But it didn't come.
On the sixth night, he sat in his apartment, staring at the notebook those punks had left him. Names. Locations. Phone numbers. Nicknames scribbled next to blurry maps. Sloppy handwriting, half-coded jargon only someone in the know could read.
Marcus read it all.
And then, he burned a copy of it onto a cheap USB drive, dropped it into a used envelope, and sealed it with duct tape. No fingerprints. No direct trail. He'd waited long enough. He had no desire to go vigilante on a gang's logistics chain. He wasn't here to play hero. All he wanted was to keep the life he had carved out for himself safe.
He sent a unregistered mail to the Police.
"Anonymous tip. These names and addresses are tied to illegal arms trafficking, drug storage, and unlicensed weapons caches. Pawn shop at Cypress & 9th operates as a front. Check the second floor. Use dogs for the crawlspace."
Two days later, the news broke.
"BREAKING: Local Law Enforcement Raids Pawn Shop Linked to Organized Crime," the headline read.
Marcus sipped his morning coffee in the truck, watching the video loop from a tiny screen behind the order window. SWAT gear. Dogs. Handcuffs. Cameras zooming in on crates of illegal weapons and unregistered Russian-made firearms. The anchor's voice was crisp, emotionless:
"...suspected ties to the Eastside Spikes and a potential connection to a Russian crime syndicate active in this quadrant of the city. Four suspects were taken into custody with prior records. One of them, identified as 'Ludo,' is considered a mid-tier operative with possible international ties…"
Marcus stared at the screen.
Ludo was in custody. Corvo's name was being circulated as a "person of interest." And two of the men he'd let walk out of his apartment—judging by the grainy mugshots—had been scooped up in the raid, hands cuffed behind their backs. One even had a cast on his wrist.
He exhaled, slow and quiet. This wasn't justice. Not really. This was just a cosmic interruption that this man had to suffer. He would probably get some jail time and if he was well connected would even get a bail. But it didn't matter to him. Since those 4 guys didn't snitch on him, it meant that they were sensible enough.
Maybe the hurt he caused to the two of them was enough. Only time would tell. He wiped down the truck counter with smooth, practiced strokes. The breakfast rush was building. A line of customers had started to form. Smiling people, clueless and hungry. He flipped a switch, and the grill came to life with a soft hum.
"Hey Marcus!" a customer called. "You got that triple-stack maple burger today?"
Marcus turned, grin automatic. "You know it."
The job continued. The illusion remained intact. While he carried his gun always.
Three weeks passed.
Business was steady, the flow reliable, familiar. Tourists. Local regulars. The occasional influencer fishing for a "hidden gem" post. Marcus kept his head down, always scanning, always alert. The gun never left his side. He could joke with customers, flip burgers, laugh like nothing had happened—but his senses never dulled. He wasn't paranoid. Just prepared.
Then, one afternoon, when the sun was stretching long shadows over the sidewalk and Marcus was about to close up for the day, he heard a voice that immediately struck a chord.
"Back again, huh?" Marcus asked, without even turning around.
Happy Hogan stood at the side of the truck, that same black suit a little more wrinkled this time, a little more traveled. He didn't step up to order. He just stared at Marcus like he was sizing him up again.
"Yeah," Happy said. "Thought I'd grab a bite before flying back."
"You want the usual?" Marcus asked.
"Nah," Happy replied. "Not today."
He pulled out a phone and handed it through the window. Marcus frowned. "What, you want me to order for you?"
Happy shook his head. "It's for you."
The screen was already on a video call.
Marcus hesitated—then sighed and took it.
The face that popped onto the screen was unmistakable.
Tony Stark.
Sunglasses indoors. A shirt that cost more than Marcus's rent. Hair that looked like it styled itself. And that smirk—the one that somehow made you feel both appreciated and insulted at the same time.
"Well, well, well," Tony said.
"You're a hard guy to get on the line, Grill Master."
Marcus raised an eyebrow. "I don't usually take calls during working hours, especially not from people who open with nicknames."
Tony grinned. "Yeah, I figured you'd be the 'I don't do autographs, I serve hot sauce' type. Look, I'm just gonna skip the flattery. I've had your food. I've had food from ten Michelin-starred chefs. You win. Hands down. My stomach is in love, and I want to put a ring on your burger."
"Thanks," Marcus said dryly. "But I don't date billionaires."
"Cute. I like that. Here's the deal: I want you in LA. I'll pay you triple whatever you're making out of that truck—plus a real kitchen, tech that doesn't fry your eyebrows off, and a living situation that doesn't involve folding yourself into a closet every night."
"Sounds like a trap."
"It's not a trap," Tony said. "It's a golden ticket. You get the freedom to do what you love without smelling like beef tallow for twelve hours a day. In exchange, I get to eat food that doesn't make me question the meaning of life every time I finish a plate."
"Tempting," Marcus said. "But see, I've already got freedom. My name's not on anyone's payroll. No suits telling me how many garlic chips are too many. And I like my beef tallow cologne. Keeps the influencers away."
"That so? You realize turning me down makes you, statistically speaking, the only man in America to do so, right?"
"I'm not most men," Marcus said. "And I've seen what happens to the last cook you hired. Pepper had him making green smoothies and counting macros. I'd rather die."
Tony blinked. "You googled me, didn't you?"
"I have loads of free time."