At Maya's speed, flying in a straight line, it took her less than five minutes to reach the Butcher Bar and slip into the fourth-floor office.
That put the time at roughly a quarter to midnight—still fifteen minutes before the clock struck twelve.
President Maya crouched on the ceiling and extended her sensory field to scan the first floor.
The bar was deserted. Not a single customer, not even a bartender. Marion sat alone at the counter, knocking back drink after drink.
Just a few days ago, when Marion had come up with his brilliant scheme to recruit student soldiers, the man had been positively radiant—animated, confident, grandstanding about his vision as if he were about to crown himself the new king of New York's underworld.
Now? Bloodshot eyes, reeking of booze, that freshly styled Vito Corleone slicked-back 'do from The Godfather hanging in greasy tangles. He looked exactly like one of those Wall Street "elites" in Lower Manhattan right before they took the express elevator off the roof.
Through her sensory field, Maya watched Marion drain three bottles of Rémy Martin in barely ten minutes, gulping cognac like it was water.
Boring as the stakeout was, Maya stayed crouched on the ceiling with perfect calm, not a trace of restlessness. After several real battles, President Maya had genuinely matured. She'd also come to understand the purpose behind all those tedious, menial missions the Hidden Leaf Village assigned to freshly graduated genin.
Building team coordination while simultaneously tempering young shinobi's patience and mental fortitude. The Leaf Village deserved its reputation as the victor of multiple Great Ninja Wars—they nailed the small details of shinobi development. Other villages threw academy graduates straight into brutal survival trials and assigned missions based solely on strength without considering temperament. The result? Promising talents dying young, and even more young shinobi growing up psychologically warped.
Take the new generation of Mist shinobi—seven absolute lunatics had actually tried to assassinate Boruto and kill Sarada. Sure, the new-generation Leaf Village had its share of idiots too, but in this race to the bottom, the Leaf was… well, the least rotten.
Okay, having a hyperactive brain isn't always a good thing either. Case in point: a certain president had gone on yet another mental tangent.
BANG!
The Butcher Bar's front door was kicked wide open.
In walked a bald, hulking brute—nearly two meters tall (about 6'7"), roughly forty years old, with a heavy-set, mean-looking Slavic face and a knife scar running from his left eyebrow all the way down to his chin.
The big man swept the room with a cautious glance before stepping inside. When he confirmed Marion was truly alone, he let out a booming laugh and strode forward.
"Ha ha ha ha! Good, good, good! Marion, my brother, you're a man of your word! You even got here before me—ha ha! Honestly, all that fighting and killing, what's the point? Much better to sit down like civilized men, have a drink, and talk things over!"
"F\*ck you! Lanskahov, you sneaky bastard—I'd love to twist your head off and punt it down the street!" Marion snarled through glazed, half-shut eyes.
A flicker of contempt crossed Lanskahov's gaze, but he kept up the jovial act. "Easy, little brother. Your student-soldier plan wasn't bad, actually—I've been thinking about recruiting fresh blood myself. But at the end of the day, you gotta have the muscle to back up your moves. Real strength is what matters. Those little tricks of yours? They're just secondary. But hey, I'm new in town, and I don't burn bridges. Tell you what—39th Street's weed business stays yours. Want powder too? Come straight to me. Since we're settling things so amicably today, I'll even give you a five percent discount. How's that sound?"
Marion was drunk, but he wasn't stupid. He knew that after tonight, he'd never take another step forward. He'd only slide further downhill with age until he wound up dead in some gutter.
But Lanskahov was right—strength was what mattered. And this local boss could no longer keep the outsider in check.
"Dirk! Cole! Bring the boys inside—I've got an announcement!" Marion shouted toward the door.
Lanskahov allowed himself a subtle smirk. He understood: Marion was going to concede publicly, in front of everyone. That way, Lanskahov couldn't go after him later, and Marion's life would be spared.
So Lanskahov waved a hand of his own. "Mr. Owlsley, have our boys come in too."
In the center of the bar sat a long rectangular table—roughly ten meters by four (about 33 by 13 feet), cobbled together from several smaller tables. Clearly prepared in advance.
Lanskahov bypassed the bar counter entirely and took a seat at the head of the table. He poured himself a vodka and drank without waiting for anyone.
Soon two groups filed through the door—Marion's crew and Lanskahov's.
But the moment President Maya's sensory field locked onto one particular man, she couldn't help blurting out: "Holy crap—is that Wolverine?!"
Good thing she was four floors up. No amount of shouting would reach the bar below.
Not that anyone could blame her for the outburst. The man at the head of Lanskahov's group had a full beard, brownish hair styled in a vaguely wolf-like mane, and—most critically—two steel claws protruding from the backs of his hands. It was practically Wolverine's signature look.
"Marion! Come, let me introduce someone. This—this is my partner, Mr. Leland Owlsley!"
Lanskahov pulled the "Wolverine" to his side and gestured toward Marion.
"And Mr. Owlsley, this is Mr. Marion. We've just buried the hatchet and resolved our little disagreement like gentlemen. Come, come—let's drink to that!"
As he spoke, Lanskahov poured drinks for both men.
Maya focused her senses on the "Wolverine's" claws and nearly snorted. Oh, for the love of—that's not an adamantium skeleton. They're just mechanical claws mounted on his forearms. This guy's a total knockoff! Is this Owlsley some kind of die-hard Wolverine fan? No, wait, that doesn't make sense either. Magneto's been in the papers on and off for over a decade, but I've never once heard of Wolverine going public.
Down in the bar, everyone took their seats after the toast. Marion on one side, Lanskahov and Owlsley across from him. Each boss's men stood behind their respective leader.
Marion, who'd just been forced to down another hefty glass of vodka courtesy of Lanskahov, was visibly swaying.
He pushed himself to his feet, head hanging low, both hands braced against the table. "Boys… I've decided to give up my fight against Mr. Lanskahov—"
Lanskahov sat with his eyes half-closed, savoring a cigar, basking in the sweet sound of Marion's surrender. Then the man across the table stopped mid-sentence.
Before Lanskahov could even look up in confusion, Marion's head snapped up—face twisted into something feral—and he roared:
"Boys—PULL YOUR PIECES AND TAKE THESE BASTARDS DOWN!"
Without waiting for anyone to react, Marion ripped the Browning from his waistband and fired twice at Lanskahov. BANG! BANG!
The wily Lanskahov had already started diving under the table the instant he saw Marion's expression shift.
But Marion was operating on a whole different level. Both rounds punched straight through the tabletop and drilled into the skull hiding behind it.
One second ago, Lanskahov had been the picture of smug confidence—victory in hand. He didn't even have time to scream before he slid off his chair and crumpled onto the cold concrete floor with a dull thud.