Not far from Broadway is Wall Street, where you can go from rat-infested sewers to obscene, champagne-soaked luxury in the span of a few blocks.
Luca and McClane arrived at a bar packed with white-collar professionals. The moment McClane walked in—disheveled, dried blood on his face—several well-groomed elites frowned. What kind of demons crawl in here? If you're going to a place like this, could you at least try to look human?
A manager hurried over.
McClane's heart skipped. Was he about to get thrown out? He'd told Luca he shouldn't come to places like this.
"Sir, do you need any help?" the manager asked with a professional smile. "We have spare clothes and a first-aid kit in the back. We can clean you up."
McClane blinked.
Wait. He wasn't the one causing trouble this time?
Luca looked at him. "Why don't you go shower first? Otherwise, no beautiful woman's coming within five feet of you."
McClane: "…"
As McClane followed the manager away, Luca gave him a look full of expectation.
"Go on, dude. Let's see what you've got."
Luca knew he couldn't stall the assassination mission forever. The Family and the Committee were getting impatient—they wanted Richie and Galant dead as soon as possible. If Luca's "mission" failed, they'd simply send more killers.
And once that happened, his delay tactics would collapse. Richie would face wave after wave of assassins.
In that situation, could Richie survive?
Even Luca wasn't confident he could survive.
But he knew someone who could.
He wanted to hand the police an invincible SSR trump card and guarantee 100% victory in this drug war.
—John McClane.
Judging by appearances, McClane didn't look like much. He was basically every balding uncle at every dive bar in America.
But you can't judge a book by its cover.
Especially when the cover is missing hair.
Those guys are always broken in weird, powerful ways.
Twenty minutes later, freshly washed, bandaged, and in clean casual clothes, McClane sat back down.
"I've been to a lot of bars," he said, shaking his head. "Not many managers help you patch yourself up without laughing first."
He looked at Luca. "That's because of you, right? They'll give you respect. Not so much. for me right?"
Luca didn't deny it. He glanced around at the suited professionals and stylish hostesses.
"I forgot who invented business cards. Whoever it was, they changed the world. On Wall Street, people need them to prove who they are."
He paused.
"But there's another kind of person. The kind who becomes their own business card. Just a name—and people feel awe. Admiration. Fear."
"Greco."
"Just call me Dove. Dove of Peace," he said with a grin. "That's my business card."
He leaned forward.
"McClane, you used to be the face of the NYPD. You cracked major cases. You took down terrorists. Nobody in the NYPD was more capable than you."
McClane: "…"
Can I say it was mostly bad luck and worse timing?
He didn't argue. He just lifted his glass and took a long drink.
"Thanks for earlier," he muttered.
"I still don't get it," Luca said. "Who were those guys?"
Why is it that every time I run into you, you're neck-deep in trouble?
McClane gave him a brief explanation. Then his face darkened.
"They're pushing drugs into the church. There's a rehab support group there. People trying to get clean. Those drugs will wreck everything they've worked for."
His jaw clenched.
"Wall Street brokers frying their brains to stay sharp? Fine. But you don't poison families trying to quit."
"I couldn't just stand there."
Luca was stunned.
Drug dealers selling at rehab meetings.
Now that's precision targeting.
"We might've gone too easy on them before," Luca murmured. "I thought they'd just roughed up some drunk guy. Didn't realize it was this."
"I would've done the same," he added. "But it doesn't solve the root problem. You arrest them—new ones pop up. Blue magic won't vanish from New York. And some of your fellow officers won't mind skimming a little profit."
"That's why I don't want to stay at the precinct anymore," McClane said quietly.
His eyes were foggy—not just from alcohol.
"But if I leave… I don't know what I am."
They kept drinking. Talking. Trading rounds.
The more McClane drank, the more he opened up.
Luca carefully steered the conversation—marriage, family, past cases.
McClane valued family deeply. His marriage collapsed under the weight of constant danger and endless crises. Ironically, that same pain was what kept him from falling completely apart.
He wasn't some glossy action-movie superhero. He wasn't a clean-cut daredevil.
He got hurt. He got scared. He got tired.
He swore. He self-deprecated. He kept moving anyway.
