The matter was settled.
More troublesome than expected — but finished.
Felicia Hardy would think twice before interfering with him again.
As for the pawnshop owner…
He had learned a necessary lesson.
On his way home, Joren considered his evening schedule.
Marine documentary?
Or finishing the final chapters of Illustrated Guide to Ancient Ships?
Quiet, ordinary decisions.
The best way to restore order.
Fate, however, had other plans.
Joren stopped.
A man stood beneath a flickering streetlamp in the middle of the road.
Lean.
Still.
Predatory.
He wore a worn leather jacket, and a dagger spun lazily between his fingers.
Most conspicuous of all—
a red bullseye tattoo centered on his forehead.
He slid the dagger back into his sleeve and flexed his wrist.
"Joren Joestar."
His voice was calm, almost conversational.
"To be honest, this is my first contract like this."
He tilted his head, studying him as if evaluating merchandise.
"The client didn't want you dead."
A thin smile formed.
"Just both legs broken."
Joren's brow furrowed slightly beneath his hat brim.
Eugene Thompson… is that you?
What pointless persistence.
Seeing Joren remain silent, the man misread his stillness.
His smile widened.
"What? Frozen with fear?"
"Relax. I'm very precise."
He flicked a handful of coins into the air.
In the next instant—
they became silver streaks.
The coins screamed through the air toward Joren's knees and calves.
A perfect disabling strike pattern.
But the scream he expected never came.
One meter from Joren—
the coins stopped.
Hung motionless.
Then dropped.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The man's eyes narrowed.
"What…?"
Momentum hadn't faded.
Something had stopped them.
Joren stood unmoving.
Hands in pockets.
Posture unchanged.
The assassin's amusement vanished.
In its place:
interest.
Predatory curiosity.
This boy was not ordinary.
He drew a deck of playing cards from inside his jacket.
This time, no carelessness.
He selected one.
Held it between thumb and forefinger.
His gaze fixed on Joren's right thigh.
Whoosh!
The card spun through the air with razor-edged velocity, slicing the wind.
Faster.
Sharper.
More precise.
The result was identical.
One meter away—
the card struck an invisible resistance and ricocheted sideways—
THUD.
It embedded halfway into the concrete wall.
The man's pupils shrank.
He began circling Joren slowly.
Eyes scanning.
Analyzing.
He kicked a pebble behind him.
It ricocheted at an oblique angle toward Joren's lower back.
Bang.
The pebble shattered mid-air into powder.
He flicked a steel nail low along the pavement, letting it skip and curve toward the boundary from below.
Intercepted.
Dropped.
Bottle caps.
Glass shards.
Cigarette filters.
Loose gravel.
In seconds, the environment became a weapons system.
Angles.
Ricochets.
Deflections.
Blind spots.
Each projectile was intercepted within the same invisible perimeter.
Nothing penetrated.
Finally, he stopped.
Standing diagonally across from Joren.
Eyes gleaming with manic fascination.
"So that's it…"
He exhaled slowly.
"Not a kinetic barrier."
"Not magnetics."
"More like…"
He smiled.
"…an invisible bodyguard."
His gaze sharpened.
"Defensive radius… roughly one meter."
He licked dry lips.
"What an interesting toy."
In his experience, advanced defense tech leaked constantly from Stark Industries, Hammer Tech, and black-market military labs.
This had to be something similar.
Joren lifted his head slightly.
Emerald eyes flashed beneath the brim of his hat.
Ugh.
Annoying.
The man's obsessive analysis irritated him more than the attacks.
The assassin sensed the shift in atmosphere.
His grin widened into something feral.
"Alright, kid."
"Warm-up's over."
He rolled his neck.
"My completion rate is one hundred percent."
"I'm not letting a schoolboy ruin my record."
He planted his foot beside a rusted fire hydrant—
and kicked.
The impact sheared a corroded bolt free.
It shot toward Joren's face like a bullet.
But that was only the opening move.
His left hand flicked.
Three playing cards launched in a triangular spread—
sealing off evasive angles to Joren's left.
Simultaneously—
his right hand seized a chunk of broken concrete he had positioned earlier.
With explosive force, he hurled it upward in a steep arc.
A professional kill pattern.
Front-line projectile.
Lateral confinement.
Vertical crushing force.
Three vectors.
One convergence point.
Calculated to strike at the same instant.
All aimed at the motionless boy.
The bolt screamed forward.
The cards spun like blades.
The concrete block descended with crushing gravity.
Three attacks.
Three directions.
One moment of impact.
And Joren Joestar did not move.