Marvel: The Super Player

"Thirty million?"

"A bounty?"

"Mr. Broughton..."

"Locke..."

The moment those words left Locke's mouth, they dropped like a depth charge into the dense crowd of reporters, instantly sending shockwaves through the entire press corps.

George, who had just stepped out of the elevator bank a short distance behind the scene, couldn't help but furrow his brow deeply.

A highly potent, incredibly unsettling premonition suddenly gripped him.

And it was exceptionally strong.

Locke glanced at Mr. Lawn beside him. The attorney offered a concise nod, giving him the strategic clearance to proceed. Locke turned his eyes back to the aggressive press corps and raised a single hand, making a calm gesture for silence.

In the very next second...

The air didn't merely turn quiet; it grew so profoundly still that Locke could practically hear the rapid, heavy thumping of the journalists' hearts below the steps—their expressions overflowing with the raw anticipation of chasing an absolute blockbuster headline.

"Thirty million dollars."

Locke extended three fingers, his expression turning thoroughly cold and serious as he locked eyes with the media personnel.

"Standing right here, I am addressing everyone globally. Provided anyone can establish a verified operational lead, or..."

He offered a casual shrug of his shoulders.

Locke paused intentionally, letting the silence stretch for a beat before delivering the conclusion.

"Those who understand will naturally understand exactly what this thirty million is allocated to achieve."

Directly and publicly broadcasting a monetary contract for a targeted execution remained strictly illegal under domestic statutes.

As the commanding chief of Locke's premium legal defense team, how could Mr. Lawn possibly allow his client to commit such a rudimentary, amateurish procedural error?

Issuing a global bounty was entirely permissible.

Even orchestrating an aggressive financial incentive for a high-risk operational contract was entirely viable. Individuals routinely crossed lines for a mere hundred thousand dollars; what kind of specialized element wouldn't mobilize when thirty million was actively sitting on the table?

The fundamental constraint was ensuring that specific, incriminating terminology never entered the public record.

As for the current phrasing?

*Those who understand will naturally understand.*

What did that functionally imply? To the general public, the underlying message was completely transparent. However, when evaluated within a court of law, a subjective interpretation held zero evidentiary weight.

"ICA."

Locke continued to address the dense assembly, fixing his eyes directly on the main lens of the *New York Daily* camera crew stationed in the front row. His voice remained perfectly level.

"That is the explicit designation of the global apparatus that attempted to execute a domestic abduction against me today. It aligns perfectly with the audio recording currently circulating through your networks. However, I venture to guess that this specific detail was systematically omitted from the file you received."

The gathered journalists remained silent, but the subtle shifts in their expressions confirmed his analysis with absolute clarity.

Locke wasn't the least bit surprised by the structural narrative manipulation.

Extracting statements completely out of context was a foundational, traditional playbook utilized by these clandestine institutions. There was nothing remarkable about it.

"Just as this organization utilized the safety of my classmate to establish leverage against me..."

Locke stared unblinkingly into the lens of the primary recording unit.

"...I will explicitly repeat what I stated during that deployment. If they possess the nerve, they are entirely welcome to kill my friend. But I will ensure their entire institution is buried in the exact same plot, utilizing every single cent of my personal wealth to fund the excavation. That stance remains completely unchanged right now."

The press corps erupted into a frantic, chaotic murmur once again.

This critical context had been completely absent from the audio file delivered to their dropboxes. The data available to their editorial rooms concluded precisely with Locke's unyielding statement: If you want to execute him, proceed as you see fit. Do it at your own discretion.

But if this broader context actually existed...

Then... the underlying moral framework of the entire confrontation shifted completely.

"Thirty million dollars in liquidity to locate this apparatus and deliver a definitive resolution to my desk. Cash, direct wire transfers, bearer bonds—I am fully prepared to clear the payment utilizing whatever structural format your operation demands."

Locke's voice carried an absolute, metallic finality.

"Anyone is free to target my circle, provided they possess the structural capacity to endure the absolute annihilation I will unleash in response. This is my personal legal counsel; I am confident most of your institutions recognize his firm. If anyone harbors doubts regarding my immediate access to thirty million in liquid capital, my attorney is fully prepared to provide the necessary verification. Thank you."

With that, Locke spun on his heel and walked straight back toward the lobby doors, completely ignoring the chaotic wall of sound as dozens of reporters screamed for him to wait.

What an absolute joke. They were mere journalists, not figures of authority; what functional right did they possess to command his movements?

However...

The moment Locke stepped back inside the polished perimeter of the hospital atrium, he caught sight of George standing a short distance away beside Gwen, his face looking thoroughly dark.

