My Marvel Reincarnation Came with a Torture Bonus

The Next Day

After receiving the key from Weasel, Val wasted no time heading to his new place.

The apartment building was old, its faded exterior showing clear signs of neglect. The six-story structure had peeling paint, and cracks lined its worn facade. The surrounding streets mirrored its aged appearance—narrow roads, small shops that had seen better days, and an overall atmosphere that spoke of a past era. Despite its rundown state, the area felt relatively quiet, almost peaceful.

However, the location was what stood out the most.

Situated on the west shore of Manhattan Island, the apartment wasn't far from Hell's Kitchen, a neighborhood notorious for its gang activity. It was said that members frequently moved through these streets, but Val wasn't particularly concerned.

After spending over two months trapped in a laboratory, nothing can scare him anymore…Wade's face might but, nothing else.

Val climbed the stairs and followed the door numbers until he reached his new home. He turned the key and pushed the door open, only to be met with a stale, musty air that had long settled inside.

Stepping in, his eyes swept over the interior.

A worn-out sofa, its fabric torn in places, revealing stuffing inside.

A carpet stained from years of use, its original color long forgotten.

Windows covered with old newspapers, blocking out the view.

A television set from a past generation, coated in dust.

It was clear that Weasel hadn't maintained the place in years.

Val exhaled. He wasn't someone who demanded luxury, but even he had limits. The thick layer of dust covering the furniture and the stale air made it impossible to ignore the fact that a deep cleaning was absolutely necessary before he could even consider staying here.

He set the silver box down on a table and took another look around. The first order of business was to clear out everything unusable. Then, he'd clean what remained.

It wasn't perfect, but for now, this was home.

. . . . . . . . . . .

For the next few days, Val stayed busy, regularly taking on commissions from Weasel.

Now that his housing situation was settled, he had far more time and flexibility to approach his work strategically.

Thanks to Iwan's generous "sponsorship", Val no longer needed to rush into assignments blindly. Instead, he could scout locations, gather intel, and plan his approach properly—a vast improvement from his earlier, more reckless methods.

Of course, his main objective remained unchanged:

Hunting down Certified criminal remained his priority. And if he couldn't find one?

Well, then it was time for some creative problem-solving.

After all, the silver box wasn't just for decoration.

. . . . . . . . .

"Have you heard? Some weird guy with a silver box has been stirring up trouble with gangs all over the place."

"Old news," the other mercenary scoffed, swirling his drink. "I've got better details. Turns out, the guy only targets junior gang members. And get this—he's got some kind of quirk."

"Quirk?"

"Yeah. Before he kills them, he forces them to buy the silver box from him."

"…Buy it?"

"Yeah. But then he buys it back."

"With more money?"

"No. With a single dollar."

"…Wait. What?"

"And then—" the mercenary smirked, enjoying his audience's confusion, "—he makes them buy it again."

"…Why?"

"No idea. He keeps repeating it until he gets bored—and then he shoots."

The first mercenary stared in stunned silence. "…Is he alright in the head?"

"Hah! That's what everyone's been asking. They're calling him 'The Devil with a Box.'"

"Uh, what exactly is he trying to do?"

"Who knows? I think he's just a pervert who likes to torture people."

At the bar, Weasel overheard the conversation and turned his gaze toward Val. His expression was… complicated.

"I used to think Wade was the most sadistic person I knew," he said slowly. "But it turns out… you might actually be worse."

Val, in the middle of sipping an energy drink, nearly choked.

"Excuse me?" He pointed at himself. "Me?! Worse than Wade?! That's slander. And how can you be sure I'm the Devil with a box just after hearing it."

Weasel stared at him. Then he slowly pointed at the black box sitting on the bar.

"You literally carry the box around all day," he said flatly. "What do you want me to do? Pretend I don't see it?"

Val crossed his arms. "So owning a box makes me the devil now? That's ridiculous."

Weasel pinched the bridge of his nose. "Your box was silver yesterday."

"…No, it wasn't."

"I can still smell the paint."

Silence.

Weasel dragged a hand down his face. "Look, man. If you're gonna be a lunatic, at least be good at it. Switch things up. Use a stick. A bag. A briefcase. Literally anything but the same damn box and changing the color doesn't help when you walk in right after painting it."

Val's eyes widened in mock amazement.

"You noticed all that?" he said, acting impressed. "Incredible."

Weasel groaned into his hands.

Val sighed, deciding there was no point in denying it anymore. He had underestimated how fast word would spread. He thought he had at least another week before he needed a box disguise strategy.

Oh well.

At least his efforts were paying off.

[Title Unlock Condition: Kill fifteen Certified Criminals (7/15)]

Since that incident with Iwan, Val had learned an important life lesson:

Wait until the target is alone. Because when there were too many people, things got messy. Messy meant more bullets flying.

And while, sure, he could heal, getting shot still hurt.

Weasel pushed up his glasses, watching Val with a mix of amusement and mild concern.

"Y'know," Weasel started, "I don't really care if you're a devil with a box or whatever—"

Val frowned. "I am not a—"

"—but," Weasel continued, ignoring him, "I should warn you. The Russian Ross gang has started asking about you."

Val paused mid-drink.

"Oh?"

Weasel nodded. "Apparently, you took something valuable from them."

Slowly, his gaze drifted to the black box sitting right in front of Val.

The implications were loud and clear.

Val, however, did not look guilty. In fact, he looked offended.

"Whoa, whoa, let's not throw words like 'robbery' around." He gestured dramatically. "I am merely safe-keeping their illegal goods."

Weasel stared at him. "So you stole their stuff."

Val scoffed. "That's a very negative way to put it."

"…Because it's accurate?"

Val waved him off. "Look, I need this thing. It's essential for my work. If I gave it back, where am I supposed to get a criminal evolution machine?"

Weasel's headache intensified.

"…A what?"

Val patted the black box fondly. "Didn't I already tell you? This thing? Turns small-time crooks into premium-quality criminal. Just add crime! It's like a gangster starter pack."

Weasel pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Okay. Fine. But do me a favor?"

"What?"

Weasel sighed. "Don't die. or Wade will rant about it all day"

Val grinned, lifting his drink. "Can't promise that, but hey—I'll try.