Thug and Idol: 10X Rewards Second Identity System

Tristan looked at the woman coldly. He was actually surprised that she recognized him after all this time, even in the mask that covered half his face and with the smoke making the other half almost indistinguishable.

He had a lot to say to his mother, but it really wasn't the time.

"Keep walking! Don't you see the house is burning?"

He tugged on his parents' arms, pulling them towards the exit. Weak and half-blind from the smoke, they followed him on wobbling hands for four steps before halting.

"What is it? I told you to hurry!"

Tristan was about to turn around, when through the roaring of fire and the firetruck sirens above, he heard rustling of clothing followed by a sharp metallic click.

The sounds could've had a multitude of possible sources. Clothing rustles all the time, and the click could've come from a belt buckle or a zipper.

But there was something menacingly familiar in the sound, something that Tristan understood with an inhuman combination of observational skills, imagination and intelligence that came around into an almost pure intuition.Nôv(el)B\\jnn

The intuition told him that the sound came from a gun pulled out of the holster and taken off the safety.

When Tristan turned around, the gun was already aimed at him. It was held by his own father.

His mother grabbed his arm with a vice grip, intent on holding him down in place to be shot. For a brief moment, Tristan was so shocked he didn't even move.

Then he didn't move because his father's hand was on the trigger.

"The Angel told us you will come, Tristan. You have sold your soul to clear your face—but we can still save you. We just need to bring your soul to him, and then we can take our souls there, too," Tristan's father said in a hoarse, but firm voice.

The time slowed down.

The finger on the trigger tensed, about to push. Tristan's father might've hesitated earlier, or he might've waited for the right moment, or he had to speak before shooting—but either way, he was done with the delays.

Now that they were closer to the exit, and all the light that was coming from it, Tristan could make out more of his parents' features. They weren't dressed in pajamas—their clothing was casual, but it was day clothing.

Only his father had a gun, with a holster hidden under his suit jacket. But both of them had small earbuds in their ears.

'So this is how it is. The Ass-Angel made a trap for me… He didn't just set the Hayes mansion on fire, he didn't just brainwash the servants, he's currently coercing my parents into doing his bidding. At this very moment.'

Tristan could imagine that if he dodged the bullet right now, the next bullet might fly not at him, but at his own father, from his own hand. Under Michael's control, there was really no saying what his parents might do.

Tristan knew he could counteract it, but there was no saying what they will do without it, either. It wasn't the same as with someone who was unquestionably loyal to Tristan.

The time resumed, and Tristan stood still.

His father pressed the trigger. The blast of a gun rang deafeningly through the cellar, and the bullet hit Tristan right under the solar plexus with a force of a thousand fists.

Tristan grunted slightly, but held his ground.

The force of a thousand fists dissipated over his bulletproof vest, hidden under his jacket. The bullet still hurt, and this was going to bruise later, but it was nothing Tristan and his toughness couldn't shrug off.

In a few days, Tristan won't remember the bruise at all.

His parents' eyes widened at the sight of him taking a bullet to the chest and not even flinching. Their reaction made Tristan grin.

"Sold my soul to the devil? Yeah, I did. He made me invincible, too." He chuckled. "Too bad that these things in your ears are one-sided, I bet. If they don't just feed you recorded sound. I want Michael to know that his plan didn't work. That it was never going to work."

Although he still could do it, Tristan realized.

But first, he struck out with his hand, effortlessly pulling the gun out of his father's fingers. He aimed it right back at him, then pulled his other arm free of his mother's grasp.

With it, he pressed a button on his own earpiece.

"Damien, report?"

"Approaching the target position. The receptionist said he's in. She doesn't know what we are up to, of course."

Tristan's grin widened.

"I bet he's in. When you come in, tell him that his trap has failed. But only AFTER you shoot him."

"A trap? Gotcha, boss. Tell me all about it later."

The connection ended. For the better—Tristan had to leave before his equipment actually began to melt, or before someone here suffered a heatstroke.

***

At the same time, in a hotel on another side of the city, Damien pulled out his gun, fitted with a silencer, and a knife. He leaned on the side of a doorway, ignoring the pain in his ribs, while four men under his command took positions around.

Damien silently showed three fingers. Two. One.

On zero, the man opposite of him—a large and burly guy with metal-enforced boots—kicked the flimsy hotel door in.

On the other side was only one room with only one person in it. The man who was lying in bed with only short pants and a laptop propped on his chest.

His eyes bulged out at the sight of armed people coming in.

The man looked so painfully average that Damien even wondered for a moment if he got the right room number from the receptionist.

Then he remembered what he heard from Cutout about the power of Michael's words.

As the man opened his mouth to say something, Damien opened fire.

He never was too afraid of leaving behind some collateral, anyway.