Gwen's expression, by contrast, carried zero trace of disapproval; instead, her eyes were practically shimmering with a deep sense of unyielding admiration.

Laying thirty million dollars directly on the line simply to secure retribution for a civilian associate—what could possibly serve as a more definitive, absolute testament to Locke's loyalty?

Even the aggressive pack of journalists outside had been completely derailed by the announcement, shifting their analytical focus entirely toward the staggering scope of the thirty-million-dollar bounty.

This was especially true after Mr. Lawn formally stepped forward on behalf of his elite firm to personally guarantee that Locke possessed the immediate capacity to clear the funds at a moment's notice. The media plaza descended into an absolute frenzy of activity.

The editorial teams were already rapidly structuring their primary headlines:

*Associate Targeted; High Schooler Launches $30 Million Global Manhunt Contract!*

*Thirty Million Dollars! The Global Execution Order is Formally Initiated!*

*Shocking! Seventeen-Year-Old Prodigy Commits $30 Million Liquidity to Secure Vengeance for a friend!*

...

What?

Locke Broughton hadn't explicitly utilized the phrase "manhunt contract" or "execution"?

He hadn't needed to.

*Those who understand will naturally understand.* That explicit phrasing made the operational intent completely transparent to any breathing individual.

Furthermore, while the public understood precisely why Locke had to maintain strict procedural compliance in his vocabulary, the press networks faced no such legal constraints.

They weren't the ones facing a grand jury; their sole objective was maximizing engagement. Consequently, they naturally chose the most sensationalist, explosive phrasing available to drive traffic.

...

Inside the recovery suite.

Kahn looked up as Locke pushed the heavy door open, parting his lips slightly. "Locke..."

Locke cut him off smoothly before he could initiate a protest. "This is the baseline of what I can do on my end."

Kahn shook his head quickly. "No, that's not what I mean. I'm saying... it would have been much better if you just handed that money directly to me. Besides, my life isn't worth anywhere near that kind of capital."

Locke: "..."

Transferring that capital directly to Kahn was a structural impossibility.

Even if Locke had attempted to execute a direct personal gift, Kahn's pride would have compelled him to refuse the transaction. Raising the point was simply Kahn's way of processing how staggeringly extravagant Locke's operational spending had become.

However, Locke merely offered a relaxed chuckle.

"Is thirty million genuinely considered a significant sum? One of these days, I'll simply have Pepper arrange a private session with Tony Stark. With my goddess of fortune sitting right beside me at the card table, I can easily claw that capital right back within a single evening."

The individuals in the room found themselves completely devoid of a logical rebuttal.

Locke looked over at Gwen, the two exchanging a subtle, knowing smile.

George, who had followed closely behind the teenagers into the suite, spoke up with a thoroughly grim expression,

"You acted entirely on raw impulse, Locke. I had operating under the assumption that you possessed a highly rational mind."

Locke turned his eyes to meet George's gaze. "George, I am operating with absolute rationality."

"Committing thirty million dollars to initiate what functions as a global execution order is what you define as rational? You are openly challenging the absolute authority of our legal infrastructure."

"No. I never utilized the terminology of an kill order. My explicit statement referenced a verified operational bounty."

"A semantic evasion cannot obscure your authentic operational intent."

"Correct."

Locke looked at George, whose expression faltered slightly at the immediate, unyielding admission. Locke calmly clarified his baseline position.

"My precise intent is utilizing thirty million dollars to systematically harvest the leadership of that organization."

George's brow furrowed deep.

Locke's voice dropped into a cold, resonant cadence.

"George, that apparatus didn't merely execute a domestic kidnapping against Kahn to establish leverage over my movements. That specific organization is responsible for the death of my mother."

George went entirely rigid.

During his transit back to the urban perimeter, Mister Nobody had patched through a priority line, explicitly instructing him to ensure Locke's absolute physical security at all costs.

In exchange for his cooperation, George had naturally extracted a much more comprehensive breakdown regarding the historical record of Lorraine Broughton.

Consequently...

Confronted with Locke's direct statement, the standard institutional lecture George had prepared regarding the rule of law and the manipulation of legal loopholes died completely in his throat.

After a long pause, George shook his head grimly. "Thirty million dollars, when leveled against an organisation of that particular scale, is insufficient to inflict a fatal blow."

If their operations genuinely retained deep institutional ties to the official architecture in London...

Thirty million dollars might present a staggering, astronomical figure to an ordinary civilian, but to a massive, globally entrenched clandestine network, that kind of capital amounted to little more than a drop in the ocean.

