Chapter 19: You Saw Nothing (BONUS)

"A bottle of Tennessee Whiskey… and two packs of Marlboro. Menthol."

Jessica Jones slapped a wad of bills onto the convenience store counter, her voice laced with irritation.

But the clerk didn't move just because she flashed a few big notes. Instead, he extended a hand toward her.

"Uh, ma'am, I'll need to see your ID."

A reasonable request. Tobacco and alcohol required proof of legal age.

Jessica Jones, still a high schooler, was technically eighteen, but technically adulthood didn't start until twenty-one.

Not that it mattered. She had at least six fake IDs in her jacket.

Without a word, Jessica slapped one of them down and wandered off toward the alcohol aisle.

"Tch… All Irish? Oh—there it is. Knew you'd be hiding."

She spotted her favorite, Tennessee Whiskey, nestled among a sea of Irish labels.

She twisted the cap, tipped it back, and took a generous swig.

"Pfft-ha! That's the good stuff."

She'd already paid. Drinking it right there in the store? Totally within her rights. Legally… questionable. But morally? Whatever.

And of course, because the universe is just that generous with timing.

"Hey! You! Be smart and hand over all the cash. I don't wanna send you to the hospital… or the morgue."

A burly White dude stood in front of the counter, a sharp folding knife pressed to the clerk's throat.

Jessica, still by the shelves, paused slightly—then took another sip of whiskey.

She could take this guy. Easily. Beat him into something even his own mother wouldn't recognize.

But… she wasn't in the mood.

Helping people wasn't her thing.

Especially not after dealing with self-righteous types like Peter Parker at school. Always sunny, always moral. She hated that crap.

The clerk, though, didn't know that the casually drinking girl could probably throw a car through a building.

All he could do was tremble and shove wads of cash over the counter, desperately trying to signal Jessica with his eyes to run.

"The hell you lookin' at!?"

The robber caught the glance and snapped his head around.

There she was. Bottle in hand. Gorgeous. Strong features. Lit by a single flickering bulb like some noir femme fatale.

His fear twisted into something uglier.

He licked his lips. Jessica frowned.

That look. That gross, greasy, stupid look.

She was this close to acting.

But before she could take this perv apart like a malfunctioning IKEA chair, the front door dinged again.

Another customer.

Everyone froze.

Then, without fanfare, the robber got sent to Dreamland by a single clean punch.

A guy in a sleek Federal Bureau of Investigation uniform casually shook out his fist, then looked at her.

"You even skip the opening ceremony? Do you have to be this rebellious, Jessica Jones?"

"…How do you know my name? Wait, who even are you?"

"No, no, I'm not here for twenty questions—I'm here 'cause you ditched class. Now I want answers. Jessica Jones, what the hell do you think your current identity is?"

"None of your business."

"None of my—?!"

This girl was a walking migraine. Every word out of her mouth triggered a blood pressure spike.

"I repeat! First day of school. Skipping class! And not just any school—you're ditching the Federal Bureau of Investigation Academy! You think this is still high school!?"

"You're with the FBI?"

"Gee, what gave it away? The badge? The punch? The fact that I'm literally yelling at you for ditching the Bureau's elite academy? Yes! I'm not just with the FBI—I'm also your teacher! Why else would I care if you skipped class!? So please, my dear girl, come with me!"

Dante was exhausted. Heart broken. Soul drained. Zero love left in the tank.

He suddenly had a deep, personal understanding of every teacher from his past life.

Middle school homeroom teachers—he owed them all apologies. Saints, every one of them.

"FBI Academy? That dumb 'Hero Training Program'? Yeah, no thanks. I'm not interested."

Jessica walked right past Dante, scooped up the two packs of Marlboros from the counter and casually kicked the unconscious robber in the gut on her way out.

The guy groaned in pain. Even in a coma, he felt it.

Then Jessica made for the exit.

"Seriously? You're underage, drink like a fish, smoke like a chimney… What's next, you perming your hair?"

Dante reached out to snag the cigarettes.

But Jessica Jones, world-class delinquent and professional bad girl, took that moment to school him on her rules.

She stuffed the packs directly into her sports bra.

Dante blinked.

Alright, fair enough. Her body, her smuggling compartment. Nothing technically wrong with that.

Except—

She shouldn't have pushed her chest out like that.

And then…

Dante flinched at the last second to avoid an incident.

Instead, he accidentally uppercut her.

"Uh—Jessica Jones, believe me—this is a misunderstanding!"

"Go to hell!"

The punch didn't hurt much. Physically.

But oh, the insult.

She looked like a pissed-off house cat—fur bristling, claws out, eyes wide—and it was kind of cute.

Visually.

Only visually.

Because if Dante remembered right, this "kitten" could lift twenty-five tons and might be able to strip an Iron Man suit barehanded.

Dante wisely chose to dodge rather than fight back.

He was in the wrong.

He was supposed to be here for truancy.

Instead, he'd just uppercut a student in the most accidental assault case of all time.

Sure, Jessica was strong.

But he was faster.

And also deeply regretting all his life choices.

The fight didn't last long. Dante spared a glance at the wide-eyed clerk.

Nope. Couldn't let this go on in front of a civilian.

He delivered a sharp flying kick to block Jessica's arms.

She staggered.

And that's when Dante pulled out his Federal Bureau of Investigation-issue stun gun.

Jessica Jones wasn't just strong—she had a healing factor too.

So Dante didn't hesitate. He cranked the power to max.

Full battery dump.

She managed to stay upright for a second, then looked up just as he pulled the trigger.

And then—

Silence.

"You… bastard… teacher…"

Jessica managed to spit out, before collapsing like a sack of whiskey-soaked bricks.

Dante nearly dropped the stun gun in shock.

She's not down?! That's insane.

That setting was supposed to flatten an adult African elephant!

Dante quickly slung the twitching girl over his shoulder.

Then turned to the stunned clerk, who looked like he was mentally rewriting his résumé.

Dante paused at the door, then leaned halfway back in.

"Mr. Clerk. For the record—any and all damage in this store? That was the robber. FBI will send people over to assess and compensate."

He pointed a finger.

"And aside from that… you saw nothing."

(To be continued.)

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