A blue-collar hero who hated bureaucracy and fought the system with his bare hands.
"Dove," McClane slurred, "you know the two stupidest things I ever did?"
He slammed back cheap tequila. The ashtray rattled.
"First—I thought being a cop would save the world. Second—I thought marriage would save me."
He lit a cigarette and pointed at his worn face.
"Holly won't even let me see her dog. The department won't let me through the front door. Suspension pending investigation? I saved two hundred people in Los Angeles, and now they're saying I damaged an elevator and can't afford the repairs."
Luca handed him a tissue.
"The worst part?" McClane continued. "After terrorists blew up that building in Los Angeles, I fixed my marriage."
He laughed bitterly.
"Then I lost my wife while fixing the plumbing."
He stood up, unsteady.
"I'm leaving. If I drink more, I won't find my way home. Thanks for tonight. We'll drink again. On me."
__________________________________________________________________________
Character Card: John McClane
Rank: SSR
Source: Die Hard
Skill: Misfortunes Never Come Singly
– You are always in the wrong place at the wrong time
– Automatically triggered into consecutive escalating crises
Learning Requirement: Bond ≥ Partner; 1 Skill Fragment
Skill: Ventilation Duct Raid
– +30% movement speed when moving through ventilation shafts
– +30% stealth effectiveness in narrow interior structures
Learning Requirement: Bond ≥ Friend; 30 Skill Fragments
Skill: Barefoot Warrior
– +20% movement speed when barefoot
– +20% evasion rate
– +20% environmental interaction efficiency
– −60% foot-related damage
Learning Requirement: Bond ≥ Close Friend; 30 Skill Fragments
Skill: Heroism
– +100% combat power when facing danger alone
Learning Requirement: Bond ≥ Partner; 200 Skill Fragments
Skill: Die Hard
– Survival probability drastically increased in extreme life-threatening situations
– Refuses death under fatal circumstances
Learning Requirement: Symbiosis Bond; 1500 Skill Fragments
Bond: Familliar
__________________________________________________________________________
What does "cheater" even mean?
Luca sighed.
These SSR characters are "cheater". Every single one is borderline broken.
Especially "Die Hard." The title says it all—hard to kill.
A conceptual, bug-level skill. The most abstract ability Luca had seen aside from Matilda's luck aura.
If he combined Matilda's abilities with McClane's?
He could practically walk through gunfire without worrying about death.
Which, frankly, is useful when you're a Godfather with too many enemies.
But that first skill—only one fragment?
Is the system serious?
Is it trying to trick me into learning the ultimate bad-luck magnet skill?
Yes, he's the so-called Dove of Peace. Yes, he has a habit of meddling.
But living in nonstop chaos?
That's exhausting.
Once you learn that "misfortune" skill, you can send goodbye kiss to peaceful days .
Still…
Ventilation ducts are excellent for assassins.
Barefoot Warrior? High dodge builds are always tempting.
Heroism?
One word: monstrous.
---
The next day, McClane went to the church as usual.
The priest handed him a letter.
"This was in the mailbox."
"For me?"
The church barely received mail. And McClane was hardly a model believer. What kind of believer drinks like he's trying to outpace God?
Suspicious, McClane opened it.
Inside was a message—and an address.
—If you're reading this, you came back to the church. We warned you. This is the last time. Interfere again, and you and your family will pay. Want your family to experience blue magic?
The address listed was Holly's home.
The alcohol evaporated from his system instantly.
His fingers tightened around the paper. Veins bulged. His vision went red.
It was already past six.
He called Holly.
No answer.
McClane bolted.
He rushed to her house.
Thankfully, she and the kids were fine.
Holly frowned. "It's a weekday, John. You see the kids on weekends."
"Why didn't you answer your phone?" he demanded.
"I didn't feel like it."
"…"
He exhaled slowly.
"Okay. I just wanted to check on them. I won't bother you."
He turned to leave.
Then—
BOOM.
A thunderous explosion ripped through the street.
A red car parked at the curb erupted into flames.
Holly's car.
Firelight danced across McClane's face as he stared, disbelief curdling into fury. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles cracked.
His whole body trembled.
Those damn drug dealers.
================================================================================
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