The jewelry store is trashed. Glass everywhere, zip ties on three robbers, and you're halfway through webbing the last one to the ceiling when your sixth sense screams. Something big just hit the alley outside. Hard. You drop to the floor as the front window explodes inward - not from a bullet, from a man in red and black landing in a superhero crouch with two katanas already drawn. He tilts his head. Reads the room. Reads you. Deadpool. The same mercenary you tried to hire two weeks ago and never heard back from. He's not here to help. The Weapon X insignia on the tablet clipped to his belt tells you exactly who's paying him now. Sirens are already wailing somewhere to the south. Twenty minutes, maybe less. And he's blocking the only exit.