"It seems I can only communicate with you in a way that you can understand."
Jude looked down. He checked the system panel.
The new power.
He had been waiting to test it.
SYSTEM: [INTERNAL AND EXTERNAL COOPERATION] — Advance reward status: active.
SYSTEM: Hidden ability scan complete — activation confirmed.
SYSTEM: New ability acquired: VILLAIN AFFINITY.
SYSTEM: (Passive.) Activates automatically upon contact with villains. Accelerates the rate at which your favourability with them increases, allowing you to build trust within a compressed timeframe.
SYSTEM: Note 2: Alright, let's look at what this one has actually been doing out there. Two-faced? Yes. Scheming? Extensively. Deceitful? Professionally. Takes bribes? On record. Frames people when it's useful? Also on record. I want it known that this assessment is objective and data-driven.
SYSTEM: This individual cannot possibly be a hero. He is, constitutionally, a born villain. The ability fits.
"I know," Jude said aloud. "Can you stop doing that?"
SYSTEM: These are simply facts.
"Hey!"
The man's voice cut through. "The hell are you standing there daydreaming about? I asked you a question."
"Right." Jude looked up. "I was saying — since you're not responding to polite conversation, I'll need to try a different catalog."
Something shifted in the man's expression. He glanced at Jude's hands. No obvious movement. No apparent threat.
But something was off.
He pulled a crowbar from his belt. Close-quarters. No sound, no police, no other supes drawn by a gunshot.
Jude stepped toward him.
Something was definitely off.
The man pulled the trigger.
The report was not the clean sound of a round discharging. It was the sharp, grinding crash of a barrel meeting an obstruction. Metal tore against metal. The weapon disintegrated outward in the man's grip. Two streaks of blood opened across his cheek. He dropped the ruined pistol and stared at his right hand. Small-gauge shrapnel dotted the skin, welling blood.
He had not seen Jude draw. He had not tracked the movement at all. He had been pulling his own trigger when the bullet arrived from the other direction.
"Not a supes," Jude said. He slid his pistol back into his waistband. "Technically. If you factor in draw speed, firing speed, and the physiological control required for that shot placement, the baseline qualities become relevant. But the core skill is just marksmanship." He paused. "I've had a lot of time to practice."
"My name is Jude," he added. "I'm still asking for yours."
The man spat blood. He set his jaw.
He charged.
He came at the arm. At close range, a gun was less useful than a baton, and the crowbar gave him reach. He moved fast for his size, wary of giving Jude an angle.
"Are you actually incapable of stopping," Jude said, "or is this purely a pride thing?"
He caught the crowbar.
Jude used the man's momentum against him. He redirected the swing, pulling the forward force into a sideways stumble. He struck three times. Abdomen first, taking the breath. Shoulders. Elbows.
The joints dislocated before the man finished registering the blow to his stomach.
Jude picked up the crowbar. He placed one end in the man's mouth. He pressed it just enough to ensure biting was the only available response, and biting would accomplish nothing.
"I put the gun away," Jude said, looking down at him, "because I wanted to have a conversation with you. I have now given you several opportunities to have that conversation. You are an absolute—" He exhaled. "You know, I could respect it if you had a plan. But you don't have a plan. You just like hitting things."
He crouched to meet the man's eyes.
"Here's what's happening. That gunshot was heard. Someone has probably already called the police. I'd estimate four to six minutes before they arrive." He kept his voice level. "I have no intention of killing you. However, if you keep treating this like a fight, I'll strip you to the waist and hang you from the nearest lamppost facing outward. In this neighbourhood, at this hour, I cannot guarantee the few minutes before the police arrive will be uneventful for someone in that position. I'm not trying to be colourful. I'm being accurate."
He let the silence stretch.
He pulled the crowbar free.
"So," he said. "What do you say?"
The man held his gaze.
"...fine," he said. "Talk."
"I thought you'd get there eventually." Jude pulled a length of cord from his coat. He held it up, letting the implication settle, then put it away. He reached down, took the man's arm, and set both dislocated joints with two sharp cracks.
The man absorbed the sounds without making a noise. A muscle in his cheek twitched.
That is actual toughness, Jude thought. Not performance. Real pain threshold.
"Right," he said. "Somewhere quieter."
Two minutes later, they stood at a bar.
"Orange juice," Jude told the bartender.
The man stared at the bar top.
"Ice water," he said. "And a double of whatever's rough."
The bartender provided both without comment and walked away.
Jude pushed the ice water toward the man's right hand. The man took it. He pressed the cold glass to his face.
"I'm not paying for that," Jude said, nodding at the drink. "Just so that's clear."
The man looked at him. The scarring across his face caught the low light. It was layered, built up over years. He was large, damaged, and entirely self-possessed. He had a high tolerance for pain because life required it.
Jude had seen how the man operated. The tracking, the six-metre calculation, the quick pivot from firearms to close-quarters. Training. Real training.
The man drank. He set the glass down.
"You got a face full of scars," Jude observed to himself, mostly, "built like a wall, got a temper like a grease fire, and absolutely no interest in doing anything the easy way." He turned his orange juice. "You look like a butcher."