CHAPTER 88: JOKER LOOKS DOWN ON ACE

Miles slipped a generous amount of cash onto the table—enough to cover not only the shattered table but what it could’ve earned for weeks. The waitress blinked in surprise, but he was already at the door, pushing it open into the sunlight.

The city buzzed around him, corporate giants of glass and steel towering on all sides. He crossed the pavement casually, hands in his pockets, but then paused—his smile slow and knowing. With a small tilt of his head, he turned down a narrow alley nestled between the buildings.

Back here, the city’s polish faded. It was quieter, the kind of place secrets whispered and rats ran freely. Leaning against the brick walls were the same suited men from the café, now stripped of their fake civility. One puffed on a cigarette, another chuckled crudely.

"Damn that brat," one muttered, shaking his head.

"Wait till he leaves. We’ll deal with the girl after."

A voice drifted in—calm, cold, unmistakable.

"You don’t look like corporate employees."

They turned. The man from the café was walking toward them, his presence suffocating even in the open air.

"You look more like street thugs in borrowed suits."

The men shifted. Feet scraped the ground. One backed half a step, the cigarette flicked nervously to the side.

Miles kept walking, tone casual, deadly.

"Let me guess... some bottom-feeding recovery agents working for..."

He paused, tapping a finger lightly to his chin.

"...ACE Finances?"

Their eyes gave it away—an involuntary flicker, a twitch, a tightening of lips.

He grinned.

"Bullseye."

One man squared his shoulders, trying to summon arrogance.

"You looking down on ACE Finances or what?"

Miles stopped, gave a breath of a laugh. Then pointed behind them.

"You see that building over there?" he said lightly.

They turned.

"The one just opposite your ACE tower. Bit taller, isn’t it?"

He smiled wider now.

"So from the top of that building, if I look down..."

He tilted his head playfully.

"...am I looking down on ACE Finances?"

Silence. The joke, absurd and sharp, hung in the alley like a blade.

Another man barked, flustered.

"Big talk. That tower’s new. ACE’s renting the top floors starting next month."

Miles raised an eyebrow.

"Interesting."

He turned, taking a few steps away.

"Then let’s see how a Joker looks down on ACE."

He stopped. Glanced over his shoulder.

"And if you’re thinking of messing with that café after I leave..."

The smile was gone now.

"It won’t be the table that gets crushed next time."

He walked off, shadows swallowing him as the wind picked up, leaving only silence and three shaken men standing in a puddle of their own bravado.

Miles drove his car away, the engine humming low beneath the luxury leather interior. Behind him, two men stood by the sidewalk, staring.

"What do we do now?" one muttered, still stunned.

"The car he’s driving is worth more than you’ll make in your lifetime," the other said, shaking his head. "He’s a bigshot. Let’s not mess with him."

Inside the car, Miles tapped the dashboard. The screen lit up. He dialed.

The call connected.

"Boss," came Monica’s voice, cheerful and sharp as always. "How’s the week off?"

"Just had breakfast," Miles said, resting his hand on the steering wheel. "I’ve got something to ask."

"Ooooh," she teased. "Still thinking about those island widows? Found someone to settle with?"

Miles let out a low laugh, shaking his head. "On a serious note... there’s a tall building. Right in front of ACE Finances."

"I’m listening," Monica replied, her tone shifting.

"Buy the damn building."

There was a beat of silence. Then, with a curious hum, Monica said, "What’s the plan? Expanding Sterling Enterprises?"

"No," Miles said simply. "Just buy it. Keep the top floors for yourself. Rent out the bottom ones."

He leaned back, a small smirk touching his lips.

"And make sure it says JOKER Finances on the top. Big. Bold."

Monica burst out laughing. "That’s a cool idea. You already crossed paths with the ACE people, huh?"

"I don’t care about the people," Miles said. "I just don’t like the name ACE."

"Alright, boss," she said, still amused. "I’ll handle the paperwork. I’ll make sure your name stays out of it."

"Thanks."

The call ended.

Miles drove toward the mall, the cityscape gliding past his windows. He picked up a few things for the family—new toys for the twins, a book Elena would love, something for Daniel.

He received a text message from Monica.

"If you’re bored, there’s a shooting range in Brightvale City. Address: 47 Hollow Ridge Road. Enjoy your day, boss."

Miles leaned back in his car, glancing at the message with a quiet smirk.

"A shooting range is a good idea."

