My Marvel Reincarnation Came with a Torture Bonus

"I've got what you want ready."

Weasel placed a folder on the counter.

"Your new identity. It includes a driver's license, medical records, social security number—everything you need to stay off the radar. As long as you don't draw attention from the IRS, you won't have any issues."

Val picked up the folder, flipping through the documents.

IRS, short for America Tax Service. It was known as one of the most feared government departments in America.

It is not wrong saying that in America, only death and taxes are inevitable.

Val couldn't help but feel a little worried. He shouldn't have to pay taxes on the things he robbed, right?

Still, Val had to admit—Weasel's business connections were top-tier. Just a few days ago, Val had secured enough funds to cover the cost, and now, he had an identity that would let him move more freely. It was a necessary step—without proper documents, even the simplest things could become complications.

No more dodging cops over something dumb like not having a birth certificate.

Val put the folder away and asked, "By the way, how's Wade doing?"

Weasel leaned against the counter. "Haven't seen him much. Last time I did, he was covered in blood. He tracked down some people tied to Francis."

Weasel didn't go into too much detail. He shrugged and continued, "Anyways, he's been very busy these days. He had nothing to do for such a long time so he should find something to vent."

Val absorbed that information in silence.

He understood.

Wade had been through more than most people could survive. The time they spent in the lab had left permanent scars, both seen and unseen. The difference was, Wade had never been the type to suppress things. If he had to burn the entire underground to the ground to get revenge, he would.

And Val?

Well he wasn't the same person he used to be either.

Before the lab, he wouldn't have imagined taking a life or cracking jokes everywhere. Now, he didn't even hesitate. He wasn't some wannabe psycho killer but he wasn't afraid of becoming one either.

One day, Francis would face the consequences. But for now, Val had to focus on getting stronger. He needed time. He wasn't strong enough. Not yet anyway.

Although his immortality ensured he wouldn't die, it didn't make him invincible.

Val had no combat abilities—no super strength, no enhanced reflexes. If he fought an ordinary thug, he could just stand there and wait for them to tire themselves out. But against a mutant like Francis?

He'd be nothing more than a punching bag.

And if someone decided to lock him in a metal box and toss him into the ocean? Yeah, no amount of healing would fix drowning forever.

The best solution was clear—he needed to unlock the next title as quickly as possible.

"Well enough about Wade's vengeance," Val said, gripping the black box tightly. "Just recommend a few new commissions."

He was ready to take down more criminals.

But Weasel's response wasn't what he expected.

"Yeah… about that. There aren't any more commissions of your 'preference.'"

Val's excitement vanished instantly. "You're joking, right?"

Weasel sighed. "You know these jobs come from clients, not me. Unless there's a personal grudge, no one's going to spend money targeting low-level gangsters."

Val's face fell. So much for easy grinding. He still needed eight more certified criminals to unlock his next title, and now his best source of work had dried up.

Maybe if he just walked around dark alleys holding a giant sign that said "Looking for Trouble"—

Thinking it over, Val tried one last time.

"Are you really sure you don't want to try my 'Criminal Training Box'? It's fun."

Weasel's eye twitched. "Yeah, no. Hard pass."

After overhearing the mercenaries' earlier conversation, he had a pretty good idea what Val was using that box for.

"Fine." Val sighed, reluctantly abandoning the idea. "Just show me some commissions with gang-affiliated targets."

Weasel shuffled through a few black cards and spread them out. Val scanned them, flipping through each one until his eyes landed on a job that caught his interest.

"This one," he said, pulling the card out. "I'll take it."

"You sure? Just so we're clear—this one's not easy."

Val smirked. "I don't take fights I know I'll lose."

"Oh, by the way, I need to buy something from you."

Weasel raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"A bunch of C4 plastic explosives."

. . . . . . . . . . . .

The night was cold and foggy. A big truck stood parked on the empty streets of Brooklyn, its engine quiet. The streetlights were dim, barely lighting up the dark alley next to it.

The truck's back doors opened with a creak. Several large men stepped out, their boots heavy on the wet ground. Each of them pulled out an automatic rifle from inside, carrying them like it was nothing. Without concern for who might be watching.

One man stayed outside, guarding the truck, while the rest walked into the alley.

As they moved, their boots splashed through dirty puddles. One of them, a big guy with a cigar in his mouth, cursed in Russian as mud hit his pants. He wiped his gloved hand over the metal case he was carrying, brushing off the dirt. Then he stepped up to an old, rusty iron door at the end of the alley.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke and rapped his knuckles against the metal three times.

From the other side, a voice spoke, rough and tired.

"Who?"

The Russian man adjusted the strap of his rifle and answered in a thick accent.

"Vladimir sent us. We come for delivery."

There was silence for a moment. Then, the sound of metal scraping as a heavy lock slid back. The door opened just enough for the man inside to peek through. He looked at the group, then gave a short nod and pulled the door wider.

Inside, the air was cold. The place smelled like raw meat and metal. The warehouse was small, with frozen pork hanging from metal hooks. In the middle of the room, a few men sat at a metal table, playing poker. They looked bored and tired.

At the sight of the newcomers, one of them stood, rolling his shoulders before grabbing a knife from his belt. Without a word, he strode toward the nearest hanging slab of pork and drove the blade into it.

Inside the frozen pork, a clear plastic package was stuffed deep in the cut. Tiny, shining crystals could be seen inside.

"Goods are all here," the man said, stepping back.

The Russian leader took a slow glance around the room, counting the hanging carcasses. Satisfied, he set the metal case down on the table and flipped it open, revealing neatly stacked bundles of banknotes.

"Twenty million."

The warehouse leader stepped forward, flipping through a few stacks to confirm the amount. After a moment, he nodded.

"Good business."

The Russian grinned and gestured for his men to begin taking down the frozen meat. They moved efficiently, lifting the carcasses off the hooks and hauling them toward the exit.

Then—

KNOCK.

There was a sudden knock on the large iron door from outside.