"It's truly amazing, your disguise Jutsu, even the irises are identical."
"You flatter me, just a small trick."
Transformation Jutsu was only a D-rank Jutsu in the ninja World, but in modern society, its value was immeasurable and it was feared.
Winston said, "The foundation of the Continental Hotel is its rules and reputation. What you did has shaken the hotel's very core. The council has already dispatched elite troops. In six hours, the plane will land, rest, check equipment, and gather the latest intelligence, which will take about an hour, and then they will launch an attack."
Mike's eyes narrowed, "I thought you came to talk."
Winston shook his head, "I did come to talk, but only on my own behalf."
Understood!
On the matter of dealing with Mike, Winston and the Continental Hotel headquarters had differing opinions. Winston suggested talking first, while the headquarters' opinion was to fight first, and if he survived the fight, then he would have the right to talk.
It was normal for opinions to differ, but the problem was that the person in charge of handling it at headquarters was a young man, extremely arrogant, showing no respect for Winston, who had served the Continental Hotel his entire life.
Winston had no personal relationship with Mike; coming to Mike privately could be considered an act of betrayal. He was not a young man full of youthful exuberance who would do such a thing for fun or out of anger. In the end, it came down to two words: profit.
Mike got straight to the point, "What do you want? What can you give me?"
Winston didn't answer directly but instead spoke about the Continental Hotel's organization—the High Table. The High Table was a transnational group composed of various criminal organizations, wealthy elites, politicians, small country royalty, and so on, possessing the ability to easily overthrow small countries. The Continental Hotel was one of their assets, primarily used to physically eliminate competitors.
As Winston spoke, he continuously observed Mike. He saw no panic in the young man's eyes.
Mike just wanted to say, compared to overthrowing the entire World, or snapping half the Universe's life away with a finger, the High Table was nothing!