Ever since Nick Fury left, Stan had been on edge.

A vague worry gnawed at him, but he suspected his office was bugged, so he dared not speak or make any phone calls. He considered sending one of his trusted men to gather information, but then feared that S.H.I.E.L.D. might already have them under surveillance, so he abandoned the plan.

During the meeting with Fury, he had considered using his telepathy to probe the man’s mind, but after a few days of experimenting with his new power, he was forced to abandon the idea.

At the cost of the mysterious deaths of several drug dealers, Stan had quickly mastered Level 1 Telepathy and discovered its limits.

First, telepathy could be activated without physical contact, but its effective range was very small—only about ten meters.

Second, it could be used to read and alter another person’s memories, even digging up those buried deep in the subconscious.

Third, it could manipulate a person’s thoughts for a short period, compelling them to act according to his will.

However, these three abilities were only effective on ordinary people with weak minds. Against those who were mentally abnormal or had undergone professional training, Level 1 Telepathy was insufficient to control them. Stan had attempted to force control on such a subject, but not only did it fail, it also caused the target discomfort and made them suspicious of him.

Simply put, Level 1 Telepathy was like truth serum. The difference was that truth serum was a physical substance, while his power was completely invisible. Against an ordinary person, truth serum was infallible. But to a highly trained agent with a fortified mind, it was no more effective than drinking water.

For all these reasons, Stan hadn’t dared to use his power on Fury. The Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. was clearly a man with an iron will, and even the balding man at his side was likely hiding his true strength.

Stan had a superpower he couldn’t use. He, the mole meant to infiltrate S.H.I.E.L.D., had been completely pinned down by Fury before he even stepped through the door.

And so, with a heavy heart, Stan worked through the night until the next morning, unable to sleep.

Pushing his files aside, he opened his computer. His only hope now was to scour the web for any public information about the incident.

There wasn’t much online about last night’s events. The official story was that two Air Force F-22s had suffered a weapons system malfunction during a routine exercise, accidentally firing two Sidewinder missiles that landed on a suburban road in Queens. Fortunately, the report stated, there were no casualties. The incident’s fallout was being managed by the government and hadn’t caused a major stir. Instead, the shootout in the Queens slum that had left over three hundred dead was dominating the headlines.

“No casualties?” Stan highlighted the phrase with his mouse, repeating it under his breath.

Knowing the glory-hogging tendencies of American law enforcement, Stan knew that if S.H.I.E.L.D. had really killed Jason last night, today’s headlines would have read very differently. It would have been something like: Following days of intensive investigation, police and military forces successfully tracked down Joker Organization leader Jason Walter. The military launched an operation last night, dispatching two Raptor fighters to destroy Walter’s vehicle. Jason Walter and several accomplices were killed in the blast.

But the article in front of him called the explosion an accident and deliberately stressed the lack of casualties. This meant one of two things: either Jason wasn’t killed, or there had been no one in that car to begin with.

Stan recalled the shootout in the slum, Jason’s profit-driven nature, and the hundred-plus strange superpowers available to him.

He pieced together the truth of what happened last night.

Hmph. That damn Fury. Using a fake news story to bait me. If I had made a single wrong move last night, the NSA or the FBI would be kicking down my door right now.

Stan felt a surge of pride at his own composure. He pulled the mountain of paperwork back towards him and dove back into his work.

………

With the shootout in the Queens slum, the Joker Organization was once again, again, in the national spotlight.

It happened so often that the public was suffering from outrage fatigue; the Joker Organization’s atrocities were becoming commonplace. After all, these were psychos who dared to take on the government and the military. Wiping out one Mexican gang was hardly a surprise. People would curse the incompetent government a few times, then change the channel to watch Hollywood gossip.

While the general public remained unfazed, the news sent a shockwave through New York’s other gangs.

They knew how deep the Mexican gang’s roots went. They knew Gust had the mayor in his pocket. For the gang to be wiped out overnight despite all that—and for Gust himself to have been torn apart and devoured by dogs—was enough to strike terror into their hearts.

Instantly, every gang in the city was on edge. They buried all their schemes and ambitions, daring not to dream, and simply waited for the dinner two days later.

Two evenings later, all the city’s gang bosses, dressed in their finest suits, waited nervously in their headquarters.

At 8:00 PM, several cars appeared at their gates to transport the six bosses and their men to the Waldorf Astoria Hotel.

Jason had paid a fortune to book out the entire hotel restaurant just for tonight’s summit.

Every member of the Joker Organization was dressed to the nines. Jason himself wore a black suit, his hair impeccably styled, and sat at the head of a small, round table. His plate had already been cleared three times; blessed with a hearty appetite, he had already finished three steaks.

At 8:30, the six gang bosses finally arrived.

Jason stood up and went to greet them with a smile. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Mr. Walter, good evening.” The six men stopped in their tracks, forcing nervous smiles as they quickly had their subordinates present their carefully prepared gifts.

There was a hundred-carat diamond necklace. A limited-edition Swiss watch. A solid gold Desert Eagle. The deed to a priceless garden villa.

……

These bosses were shrewd men; every gift was perfectly tailored to Jason’s tastes.

Jason chuckled, feigning a complaint. “Gentlemen, we’re all old friends here. There’s no need for such extravagant gifts just for a simple dinner. You’re being far too formal.”

“It’s our pleasure, our pleasure,” The six men muttered obsequiously.

“Well, in that case, I won’t be rude.” Jason signaled for his men to take the gifts, then personally escorted the six bosses to their seats at the round table.

The seven bosses sat at one table, while the members of the Joker Organization and the bosses’ men sat at the smaller tables surrounding them.

Jason sat up straight, a smile on his face as his eyes slowly swept across the room.

Then, he raised a solid gold spoon and tapped it lightly against his wine glass.

Ting, ting!

After the crisp sound…

…Hotel staff began to emerge from a side door, pushing serving carts laden with exquisite dishes, which they began to place on the tables.

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