Chapter 39: How Sick Is Hell's Kitchen?
The operator on the other end of the line spoke with the calm of someone reading a weather forecast: "Please state your identification number."
"High Table Elder. 9527."
Ethan rattled off the number and continued without pause.
"I want a full roster of every Hand operative in New York City. And I want bounties on all of them."
"Rank-and-file members: fifty thousand dollars each. Senior members: one hundred thousand. Hand ninjas: five hundred thousand. Key leadership: one million. The five Fingers — ten million dollars apiece."
"Total bounty pool: one hundred million dollars."
Ethan had no illusions about anyone actually killing one of the five Fingers. This was a numbers game. Anyone strong enough to take out Madame Gao wouldn't care about ten million dollars, and anyone who cared about ten million dollars wasn't strong enough to take out Madame Gao.
As for the money itself — Ethan wasn't spending a dime of his own. Every High Table Elder received an annual bounty allowance. He was simply cashing in his entire budget on a single operation. No sweat off his back.
And the local gangs? He didn't bother putting bounties on them. They were in Hell's Kitchen. He could handle them personally without breaking a sweat.
"Your request has been received. Please hold."
At the High Table Intelligence Center, the operator placed the call on hold and spoke to the room: "Pull the complete New York City dossier on the Hand."
Moments later, a staff member in professional attire emerged from the archives carrying a freshly updated file. The operator flipped it open — the first few pages held photographs of Murakami, Madame Gao, and the rest of the five Fingers.
Everything checked out. The operator stamped the file with the High Table's red bounty seal.
"Information has been processed and recorded," the operator confirmed, picking the phone back up. "The bounty will be broadcast globally. Every Continental in the world will have it posted shortly."
Within minutes, the bounty hit every Continental hotel on the planet. Every registered assassin and contracted organization received a text alert simultaneously.
In one Continental bar, an assassin glanced at his buzzing phone mid-drink. His eyes went wide. He set down his beer and bolted for the door.
The message read:
BOUNTY TARGET: All Hand operatives — New York City TOTAL POOL: $100,000,000 RATES: Rank-and-file $50K · Senior members $100K · Ninjas $500K · Key leadership $1M · Fingers $10M each STATUS: Effective immediately Probable location: Hell's Kitchen
Phones erupted across every Continental in every time zone. Every assassin who read the alert felt the same electric jolt — a hundred million dollars in play, with a target-rich environment.
The bounty detonated across the underworld like a bomb. Assassins began flooding toward Hell's Kitchen. Flights to New York sold out within the hour. Local operators were already checking their weapons and heading for the door.
Winston, overseeing construction at the new Hell's Kitchen Continental, read the alert on his own phone and allowed himself a thin smile. "So our Boss is finally baring his fangs."
He'd honestly begun to wonder if Ethan had forgotten he was a High Table Elder. Since taking the seat, Ethan had never once used any of the organization's resources or authority. His very first act was... this. A hundred-million-dollar carpet bombing of the Hand.
Go big or go home, I suppose.
Nick Fury received the intelligence almost as fast. Federal surveillance had its uses.
"Is Ethan Cross clinically insane?" Fury slammed his palm on the desk. "Does the man physically die if he goes twenty-four hours without causing an international incident? Get more agents on the ground — I want eyes on every square inch of Hell's Kitchen."
"Sir, we've already deployed a full team—" Coulson began.
"Then deploy two more. I want to know every single thing that moves in that neighborhood."
Coulson accepted the order, but couldn't help muttering under his breath as he turned to leave: "At this rate, we'll have more agents in Hell's Kitchen than at headquarters. Honestly not sure which one's the real base of operations anymore."
Back at the apartment, the reaction was... different.
"You've lost your mind. A hundred million dollars." Wade's voice cracked with genuine anguish. "Ethan — I am begging you — cancel the bounty. Give that money to me. Forget the Hand — for a hundred million, I will personally go retrieve the President of the United States for you!"
"That's a hundred million dollars!" He was on his knees now, performing grief so theatrical it would've won an Oscar, despite the conspicuous absence of actual tears. "You wastrel! My money! My beautiful money!"
Primo, sitting nearby, found himself nodding along. His dignity wouldn't allow him to throw himself on the floor like Wade, but he agreed with every word. A hundred million dollars? Give it to him and he'd wipe out the Hand himself.
The Vongola Family had a lot of mouths to feed. They looked like they had some muscle behind them, sure, but every single member needed food, shelter, and supplies — all funded out of Family coffers. The Vongola Family was, in practical terms, broke.
"Relax, both of you. It's not my money." Ethan waved them off. "I'm a High Table Elder, remember? There's an annual bounty budget. I just dumped the whole thing into this one job. And hey — the bounty's open to everyone. You two can go earn some of it if you want."
Wade didn't need to hear it twice. He dropped his rice bowl, stood up, and marched upstairs to change into his red suit.
Primo watched Wade leave, then quietly set down his own chopsticks and started to stand.
Ethan grabbed his arm. "Oh no you don't. How long has it been since we've hung out? You're staying tonight. We're catching up."
Primo relented — barely — but asked if he could at least make a phone call first.
Ethan watched his old friend pace back and forth, barking excited instructions into his phone, and shook his head. The head of an entire crime family, losing his mind over a few bounties.
When Primo hung up, Ethan couldn't resist: "You're a gang boss. Since when do you stress about money like this?"
That hit a nerve. Primo's voice carried a thin edge of old resentment. "Easy for you to say. You're the one who set up a 'self-defense squad' at the orphanage, organized the whole thing, and then waltzed out the door when Fisk came to pick you up. Left me holding the bag with thirty kids and no plan."
Ethan's expression froze into something deeply uncomfortable.
He pivoted fast. "Didn't I give you money a while back? You burned through it already?"
"Expanding territory is free? Training people is free? Feeding, housing, and clothing everyone is free?" Primo ticked off each item on his fingers. "We don't sell drugs. We don't do anything illegal. How exactly do you expect us to make money?"
Ethan knew he had no leg to stand on. He shut up and started clearing the table.
Primo vented for another moment, then let it go. He knew it wasn't really Ethan's fault. His tone softened as he changed the subject: "Is it worth it? All of this — for a school?"
Ethan paused. "You and I both came from the same place. You think Hell's Kitchen has a future if nothing changes? That it just stays like this forever? Someone has to do something. Why not me?"
He stacked the last plate. "Besides — I don't think what I'm doing is anything special. It's just a school."
And that was the thing. Building a school should be unremarkable. Anywhere else in the world, it would be a routine public good.
Only in Hell's Kitchen was building a school an act of war.
That was how deep the sickness ran.
Before his time in this world ended — before he found his way back to his previous life — Ethan wanted to leave something behind for this place. His second home.
The Hand — Secret headquarters.
Madame Gao. Murakami. Nobu standing at their side.
All three had seen the High Table bounty alert.
All three looked furious.
The room was suffocating with tension.
They hadn't expected this. A single man — this boy, Ethan Cross — had declared open war on the entire Hand. Not a skirmish. Not a targeted hit. A global bounty on every operative they had in New York.
This was no longer Madame Gao's personal grievance. This was an assault on the organization itself.
"Call them in." Madame Gao's cane struck the floor like a judge's gavel, her voice low and venomous. "Every ninja from every branch. I will teach this arrogant child what it means to challenge the Hand."
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