My Marvel Reincarnation Came with a Torture Bonus

The sudden sound of knocking stunned everyone in the warehouse, freezing them mid-action like a group of deer caught in the headlights—if the deer were heavily armed and involved in illegal activities.

The leader of the Ross gang and the warehouse boss exchanged looks, each silently asking the same question: Is this one of yours?

A series of slight head shakes answered that question—no.

The Russian man was the first to react, snapping his gun toward the iron gate. His voice was cold and commanding.

"Who?"

A voice from the other side responded, oddly casual.

"If I told you I was just a door-to-door salesman, would you believe me?"

The gangsters didn't need to exchange looks this time. Did this guy really think they were that stupid?

The man clenched his jaw and demanded, "Who the hell are you?"

This place was strictly off-limits to outsiders. If someone had found it, there were only two possibilities: another gang or law enforcement. Either way, it meant trouble.

The others quickly came to the same realization, raising their weapons toward the door. The message was clear: If you come in, you go out in a body bag.

But the voice remained unfazed.

"I swear, I'm just a passerby. Look, I got lost, Google Maps failed me, and now I'm here. Can we talk like civilized criminals?"

The Russian's patience snapped. "You motherf...er! Get the hell out of here if you don't want to die!"

A metallic screech filled the warehouse as the iron door, which had just been securely locked, slowly creaked open.

Every gun in the room was trained on the entrance.

Then, a figure stepped into the dimly lit warehouse.

A man. Smiling. Calm.

"Evening, gentlemen! Hope I'm not crashing anything important."

The room fell into complete silence.

Because strapped to his chest was a C4 explosive, its small red light flashing in steady intervals, accompanied by the quiet but unmistakable beeping of an active device.

Sweat dripped down foreheads. Hands trembled slightly on triggers. Nobody dared fire. Real or fake, nobody was willing to gamble their limbs on the answer.

Where the hell did this lunatic come from?!

After what felt like an eternity, the Russian boss exhaled sharply and took two cautious steps forward.

"We are the Ross gang. Do you know what the consequences of doing this are?"

Val didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stepped further into the warehouse, his movements unhurried. hen, without a second thought, he reached back and pulled the heavy iron door shut behind him with a loud clang.

Now, they were all locked inside. Together.

At that moment, doubts started to appear in everyone's mind about the bomb's authenticity.

No one was insane enough to trap themselves in a room full of armed criminals—unless they were either completely unhinged or holding the winning hand.

A cold sweat broke out among the gang members. They had seen their fair share of lunatics, but there was something about this guy that sent a shiver down their spines.

The warehouse boss turned to the Russian leader, lowering his voice. "Damn it, this guy wouldn't happen to be one of your enemies, would he?"

The Russian boss shot him a glare. "Us? No. We don't know him. Isn't he your problem?"

"I don't know him either…"

Before they could continue speculating, Val closed the distance between them, his posture relaxed, as if he were here for a friendly chat.

"Alright, gentlemen. How about we all take a seat and have a nice, civilized conversation?"

The Russian boss's eyes narrowed. "Who are you, and what do you want?"

Val sighed, as if exhausted by the question. "I already told you. Just a passerby."

His gaze swept across the room, taking in the sea of guns still aimed at him. He let out a small, exasperated chuckle.

"Oh, and speaking of that—could you all please lower your weapons? It's making me nervous. And if my heart rate goes over 120…" He tapped the bomb on his chest. "Well, boom."

Silence

A collective what?! filled the warehouse as faces paled, eyes darting toward the blinking light strapped to his chest.

The steady beep… beep… beep… of the device suddenly felt like a countdown to their graves.

The warehouse boss was the first to break, his voice urgent yet careful. "Everyone, put the guns down. Now."

He set his own weapon aside, moving with slow, deliberate motions, and shot a pointed look at the others.

One by one, they followed suit, lowering their weapons, as if even the slightest wrong move might trigger the end.

Even his voice, when he spoke had softened, as if afraid that being too loud might set him off.

The Russian boss froze for a moment, but to his credit, he managed to force a smile.

"You seem very reasonable. We really should sit down and talk calmly. After all… you're our guest now."

He gestured toward the table, but the strain in his voice was obvious.

The warehouse boss twitched slightly, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Guest? The lunatic had just walked in with a bomb strapped to his chest, and now they were treating him like they were hosting a dinner party.

Still, under these circumstances, pride was a luxury. The only thing that mattered now was ensuring the heartbeat of the human landmine in front of them never crossed 120.

Under the uneasy gazes of both gangs, Val casually took a seat at the metal table in the center of the warehouse, looking more relaxed than anyone else in the room.

The warehouse boss, still sweating, quickly brought over a cup of coffee, carefully setting it in front of Val like he was serving VIP.

"Mister, why don't you… uh… take the bomb off first? Let's talk after that." His voice carefully neutral. "In fact, I think its design is a bit flawed. Setting the limit at 120 is way too low. I mean, what if you get a little excited? One wrong move and we all—"**

"He's right." The Russian man nodded in agreement, keeping his tone light but firm. "You're putting yourself at risk as much as us."

The words had barely left his mouth before Val's hand slammed onto the table.

The sound echoed through the warehouse like a gunshot.

"You think I don't know my own work?" Val's voice was full of anger as if someone insulted his mother. "You think I'd stand here, surrounded, wearing a faulty device?"

As if in response to his anger, the red light on his chest flickered wildly, and the bomb's beeping accelerated.

Panic hit the room like a tidal wave.

The gangsters didn't even hesitate—dropping their weapons and hitting the ground like it was an earthquake drill.

The two bosses, having seen their fair share of insanity, somehow managed to suppress the primal urge to dive under the table. Instead, they immediately shifted into damage control mode.

The warehouse boss forced a tense smile, his leg bouncing under the table. "No, no, no! Don't get the wrong idea. Take a deep breath. We were just… offering a friendly suggestion."

"Yes! Just a suggestion!" The Russian man quickly nodded, his tone was carefully controlled.

Val squinted at them for a moment, as if weighing their sincerity. Then, just as suddenly as he had exploded in anger, his expression softened.

"Well, why didn't you say so? I'm not the kind of guy who ignores good advice."

He let out a small chuckle, rubbing his hair awkwardly before settling back into his seat. The bomb's beeping slowed, returning to its normal rhythm.

The room remained frozen for a few seconds, as if no one dared to believe they had just survived.

Then, ever so cautiously, the warehouse boss and the Russian man exhaled in unison.

But their relief was short-lived.

Because now, after what they had just witnessed, there was no doubt in their

minds—

If this lunatic's heart rate really hit 120…

Boom.