The Audi A8 engine let out an impatient growl on the late-night streets before finally, docilely, sliding into the underground garage of the luxury apartment.
That bastardly phrase, "I get nine, you get one," hung like an invisible fishbone, stuck in the silent air between them.
Neither here nor there.
Jessica turned off the ignition, unmoving.
She didn't look at William, only stared at the four-ring logo on the steering wheel, her gaze as if trying to bore through all four circles.
"Get out," she said, her voice devoid of emotion.
"Are you sure you don't want to discuss the employee incentive clauses first?" William unbuckled his seatbelt, a slightly fatigued smugness on his face, like someone who had just closed a big deal.
Jessica sharply turned her head. In the dim garage light, two dangerous, whiskey-soaked flames burned in her eyes.
She said nothing, only reached out and grabbed William's suit lapel. The force was enough to make any ordinary man's collarbone groan.
Then, she pulled him towards her and kissed him fiercely.
The kiss was full of alcohol, nicotine, and a night's worth of suppressed ferocity.
It was less a kiss and more a tearing bite, a declaration of war over territory and power.
She wanted to use this most primal method to reclaim the initiative lost at the negotiating table, to tell the man before her that power was the only hard currency in Hell's Kitchen.
William paused for a moment, then smiled.
He didn't resist.
Instead, he yielded to her force, pressing her back against the driver's seat.
Superhuman Strength allowed him to effortlessly counter her brute force, turning the tables.
Clearly, Jessica hadn't used her full strength.
The expensive suit fabric and the cheap leather jacket rubbed together, creating an ambiguous sound that was infinitely amplified in the quiet garage.
He lightly propped his arm, clad in the foolproof plan armor, beside her head. The cold metallic feel contrasted sharply with her burning skin.
His other hand skillfully slipped into her leather jacket, his palm covering her taut back, feeling the battle-hardened muscles that held explosive power.
"It seems… Detective Jones wants to renegotiate my share in a different way."
His voice was close to her ear, carrying a hint of warmth and an easygoing tease.
Jessica's response was to entangle him more fiercely.
She was like an enraged Hellcat, trying to prove her strength with claws and teeth.
But she quickly found that her proud strength seemed to sink into a quagmire before William.
He always used a supremely clever way of exerting force, making all her struggles futile, even turning them into compliance.
Pain Suppression made him indifferent to her angry bites, and mental fortitude allowed him to completely ignore the mental pressure in her eyes.
He was like an experienced animal trainer, facing a beast far stronger than himself, yet using skill and rhythm to firmly control the entire situation.
This "negotiation" in the car was intense and brief.
In the end, Jessica was the first to release her teeth.
Her breathing was ragged, the flames in her eyes gradually extinguished, leaving only embers mixed with unwillingness, exhaustion, and a hint of bewilderment.
Only then did William release his grip on her, retreating to the passenger seat and slowly straightening his rumpled collar, as if what had just ended was merely a slightly intense business debate.
"Now, can we calmly discuss the rationality of the 'nine-one split'?" he asked with a smile.
Jessica stared at him intently for a long moment, then squeezed out two words through gritted teeth: "…Bastard."
She abruptly pushed open the car door and walked towards the elevator without looking back.
William watched her slightly disheveled back, the smile on his lips deepening… Outside the top-floor apartment's floor-to-ceiling windows was Manhattan's never-ending galaxy.
On the expensive Persian rug lay a custom suit, a red dress, and a pair of high heels.
Jessica Jones.
Hell's Kitchen's toughest rock, was now sleeping soundly on William's absurdly large bed, like a lioness who had expended all her strength.
She was curled up, her brows slightly furrowed, her thorns shed, revealing a rare vulnerability.
In her sleep, she seemed to still be brooding over the unfair treatment, unconsciously mumbling, "…Nine…one…asshole…"
William felt as if he had just completed an unprecedented stress test for a superhuman.
He mobilized the faint trace of "qi" within him, combined with his accelerated self-healing ability, to quickly dispel the deep fatigue in his muscles.
Superhuman Strength and resilience allowed him to maintain absolute control throughout this "negotiation," which was practically a brawl.
Nine shallow, one deep.
That wasn't a technique; it was precise control over strength and rhythm, a complete and utter conquest.
He quietly got up, picked up his pants from the floor, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket.
