American Comics: BOSS Invasion

Time rewinds twelve hours.

A dimly lit alleyway, shadows concealing the figures of dozens of burly men, each impeccably dressed, their clearly expensive suits stained with blood without a hint of remorse.

They are tall, ruthless, their faces twisted in grimaces, wielding a variety of firearms, most still emitting wisps of smoke from their barrels.

In the aftermath of the extraterrestrial and biohazard incidents, while the alley's squat buildings miraculously survived, burrowing like rats into their holes, the streetlights were contorted and mangled, resembling a woman whose face had been kneaded eight hundred times by a brute, utterly disfigured.

Oh, no, there's still one streetlight standing askew, as if on the verge of collapse, stubbornly holding on. Its lampshade has long since vanished to who knows where.

The bulb has been yanked out nearly a meter, dangling like a hanged man's tongue, swaying in the deep night wind.

The shifting light casts dancing shadows, creating the illusion of being at sea amidst raging waves, despite standing on solid ground.

Each flicker of light reveals a patch of red spreading across the ground.

That's blood…

Thud! Thud!

Footsteps echo clearly, heavy leather shoes with prominent steel studs striking the pavement with crisp, distinct sounds.

He is clad in a red suit, which, under the dim yellow light, resembles the reddish-brown hue of congealed blood.

Much like the footprints he leaves on the ground.

He saunters out, nonchalantly wiping blood from his hands with a white handkerchief. He raises his head, revealing a face of unimaginable ferocity.

It's a countenance almost beyond description, like a grotesque child's puzzle, meticulously pieced together on his face by an earnest, albeit disturbed, child.

Not an inch of skin on his face, head, or neck remains intact; all has been patched together with irregularly shaped pieces of human skin. Though the facial features remain in their original positions, they evoke an unsettling chill down the spine.

He resembles a demon risen from hell, having torn apart countless victims and haphazardly grafted their skin onto himself.

Yet, confronted with this ghastly visage, the crowd remains unfazed, many even displaying a fervent gleam in their eyes, like brainwashed cultists beholding their deity.

A hulking figure steps forward and whispers a few words before waving his hand.

The wall of musclemen behind him immediately parts, shoving a diminutive figure forward.

Judging by his attire, this fellow is clearly not one of them.

Perhaps influenced by the atmosphere, the man, who had been forcing himself to remain composed, instinctively reveals a look of terror upon seeing the demon's face, his body trembling uncontrollably.

He immediately notices, and his wiping motion abruptly ceases. Then, he slowly turns his head. The fiendish gaze of the grotesque face fixes upon him. After a moment, a raspy voice speaks.

“You… are you afraid?”

“No, Mr. Russo! I just… I'm just here to deliver a message…” The little man's voice cracks.

“Mr. Russo? Heh, that's a name that stirs memories, like the name I had before I crawled out of that glass-filled mixing pool. Let me think, let me think, that's right, I should have been called Billy Russo back then, hmm, what a fine name. Not only that, but it seems there was a lovely family as well, but…”

He seems lost in reminiscence, slightly raising his head, continuing in a raspy voice, then suddenly raising his voice, roaring in fury.

“But it was all ruined by that bastard! The Punisher? Frank? That son of a bitch, I will personally take him down, just like I take down these little pups who dare to steal business in my territory. What were they called again? Oh yeah, the Colombian gang, a bunch of idiots!”

A cold wind sweeps through, the light flickers.

The little man's eyes widen.

In that instant, he sees the mountains of corpses and seas of blood in the depths of the alley. The corpses are discarded there like rag dolls, the ground already soaked in a reddish-brown hue from the blood.

The scene is utterly gruesome.

But the demon who single-handedly created this scene doesn't care in the slightest. He continues to wipe his hands, casually discarding the blood-stained handkerchief, and uses his bloodied hand to grab the little man's face, forcing him to look at him.

“Remember… until I've chopped off the Punisher's head, call me Jigsaw!”

His raspy voice is the final straw that breaks the camel's back. The little man shudders, immediately wetting himself, crying out: “It's not my fault, Mr. Jigsaw, it really isn't, I was just called here by Mr. Ironhead to deliver a message…”

Jigsaw pauses for a moment, saying: “Ironhead? That Russian fellow?”

“Yes. I just owe him money, and then I was called here to deliver a message.”

A hulking figure steps forward, rips off the little man's fanny pack, and pulls out an invitation card.

The hulking figure examines it repeatedly, nodding to Jigsaw.

Jigsaw narrows his eyes, “What's this guy up to? Suddenly making such a big splash, isn't he afraid that little Negative will send him two RPGs? What time is it?”

“Tomorrow night, the wording on the invitation is a bit interesting, with a touch of classicism, which doesn't seem like something that bunch of Russian idiots could write. Sir, be careful, it could be a trap!” The hulking figure says cautiously.

“Haha! Interesting! Has the Maggia gang come up with a new game to play?” Mr. Jigsaw laughs heartily. “Go! Be sure to go! Have people prepare in advance, wait for my call, there will be more deaths tomorrow night!”

“Sir, what about this kid? Should we…?”

Before the hulking figure can finish speaking, the little man is already screaming in terror.

Mr. Jigsaw chuckles: “Thomas, don't be so fierce, we are civilized people, this gentleman is a real eyewitness, maybe he will call the police!”

The little man screams: “No, I won't, I definitely won't, I didn't see anything!”

Jigsaw says disappointedly: “Is that so? That's a pity. I was still wondering how much police force is still available after the two New York disasters. Maybe it's enough for me to play a game!”

Everyone subtly twitches their mouths.

Although they know it clearly, they can't help but say that the boss is a pervert.

Mr. Jigsaw reveals a gruesome smile, and says gently: “I'm looking forward to you giving me a surprise!”

Then he straightens up, briefly tidies his suit, and strides out.

A black Mercedes-Benz van slowly pulls up at the intersection, the automatic door slowly opens, and Jigsaw walks straight up.

Then the hulking figures under him disperse in all directions, quickly disappearing into the night.