The afternoon sun cast a soft golden glow through the car’s windows as he drove past the city limits, his engine humming steadily against the open road. After a peaceful lunch and a long drive, he reached the outskirts where the city gave way to quiet hills and isolated grounds. Just beyond a barbed fence and an old signboard reading Hollow Ridge Tactical Range, lay a vast open shooting ground.

The place looked humble from outside, but professional. A few scattered structures surrounded a central clearing lined with wooden booths, worn target boards, and distance markers spread across the field. In the distance, sharp cracks of gunfire echoed.

A uniformed man at the gate stepped forward, clipboard in hand.

"Good afternoon, sir. May I see your firearms license?"

Miles reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a red ID card — the one given by President. It shimmered faintly in the light as he handed it over.

The man stared at it, his brow furrowing.

"I’m seeing something like this for the first time..."

He read it again. His eyes widened.

"General?"

He glanced up, puzzled and awestruck.

"So young..."

He scanned the card through the digital register. The screen blinked, then instantly flooded with access details — every firearm authorization, elite-level clearances, even military-grade weapon permissions.

The man took a step back.

Another figure in uniform, older and sharper, walked over from the side as he looked at the screen, he snapped into a formal salute.

"Retired Major Lukas, General."

Miles returned the salute with a nod.

"Hello, Major Lukas."

The man at the gate returned the card with trembling hands as Lukas stepped in front.

"Sir, what type of gun are you using today?"

Miles tilted his head slightly.

"Can I look at the options?"

Lukas smiled.

"Let me show you the collection. You’ll love it."

He led Miles through a side door into the armory building. The cool air inside hit immediately, mixing with the faint scent of oil, metal, and preserved wood. The room was spacious, clean, and organized like a military museum.

On one side, antique rifles from past wars were encased in glass, each labeled with plaques — Lee Enfield, Kar98, M1 Garand, AK-47 variants. On the other side, modern shelves held polished handguns, revolvers, and silenced pistols resting on velvet padding. The center of the room displayed assault rifles, SMGs, and long-range sniper rifles secured on wall racks, each meticulously maintained. Spotlights gleamed off chrome barrels and carbon-fiber bodies.

A special section behind a steel gate flickered with red security lights — restricted access.

"Only a few men ever walked past that line," Lukas said with a grin. "But today, it’s open for you."

Miles stepped further in, his eyes scanning the array.

His fingers brushed along the grip of a custom-built M1911, then paused on a matte-black sniper rifle, and finally rested on a short-barrel SMG with a built-in suppressor.

Lukas stood beside him, proud.

"Feel free to try anything, General. We’ll clear the range for you."

Miles’s eyes narrowed slightly, lips curling into a ghost of a smile.

"This will be fun."

Miles’s eyes fell on a beautiful Desert Eagle displayed under a soft spotlight. Its silver finish gleamed, almost calling out to him.

He picked it up, feeling the weight settle into his palm.

"Let’s try this one," he said.

"Of course, sir," Lukas replied with a nod.

Lukas led Miles through the side exit toward the open firing range. The distant crack of gunfire echoed through the valley as they stepped outside.

There were a few shooters scattered across the field, practicing calmly. Lukas guided Miles to an isolated booth at the far end.

"Sir, this is one of the best spots. Wind’s steady here. You can try it from here."

"Thank you, Major," Miles said calmly.

Lukas gave a sharp nod and stepped away, giving him space.

Miles checked the magazine, loaded the bullets smoothly, and unlocked the safety. Then, without hesitation—Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three shots fired in under three seconds.Three distant boards—each one pierced dead center.

The echo faded into silence.

As the echo of the final shot faded, a hush swept across the range.

The people practicing nearby slowly lowered their weapons. Conversations that were once lighthearted turned into hushed whispers.

"Did you see that?" one man muttered, eyes wide.

"Three shots... dead center. That fast?" another whispered.

"Who the hell is he?"

No one dared to speak too loudly, but every pair of eyes subtly turned toward Miles. His calm stance, his effortless precision—it unsettled them.

A younger man near the far end leaned closer to his friend."That’s not someone you mess with," he whispered."The way he handled that Desert Eagle... like it was part of him."

Back to his spot, Miles remained still, casually inspecting the gun like he was just warming up. His expression didn’t change. No arrogance, no smile. Just calm.

Major Lukas stood nearby, watching quietly, pride flickering in his eyes.

He had seen elite shooters before. But not like this.

This... was something else.