Bare-chested, he walked to the living room's floor-to-ceiling window and pushed it open a crack.
The cold night wind poured in, sending a shiver through his hot body.
"Click."
The flame flickered in the darkness, illuminating the complex expression on his face.
It was the calm and… ruthlessness of a chess player surveying the entire board after making a move.
He took a deep drag, the pungent tobacco instantly filling his lungs.
He had deceived everyone.
Jessica thought his plan was A or B: to lure Hellcat away, secure Kingpin's goods, and then split the money.
A clever but clear security plan.
Matt Murdock thought he was walking a tightrope on the edge of the abyss, exchanging information for a chance at survival, and incidentally helping him uncover Kingpin's true hand.
A pitiful wretch forced to deal with the devil.
Kingpin thought he had recruited a sufficiently clever and obedient mad dog to handle troubles he couldn't personally get involved in.
A handy tool.
They were all wrong.
William exhaled a long plume of smoke, watching it dissipate into the brilliant city lights outside the window.
His plan never had an A and B.
Those two options were scripts for Jessica, a stage play for Hellcat, and a contingency fire plan in case things got out of control.
His real plan was to personally confirm the risk.
What is the core of "risk management"?
It's not avoidance, not transfer, but assessment.
It's about personally opening that black box labeled "unknown" and seeing with his own eyes whether it contains gold or a bomb.
Kingpin's "artwork."
Something that could make a vigilante like Hellcat take such risks, and make an underworld king like Kingpin so cautious.
How could he not be curious?
How could he allow such a level of "risk" to slip under his nose without knowing its true nature?
That didn't align with his professional ethics.
William's lips curved in self-mockery.
He walked to the study and took out the tablet from the paradox briefcase.
The screen no longer displayed battle routes but real-time surveillance footage and internal structural diagrams of the Manhattan port area.
These were all silently "borrowed" from the municipal system using Data Touch and the contract.
Kingpin's convoy wouldn't depart from the port until tomorrow afternoon.
And he, before that, would conduct a thorough "due diligence."
He needed to access the tightly sealed container to examine its contents.
Due to Kingpin's commission, William had already gained the opportunity to access this shipment and would even depart with the convoy.
However, the container was under strict supervision, and he couldn't openly open it.
He needed an unnoticeable moment and method to secretly investigate the container's interior under everyone's watchful eyes.
William closed his eyes, activating his Spark of Inspiration ability.
His consciousness instantly plunged into the "Thought Palace." Countless pieces of information, port flowcharts, security layouts, and cargo loading details materialized, rapidly spinning, colliding, and reassembling around him.
He needed to find a perfect time and method to secretly investigate the container without alerting anyone.
The bustling scene of the port.
Patterns of personnel movement.
Surveillance coverage, and even the habits of Kingpin's guards, were all clearly presented in his mind.
A clear "path of inspiration" slowly unfolded in the center of the grand hall.
The starting point was "the chaotic period before cargo loading."
The framework was "brief unsupervised moments."
Several key nodes were marked: "forklift transfer gaps," "guard shift changes," "surveillance blind spots."
A perfect secret investigation plan emerged.
He opened his eyes, a sharp glint flashing within them.
He didn't need any tools or disguises, because his most powerful "tool" was his own abilities.
He would, during the busiest and most chaotic time at the port, in the gaps of cargo loading or transfer, silently complete his investigation in a way imperceptible to ordinary people.
He would use Mechanical Induction to "feel" the internal mechanical structure and energy reactions through the container's outer shell.
He would gently place Data Touch on the container's electronic lock, "sensing" its internal data flow and security protocols.
He wanted to personally "feel" the quality of that shipment.
This was his true purpose in bargaining with Kingpin and voluntarily taking on this dirty job.
He wasn't working for Kingpin; he was making a high-risk investment for his own future.
He wanted to turn this huge "unknown risk" into his own exploitable "information advantage."
The cigarette butt flickered between his fingers.
William looked at the sleeping figure on the bedroom bed, without a trace of guilt in his eyes.
Jessica was a very good partner, strong enough and direct enough.
Like a powerful hammer, you just had to tell her where to strike.
But she was, in the end, just a chess piece on the board.
A powerful piece… for which he was very willing to pay some "advance payment" tonight.
He extinguished the cigarette butt in the crystal ashtray.
The game had just begun.
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