In the modern world, what do you think would be the best skill to have?
Some would say perfect memory, others would say insurmountable luck. While they aren't technically wrong, achieving something like that would be nearly impossible.
Unless you were blessed with heavenly genetics or were just straight-up favored by the gods themselves, there was no way anyone in the world could achieve that, especially for your average Joe.
And this is where the third answer comes in.
Persuasion.
That's the answer of Ethan Cross.
A reckless con-artist, who lived through talking and lying.
But that life had its risks.
"It's time to pay up, bastard."
A dark alley in the middle of an intense rainstorm, it was nearly impossible to hear the sounds of vehicles, let alone the screams of a person.
"Wait, let's talk this out, why don't we...?"
Ethan was cornered, his back against a wall, while a man double his size, holding a metal bat, blocked the only way out.
"What's your excuse this time? You left your wallet back in your apartment? A fucking dog ate your credit card!?"
"N-No, I got the money this time, I promise!"
"Then pay up, don't waste any more of my time."
"I got the money right here, just give me a moment..."
Ethan grabbed a wallet from his pocket, tossing it to the debt collector, who was more than used to his trickery after months of delayed payments.
"Don't move, you aren't out of trouble yet."
The debt collector took a look at the wallet, and to his surprise, it was everything Ethan had owed. nothing more, nothing less.
"Seems like everything is in order."
The debt collector flipped through the bills again, slower this time. Once, twice, even thrice. His frown gradually loosened, replaced by a look of reluctant acceptance.
Ethan watched every twitch of the man's face like a hawk.
He knew this moment well, the fragile second where doubt still lingered, where one wrong word could turn suspicion into rage.
"Count it again if you want," Ethan said, voice steady despite the rain plastering his hair to his forehead. This wasn't the first time he was cornered like this.
"I know I screwed you over before. I won't insult you by pretending otherwise. But tonight? I'm clean."
The debt collector's grip on the bat loosened slightly.
"You think I enjoy living like this?" Ethan continued, letting a bitter edge slip into his tone.
"Running... scraping, wondering if tonight's the night I don't get back up? I messed up. I admit that. This," he nodded at the wallet, "is me fixing it."
The same old sob story, something he used countless times already, his proven and trusted weapon.
The man scoffed. "You got a mouth on you, Cross."
Ethan gave a tired smile. "This mouth's the only thing that's kept me alive."
A long breath. Then the bat lowered.
"Tch. Fine," the debt collector muttered, pocketing the wallet. "Debt's settled. Don't make me regret it."
He turned and disappeared into the rain-soaked street.
Only when the man was gone did Ethan allow his shoulders to slump.
He waited, leaning against the concrete for a good five seconds.
Then he laughed quietly.
"Still got it," he whispered.
From his coat, he pulled out another wallet, his real one. Thin, light, and empty.
The one he'd handed over? Never belonged to him. A clean lift from a drunk businessman earlier that night. Enough cash to erase months of debt and buy Ethan a fresh start.
Persuasion wasn't just talking.
It was timing, tone, and knowing exactly which truth to tell, and which lie to wrap it in.
Ethan stepped out of the alley, already planning his escape, his next identity. Even if he had a sharp tongue, he wasn't superhuman. The more he lingered, the more his excuses would crumble.
But then something smashed into the back of his skull.
White-hot pain detonated through his head. The world tilted violently as Ethan stumbled forward, rain-slick pavement rushing up to meet him. He barely caught himself on his hands, fingers scraping against concrete.
"Ah—!" He gasped, stars exploding in his vision.
Footsteps approached behind him.
Slow, many.
Ethan swallowed and forced himself to think. Pain didn't matter, fear didn't matter, as long as he could talk, he could survive.
'You have to be kidding me...'
He turned his head slightly. "Look," he said hoarsely, already shaping his words.
"If this is about money, we can work something out. I don't like violence, and I bet you don't either. No one wins here."
A shadow stopped beside him.
A young man's voice answered, shaking with amusement. "You're right. No one wins."
Ethan's eyes flicked to the side, a simple hooligan, a street punk who thinks beating up random people in the street makes him cool.
'Another one of these punks...'
"You want money?" Ethan said carefully, "I can give you that, no problem at all!"
"Shut up."
The word cracked like a whip.
"D'you think I need money?" the man said. "I watched you, I followed you, you're nothing more than a conman."
"No one would notice your disappearance, making you the perfect first victim for our gang."
Ethan's mind raced, gears spinning faster despite the blood trickling down his temple. Adjusting his story, reasoning with a wannabe gangster was far more difficult than with a normal person.
"Listen to me," Ethan said, forcing his voice to steady.
"Shut up, old man," he laughed.
Ethan opened his mouth, and the bat came down.
'These fucking kids...'
'Can't believe I'm going to die because I was talking to an idiot!'
[User: Ethan Cross]
[...Processing...]
'H-Huh?'