The black youth's grin widened even further, his mouth splitting so wide you could see his molars. "Awesome! We're heading to a bar, but we don't know what time it is. If you could tell us, we'll take you with us and even buy you a drink."
"Perfect timing. I could use a drink."
Russell smiled as he opened the car door, silently activating 'Item Card: M9' in his mind. The moment the door swung open, the black youth found himself staring down the barrel of a handgun pressed against his forehead, forcing him to stumble backward step by step.
The other punks realized shit had hit the fan and turned to bolt. But before they could take two steps, Russell's harsh bark stopped them cold.
"First one who runs gets a bullet!"
The punks had no choice but to freeze. They exchanged glances with each other before, with practiced ease, placing their hands against the wall and lining up in a row.
"Bro, we didn't mean any harm, really just wanted to know the time. Could you maybe move the gun?" The black youth looked ready to cry. Their intentions had been simple—borrow the car, then sell it for some pocket change after they were done with it.
"Sorry, you might not have bad intentions, but I do!" Russell's smile never wavered. "Empty your pockets. Everyone gets one chance. If I search you and find something you're hiding, I might just get angry enough for this gun to accidentally go off."
The punks cursed their rotten luck and hung their heads in defeat, pulling out loose change, knives, driver's licenses, and other items from their pockets. After Russell chased them off, he picked through the pile on the ground. The biggest bill in the stack of cash was a twenty—minus the coins, it totaled eighty bucks.
"Not even a single credit card..."
Russell sighed, then picked up a folding knife. The unexpected bonus was finding a driver's license belonging to a young generic white male.
...
The Bar!
It was now eight in the evening. Russell had dropped ten bucks at Colonel Sanders' place for dinner.
After dealing with dinner, Russell crossed two streets to reach the bar. Under the bartender's speechless gaze, he dropped a ten-dollar tip and ordered a glass of ice water.
The music in the bar was mellow. Many people had gathered here with friends after work. Russell found a corner and waited for Cross to arrive.
He wasn't worried about Cross being unable to find him. A top-tier assassin could definitely track down a rookie like him with ease.
Time ticked by. Russell drank two glasses of ice water, but his expression remained calm. He displayed composure and confidence, showing no impatience. He knew Cross was definitely watching him from somewhere in the shadows, so he needed to project an aura of expertise to facilitate their upcoming meeting.
These were simple negotiation tricks—easy to master and very effective at seizing the initiative.
"Ring ring ring~~~ Ring ring ring~~~"
His phone rang. Russell glanced at the number, a faint smile curling at the corner of his mouth, projecting steady confidence as he raised it to his ear.
Cross's voice was as deep as ever, gravelly yet magnetic. He said coldly, "Damn it, I've been searching for two hours and can't find you. Where the hell are you hiding?"
Russell: "..."
...
Twenty minutes later, a travel-worn Cross arrived at the bar following the address Russell had given him. Two grown men sat across from each other, each holding a glass of ice water, both utterly speechless.
Cross: "..."
Russell: "..."
Cross's appearance matched his voice. His unkempt stubble gave him a slightly haggard look, and he wore a gray denim jacket that seemed completely unremarkable. But this melancholic middle-aged man was one of the world's top assassins. No one had ever escaped his kill.
Cross felt awkward. He'd been so confident about finding Russell earlier, only to discover an empty pickup truck. If Russell hadn't given him the bar's address, he'd still be wandering the streets.
Soon enough, Cross pushed that embarrassment aside. He was a top-tier assassin with thick skin—ahem, excellent psychological fortitude. He switched to the smile of an old friend reuniting and began making conversation with Russell.
"This should be our first formal meeting. Let me introduce myself—I'm Cross. You can call me that."
"Russell!"
Cross raised an eyebrow. "Russell? Strong name. Reminds me of the basketball player—the Celtics center with the eleven rings."
"Oh, you mean Bill?" Russell smirked. "I thought you were talking about Mr. Triple-Double."
Cross looked confused. "Mr. Triple-Double... who's that?"
Russell fell silent. Right, he was in the world of Wanted, currently in the early 2000s. In this timeline, Russell Westbrook was still a rookie who hadn't started racking up his MVP stats yet. No wonder nobody knew the nickname.
After some awkward small talk, Cross steered the conversation to the main point. "I saw your fight on the rooftop. Very impressive. An ordinary person couldn't do what you did... You have real talent!"
Russell took the bait. "What kind of talent?"
"The talent to become a top-tier assassin!"
Russell: "..."
"You must be wondering why bullets can curve, why human physical capabilities can be strong enough to leap across buildings?" Seeing Russell's silence, Cross continued.
Because of the writers and directors!
Russell answered in his mind, but his face showed a puzzled expression. "Why?"
Cross smiled slightly. The fish had taken the hook.
"It's a technique—a technique for developing humanity's inner potential. With rigorous training, you can do it too."
Russell pretended to consider this, furrowing his brow. "Sounds pretty easy, but I've never seen anyone like that before. Hell, never even heard of it!"
"Never hearing about it is exactly right. Even geniuses need ten years to make bullets curve, twenty years to master that technique at will."
Russell spread his hands. "Twenty years... That's an insane number. I definitely couldn't do it. I couldn't stick with it that long."
Cross chuckled, a meaningful smile crossing his face. "No, geniuses need twenty years. But you're different. You're a born killer!"
Russell: "..."
Which eye told you I'm a born killer? Keep spouting nonsense and I'll elbow you in the face!
Cross picked up his ice water and took a sip before explaining. "On the rooftop, at your most dangerous moment, didn't you feel like you entered some kind of miraculous state? Your heart racing wildly, the flow of air crystal clear, your opponent moving in slow motion before your eyes... You don't need to deny it. I saw it clearly. In that final moment, you achieved it."
Russell: "..."
I think you're misunderstanding something here.
Cross set down his ice water and lowered his voice. "Your heart rate exceeded 400 beats per minute, flooding your bloodstream with massive amounts of adrenaline. You can observe and react faster than normal people. This is an innate talent. Only a handful of people in the entire world possess this gift, and they're all top-tier assassins. Does that make sense?"
Russell nodded. He generally understood what Cross meant. Top-tier assassins didn't have blood flowing through their veins—they had pure adrenaline!
"If I'm not mistaken..." Cross paused here, glancing at Russell before continuing. "One of your parents—either your father or mother—must be a top-tier assassin. That's where your talent comes from."
Russell was stunned speechless. His parents were indeed assassins, but unfortunately, their daily routine consisted of playing Texas Hold'em and collecting rent—nowhere near top-tier.
"Looks like I guessed right!"
No, that's all your imagination!
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