"This guy isn't here for a deal at all! And he already hurt one of us!"
Psylocke's hand slid onto her scabbard.
If Caliban so much as nodded, she would cut Ryuuto down without hesitation.
The room pulsed with killing intent.
But Ryuuto?
He stood there with that irritatingly calm, confident smile—as if none of these mutants even registered as a threat.
"Psylocke. Stand down."
To her disbelief, Caliban didn't order a strike.
He simply stared at Ryuuto, unreadable.
Reluctantly, Psylocke stepped back, though her blade never moved far from its sheath.
Caliban tapped the table with one finger, his tone cold and heavy.
"My friend, I've never seen you before. So I'm guessing you're not a Mutant. But even so… you injure one of my men the moment you walk in. That puts me in a difficult position. These guys aren't happy. How are you planning to compensate us?"
Ryuuto shrugged.
"Oh. Money, right? Sure. Name your price."
Caliban's eyes glowed greedily.
"Haha… refreshing. When you walked in, I had a feeling I'd like you."
He poured two glasses of red wine, drained his in one gulp, and shoved the other toward Ryuuto.
"Since we're getting along so well, I'll give you a discount. Only five hundred million dollars."
A collective hiss swept the room.
Every thug instinctively covered their mouths—no one dared anger Caliban when he was in fleece-the-client mode.
Even Psylocke, usually unflinching, looked uneasy.
From her perspective, Ryuuto didn't look like someone who could casually drop half a billion.
Four seconds passed.
Five.
Then Ryuuto smiled.
"Five hundred million? Reasonable. Not expensive at all."
The room froze.
Even Psylocke blinked.
The goons stared at Ryuuto like he'd just grown wings and announced he was the Emperor of America.
Caliban slammed the table happily.
"Then let's not waste time! Pay up first—you'll become my most valued customer!"
He extended his hand.
Ryuuto didn't take it.
Instead, his voice cooled.
"Oh, I'll pay. But before I hand over anything, you're going to give me one piece of information. Otherwise, why should I trust you?"
The room erupted internally—murderous intent spiked like needles.
How dare this outsider negotiate?
"What information?" Caliban said tightly.
"It's simple. I'm looking for a Mutant called Red Bull."
The entire room stiffened.
Caliban's expression collapsed instantly.
"Sorry. We're closed. I've never heard of such a person. Leave."
His voice was iron now—zero negotiation, zero hospitality.
Ryuuto took a step closer, still smiling.
"I'm not leaving."
And then—
He casually placed a hand on Caliban's shoulder.
Caliban tried to move.
He couldn't.
At all.
"Psylocke! Teach him a lesson!"
A beam of psychic steel shot toward Ryuuto's throat—
Sand Coffin.
A wave of sand lashed out and wrapped Psylocke head to toe.
Her blade froze inches from Ryuuto's neck, her eyes widening in shock.
She couldn't even twitch.
"You dare act arrogant on Caliban's turf? I'll blow you into a hornet's nest!"
Caliban roared and yanked open a drawer, producing an ancient gunpowder pistol.
He fired point-blank.
"BOOM!"
At the same moment, Psylocke broke free enough to lunge with a dagger, aiming for Ryuuto's abdomen.
"Haha! Nailed him! He's dead!"
"Serves him right!"
The room burst into cheers.
They thought they had killed a monster.
But—
The smiles shattered one by one as the dust cleared.
And they finally saw what really happened.
...
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