Locke looked at George, a subtle smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"I am sincerely hoping that organization shares that exact assessment."

It would be ideal if they maintained that precise level of arrogance.

That way, when the Peerless Assassin officially emerged to accept the contract, wouldn't the ensuing operational sequence turn out to be infinitely more entertaining?

Locke's smile remained perfectly composed.

...

The night cycle dissolved into dawn.

Out within the maritime boundary of Long Island, the Coast Guard finished processing three separate seizures of illegal narcotics and dismantling a heavily overloaded vessel transporting undocumented transits. Following those operations, they were ultimately forced to release an official status update.

The bald hitman was officially presumed deceased at sea.

While the maritime search teams lacked direct physical evidence—such as recovering the asset's corpse from the river basin—they possessed overwhelming circumstantial data rooted in basic human physiology.

No operational asset could realistically sustain a sub-surface transit for an entire night cycle without breaching the surface and triggering their thermal sensors.

Even assuming the individual possessed high-end auxiliary oxygen equipment, the physics of the environment rendered a clean escape statistically impossible.

However...

The official communication released by the Coast Guard failed to generate even a ripple of public interest. In reality, whether the bald operative was dead or locked in a holding cell had become entirely irrelevant to the public discourse.

The front-page banner headline dominating the *New York Daily* was focused entirely on the thirty-million-dollar global bounty.

Across public transit buses, subway lines, and morning commutes, the thirty-million-dollar manhunt contract had rapidly crystallized into an absolute viral sensation. In fact, the dedicated inquiry line Mr. Lawn's firm had established to process incoming data had been completely overwhelmed and crashed by six in the morning.

...

Outside New Amsterdam Medical Center.

The dense crowd of reporters caught sight of a sleek Audi R8 maneuvering through the security gates. Their eyes lit up in unison as they rapidly converged on the vehicle.

"Mr. Broughton!"

"Following the morning publications, a significant segment of the public is claiming this bounty is merely a high-profile publicity stunt..."

"Sir, how do you intend to verify that your contract has successfully reached the target elements?"

"Is the thirty-million-dollar payout guaranteed simply for delivering actionable data?"

"..."

Having returned to his residence briefly to shower and change into a fresh, tailored suit, Locke walked through the chaotic wall of sound with an expressionless countenance. Flanked by two uniform officers providing an immediate security envelope, he stepped through the primary entrance of the atrium once again.

The pack of journalists followed aggressively at his heels.

"Mr. Broughton! Or is the reality that you are fully aware no operational element would dare accept such a high-risk contract, and you are simply utilizing thirty million dollars and the safety of your friend to manufacture personal social capital?"

"..."

Locke's footsteps came to an immediate halt.

"Locke?"

"I'm fine."

Locke offered a reassuring smile to Gwen, who was watching him with clear concern. He spun around slowly, standing firmly within the center of the spacious atrium as he fixed his gaze on the press corps outside the glass.

His eyes settled with the chilling precision of a cruise missile onto the exact reporter who had just spoken. "Which network do you represent?"

The man raised his chin slightly, a trace of professional arrogance surfacing on his face. "The *Daily Bugle*!"

"Ah."

Locke nodded slowly, an expression of complete realization washing over his face.

The reporter's chest puffed out slightly with pride.

In the very next second, Locke let out a cold, mocking chuckle.

"No wonder you possess the capacity to formulate such an incredibly idiotic query. It appears you are merely a low-tier tabloid writer representing a publication whose name carries zero professional relevance. That explains the cognitive deficit perfectly."

A wave of immediate laughter rippled through the surrounding journalists.

The *Daily Bugle* reporter's expression went completely rigid. He glared directly at Locke, raising his voice to demand.

"I am asking you to provide a direct response to my query, Mr. Broughton!"

Locke cast a casual glance toward the man, his eyes tracking downward to lock onto the identification badge pinned to his jacket.

'Good.'

'I have officially logged your profile.'

Locke noted the man's physical features with a detached, calculating focus. Then, turning away, he looked toward a senior female journalist representing the *New York Daily*—a network with which he had maintained a consistently stable professional relationship.

He offered a polite smile, reaching out his hand to accept the microphone she was extending toward him.

Right as his fingers were about to close around the handle...

*Swifffft!*

An abrupt, piercing streak of black light sliced clean through the air of the atrium.

*THWACK!*

Before Locke's hand could fully secure the mic, a solid black card slammed into the microphone with the kinetic force of a high-velocity bullet, shattering the casing instantly.

***

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