Absolute Loser Becomes The Pleasure King Using Satan System

Chapter 102: 102.For Vengeance-2

The cold steel barrel pressed into the denim over Mylo’s thigh, hard enough that every slight shift of Carey’s finger sent a chill racing up his spine.

Mylo swallowed dryly, his fingers tightening slightly on his lap.

Keep your head together, Mylo warned himself, his heart hammering against his ribs. I barely know this guy. I saw him turn thirty men into ground meat yesterday, but does he have an actual plan, or is he just a lethal madman with a gun? If I say the wrong word, he pulls the trigger and walks out before anyone even hears the shot.

"Carey, lower the piece," Mylo said, his voice dropping low, steadying the slight tremor in his throat. "Shooting me gets you nothing. You want Marsh, right?"

"I don’t need your permission to get what I want, kid," Carey replied smoothly, his golden eyes unblinking beneath the brim of his flat cap. "I track Branzey down at the hotel. I snap his collarbone, drag him into a cellar, and he sings me Marsh’s location. Simple arithmetic. You’re an unnecessary variable."

"It’s bad arithmetic," Mylo countered quickly, leaning forward just enough to show he wasn’t backing down, though sweat prickled at the nape of his neck. "You think Branzey is an isolated target? He’s not walking into the Elisae Hotel alone. He’s middle-management for an outfit called Blue Sapphire."

"A name doesn’t stop a bullet," Carey muttered coldly, the barrel nudging deeper.

"A name backed by a private syndicate does," Mylo pressed, his mind racing through every scrap of memory from his previous life. "Marsh and Branzey report directly to a man named Dragon. And Dragon doesn’t just run street thugs. Extortion, bulk trafficking, corrupt city officials... they have entire layers of security you haven’t accounted for."

"I tore through their complex yesterday, Zane," Carey said, a dangerous rasp slipping into his tone. "I know what their ’security’ looks like. Piles of meat."

"That was a warehouse! This is a high-profile venue hosting state university students!" Mylo hissed, trying desperately to punch through the man’s stubborn arrogance. "You slaughtered thirty of their men. You think Dragon just shrugs that off? They know someone is hunting them. If the rumors are true, they’ve already put in a call to the Klarantors."

The pressure on Mylo’s leg abruptly halted. Carey’s pupils contracted to sharp, predatory points.

"Where did you hear that name?" Carey whispered, the warmth completely draining from the air around them.

It landed. Mylo felt a brief spike of relief, but the danger only amplified.

"They’re an out-of-district mercenary unit the syndicate keeps on retainer for emergencies," Mylo stated, watching Carey’s micro-expressions intently. "They don’t operate inside Mirage City unless high-value assets are threatened. After yesterday’s massacre, the hotel won’t just have bouncers checking IDs. There’ll be metal detectors, plainclothes spotters, locked access cards for private suites, and possibly military-grade enforcers waiting in the blind spots. You walk in alone with a piece tucked in your jacket, you get flagged at the metal detector, boxed in, and cut down before you even make it past the lobby."

Carey studied Mylo for several agonizing seconds, his jaw setting tight. "And what’s your brilliant play, then? You expect me to believe an eighteen-year-old freshman is my golden ticket through private mercenary lines?"

"I’m an official attendee," Mylo whispered, his pulse thumping in his ears. "I have a verified campus badge. I know the event roster, the faculty escorts, and the service corridors. You want Branzey without turning the ballroom into a public warzone that brings the entire police force down on your head? You need me to slip you past the outer cordon. You need a ghost, Carey. Not a blunt instrument."

"Two black coffees, two croissants."

A cheerful, sharp voice sliced through the tension.

Mylo’s back locked rigidly against the leather seat. Under the table, Carey didn’t flinch, his hand remaining steady on the concealed grip while keeping the weapon utterly invisible beneath the table’s lip.

Brandy set the plastic tray down, sliding the ceramic mugs and warm pastries onto the wood. She paused, her sharp gaze flicking between Mylo’s stiff posture and Carey’s silent, stone-faced expression.

"Everything alright over here?" Brandy asked, raising an eyebrow. "You look like you’re about to pass out, Mylo."

"Just... tired from orientation yesterday," Mylo managed a tight, polite smile, his fingers lightly gripping his coffee mug to hide the slight tremor. "Thanks for the food, Brandy."

Brandy squinted suspiciously at them for another beat before rolling her eyes. "Right. Whatever. Just don’t spill crumbs on the booth."

She picked up her empty tray and walked back toward the service counter.

The second her sneakers clicked past the partition, Carey’s hand moved under the table. A dull, muffled metallic click echoed as the gun was holstered back beneath his jacket.

Mylo let out a slow, silent breath, his shoulders dropping by an inch.

Carey reached out, took a measured sip of the scalding black coffee, and looked at Mylo with cold, analytical eyes.

"A temporary truce," Carey murmured, his voice flat. "We move together into the hotel. You get me clean access to Branzey. The second I have my hands on him, our deal is concluded. Whatever suicide mission you have planned for the rest of that syndicate, you’re on your own."

"Deal," Mylo said immediately. "That’s all I’m asking for."

Carey set his mug down, leaning back into the corner of the booth. "Now satisfy my curiosity, kid. Why is a freshman risking his neck to dismantle a multi-million-dollar syndicate? You trying to be a saint? Saving the city from bad guys? Looking for a medal?"

Mylo went still.

The quiet chatter of the cafe felt miles away. A bitter, hollow taste formed in his mouth as memories of his previous life flashed behind his eyes—his mother’s agonizing death, his father’s shattered spirit, and the endless, humiliating days of being treated like a dog under the heel of the Vance family.

"I don’t care about saving anyone," Mylo replied, his voice dropping into a flat, icy register stripped of all warmth. "I’m not a hero. This isn’t charity. I have my own selfish agenda. My own score to settle. They destroyed things they shouldn’t have, and I’m going to tear them down piece by piece until the debt is paid."

Carey stared at him, the hardened skepticism in his golden eyes shifting into something darker—a bleak, mutual recognition.

"And you?" Mylo asked, meeting the older man’s gaze directly. "Why are you after Marsh and Branzey?"

Carey didn’t answer right away. His fingers tapped a slow, silent rhythm against the polished wood of the table. He glanced out the window at the morning sunlight before turning back to Mylo, his face an impenetrable wall.

"Personal agenda," Carey said softly, the words heavy and devoid of humor. "Revenge. Just like you."

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