On the other side.
After confirming there were no more ambushes or pursuers, Robert steered the motorcycle into a dark, secluded alley.
"Huff... huff..."
He exhaled heavily, his violent heartbeat gradually slowing down.
The distorted perception of time, the intensified senses—all began to fade. His body temperature, which had risen to an alarming degree, started dropping back to normal.
And then—
A sudden and overwhelming wave of weakness hit him.
Robert lost control and collapsed to the ground.
Bullet Time, as omnipotent as it seemed—granting almost godlike reaction speeds—was not without its brutal side effects.
If used briefly, it wasn't too dangerous.
But the longer it was maintained, the greater the burden on the body.
After all, sustaining a heart rate that mimicked a high-speed engine, flooding the body with adrenaline, and surging blood pressure beyond safe limits—
No normal human body could withstand that indefinitely.
If an ordinary person attempted this, they'd likely die from heart failure or cerebral hemorrhage.
Robert had pushed himself to the extreme, maintaining Bullet Time for several minutes straight.
By now, his organs were screaming under the strain, and the moment the adrenaline rush ended, the backlash came crashing down like a tidal wave.
The feeling of dying was almost immediate.
Luckily—
The mysterious regenerative factor in his body kicked in at once, rapidly repairing the damage to his heart, blood vessels, and other organs.
Thump. Thump.
Even lying unconscious, Robert's body continued to heal itself.
Meanwhile, Frank, dragging his own injured body, hurried over when he saw Robert collapse.
He checked Robert's breathing and pulse—
Then, confirming that Robert had only fainted, he didn't hesitate.
Using his uninjured arm, Frank hoisted Robert onto his shoulder and quickly evacuated from the scene.
Two hours later. In a remote cabin.
Frank sat silently, carefully stitching up his own gunshot wound.
His movements were steady and practiced—
Clearly, this wasn't the first time he'd had to perform field surgery on himself.
After finishing, he threw on a shirt, loaded a fresh magazine into his Browning pistol, and walked out into the main room.
There, he found Robert—
Already awake, grinning mischievously, and... trying to fiddle with a massive Gatling gun.
"Ratatata!"
Robert even imitated machine gun sounds as he pretended to fire.
Frank's expression darkened instantly.
He crossed the room in two strides, snatched the weapon away, and snapped, "That's not a toy. Put it down."
Robert reluctantly let go of the Gatling, raising his hands in surrender.
"Geez, don't be so stingy. I'm your savior, remember?"
Frank simply glared at him.
The cabin was much better than Robert's own shabby apartment.
It was practically a small arsenal—walls lined with rifles, shotguns, explosives, even heavy ordinance like RPGs and mounted Gatlings.
There was even a locked case marked "SPECIAL," no doubt hiding even more deadly toys.
Thanks to his newly unlocked Super High School Level Sharpshooter talent, Robert could now instantly identify every weapon, down to their modifications.
And from the looks of it, Frank wasn't just stockpiling—he had customized and tuned each piece with professional precision.
Robert couldn't help but admire it.
He also had an odd intuition now:
If he wanted, he could probably modify weapons even better than Frank.
Thinking of this, Robert's hands were already itching to try.
Frank watched Robert, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
"By the way," Robert said, suddenly turning serious, "You seem way too tough. Took a bullet, handled it like a scratch. Tell me honestly—are you part of some top-secret super soldier project? Like, did they inject you with a serum when you were a kid and turn you into Captain Meatshield?"
Frank gave him a deadpan look.
"That's Captain America. Not me."
He paused, then added dryly:
"And for the record, I'm not Bucky either."
Robert muttered under his breath, "Still feels like you're hiding something..."
Frank ignored that and cut straight to business.
"Listen carefully," he said grimly.
"We have a serious problem. The Russian Ross gang has issued a bounty for us—posted it on the underground exchange. High payout. They're combing the entire city for us."
Robert's smile faded.
"Because I wrecked their little deal?"
Frank shook his head.
"No. It's because you killed someone very important. Anatoly—Vladimir's younger brother."
"Ah..."
Robert scratched his head awkwardly.
Thinking back—
He realized the "Russian Ross farmer" he casually shot during the earlier chaos must have been Anatoly.
No wonder they chased so desperately.
Killing the second-in-command of a major gang...
Yeah, that might make a few people mad.
But Frank wasn't finished.
"And that's not all."
Robert blinked. "There's more!?"
Frank nodded grimly.
"Another bounty went up. Not as high-paying as the Russian Ross one, but enough to attract plenty of hunters."
"From who?"
"The other side of tonight's deal—the buyers.
The ones working with the Russians." Frank narrowed his eyes.
"They're under Katchi, one of the bigger drug lords in Brooklyn. But Katchi's not operating alone anymore. He's recently been taken under the wing of... Jin Bin."
"Wait, wait, wait—"
Robert waved his hands in panic.
"You're telling me I've pissed off not one, but two criminal organizations... and one of them is backed by Jin Bin?"
Frank nodded again.
Robert's scalp tingled.
He slumped into the nearest chair, utterly speechless.
In the original commission briefing, Robert had only been told to interfere with a minor gang transaction.
Nobody said anything about second-in-command Russian bosses.
Nobody said anything about major drug lords.
Nobody said anything about Jin freaking Bin!
This wasn't an ordinary job!
This was suicide!
Robert buried his head in his hands and muttered, "This is what I get for being a good Samaritan..."
[End of Chapter 26]
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