My Marvel Reincarnation Came with a Torture Bonus

Wade had already left the bar, likely off to do something violent, questionable, or both. That left Val sitting alone at the bar with Weasel, who was looking at him like he had just declared he wanted to become an astronaut… with no prior training.

"You? A mercenary?" Weasel asked, squinting at him like he was trying to spot the warrior spirit buried somewhere deep in Val's soul.

"Yep." Val nodded. "Need the money."

Weasel exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples like he already regretted the conversation.

Prior to this conversation, Wade had already given Val the rundown earlier—Weasel wasn't just a bartender. He was an information broker, an arms dealer, and the unofficial side quest dispenser of the mercenary underworld. If you needed illegal weapons, a new identity, or a job that paid in cash, Weasel was your guy.

Val needed two of those things. Perfect timing.

"You do realize mercenary work isn't just about wearing a cool trench coat and walking away from explosions in slow motion, right?"

"Wait—it's not?" Val blinked. "Damn. There goes my entire plan."

Weasel groaned. "This is why I drink." He reached under the bar and pulled out a thick stack of gold and black cards, slapping them onto the counter with the kind of dramatic weight usually reserved for crime lords handing over classified documents.

"Alright, since you're new and, apparently, an idiot, let me break this down," Weasel said, picking up a gold card and holding it between two fingers. "These are low-risk jobs. Easy stuff. You probably won't die, and if you do, it'll be in a really boring way—like choking on a sandwich."

"Do they pay well?" Val asked expectedly.

Weasel barked a laugh. "Oh, hell no. Think 'barely enough to cover rent' levels of pay. Like, you'll still be broke, but now with the added bonus of possible concussions."

Val sighed. "Alright, what about the fun ones?"

Weasel grinned and picked up a black card. "Now, these are black card jobs. Higher risk, way higher reward."

Val leaned in. "Define 'higher risk.'"

Weasel smirked. "Gold cards are, like, babysitting a rich lady's poodle. Black cards are stealing the Mona Lisa while blindfolded, drunk, and being chased by ninjas."

Val nodded like he was totally unfazed. "So, normal Tuesday night stuff."

"Right. Except on a Tuesday night, you probably wouldn't end up dead, or worse—on a government watchlist."

Val considered it. "That depends. What kind of government watchlist?"

Weasel sighed again, muttering something about how he always ends up with weirdoes before setting the black card back down.

"Just so we're very clear," Weasel continued, crossing his arms, "if you take a black card job, whatever happens to you is your problem. I don't do refunds, rescues, or revenge missions. Even if you're Wade's buddy, I am not legally, financially, or emotionally responsible for your dumbass decisions."

Val gave him a thumbs-up. "Understood. No expectations of a funeral service. But, like… if I do die, can you at least tell Wade something poetic? Maybe say I went out in a blaze of glory?"

Weasel snorted. "Oh yeah, totally. I'll tell him you tripped over your own feet and got shot in the ass."

"Wow. Thanks, man."

"Anytime."

Weasel spread the cards out across the counter, looking like a really sketchy Vegas dealer. "Now, pick your poison."

Val reached for a card, flipping through them with the seriousness of a man who had no clue what he was doing.

He had no combat experience. No tactical training. No criminal underworld connections.

But hey—when life gives you illegal job opportunities, you pretend you know what you're doing.

The cards were all printed with the target's name, and on the back, there was a note detailing the task, the client, and the reward.

Val flipped through the stack of gold cards Weasel had given him. The payouts, after Weasel took his cut, were mostly between $100 and $200. As Weasel had said, these were low-risk jobs—things like "teach a cheating boyfriend a lesson" or "scare off a creepy stalker." Basically, just legally questionable neighborhood watch activities.

Then, he glanced at the black cards. The difference was like switching from a kids' arcade to a full-blown crime syndicate.

{Kill Russian Ross mobster Iwan Kharastov – $1,000}

{Spy on Blood Wolf Gang's left-hand Warner Hewlett – $5,000}

{Kidnap businessman's daughter Ashley Suzanne – $100,000}

Val immediately put the last one down like it had personally insulted his moral compass. "Oh, yeah, totally normal. Just casual human trafficking."

Compared to the black cards, the gold ones looked like side quests in a video game—stupid but harmless. And frankly, Val had no interest in upgrading to Crime Lord Difficulty.

Weasel noticed his hesitation and smirked. "What's the matter? Too dangerous for you?"

Val scoffed, tossing the black card back onto the stack like it burned. "I just think there's a big difference between slashing a guy's tires and, you know, war crimes."

Weasel leaned on the bar with a shit-eating grin. "Ohhh, so sneaky felony is where you draw the line? Not the regular felonies?"

Val sighed, picking up a gold card. "Teach a guy a lesson for cheating, $150. What does that even mean? Do I just show up, yell 'Shame!' at him, and leave?"

Weasel shrugged. "Or you could throw a beer at his face."

"Throw a beer?"

"Hey, style points matter."

Val shuffled through a few more gold cards, looking more and more unimpressed. "Man, these payouts suck."

"Yeah, well, so does ethical crime," Weasel said. "You wanna make real money? You gotta be willing to—" He gestured vaguely at the black card pile. "—y'know, become a Batman villain."

Val groaned, rubbing his temples. "So my career options are 'part-time hooligan' or 'future Netflix true-crime documentary subject.'"

Weasel grinned. "Welcome to the mercenary life, buddy."

Just then, a familiar system panel popped up in front of Val's eyes.

[Title Unlock Chance Triggered]

[Unlock Condition: Kill 15 Certified Criminals (0/15)]

[Unlocked Title: Aimbot Installed]

Val blinked. A mission to unlock a new title?

Finally! It had been a while since he got the one where he obtained immortality.

So… basically, I have to take out fifteen criminals with an established rap sheet?

Val read the conditions carefully, rubbing his chin in thought.

Right as Weasel was about to put the black cards away, muttering to himself, "You made the right call. These black card jobs pay well, but they're a pain in the ass. One wrong move and boom! Suddenly, you've got an entire crime syndicate trying to turn you into modern art—"

Val suddenly slapped his hand down on the stack, stopping Weasel in his tracks.

"I'll take the commissions on these gangsters."

Weasel froze mid-motion, his brain buffering like a cheap Wi-Fi connection.

"...Huh?"

Val, who had looked like he wanted zero part in criminal activity just seconds ago, was now volunteering? What the hell kind of character development was this?

"Wait, wait, wait. Didn't you just say you didn't want to make unnecessary enemies?" Weasel asked, squinting at him.

Val nodded, putting on his most righteous and heroic expression. "It's not about the money, Weasel. Not at all. It's about justice. These gangsters are a plague on society. It's my duty—no, my moral obligation—to take them down."

Weasel stared at him blankly. "...You do realize you could've just said, 'I hate bad guys, so I'll kill them,' right? No need for the whole superhero monologue."

"Shh," Val said, waving him off with a serene, saint-like smile. "Just hand me the cards, Weasel."

Weasel groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "No way I just called this man smart…"