SUP Chapter 13: Turns Out It's DC's Jinx

The car tore through the streets like a wild stallion, its engine roaring deafeningly, like an enraged beast gasping for breath, on the verge of collapse.

It wasn't just Ian who felt the thrill and dread. Along the way, the crazed taxi startled countless pedestrians, their muffled curses barely audible inside the car.

Their vocabulary wasn't vast, just a handful of profanities repeated endlessly, but Ian had no time to educate America's public on more creative expletives.

"Handbrake! Handbrake!" Ian half-leaned into the front seat, fingers reaching for the protected lever but hesitating to actually touch it.

He genuinely feared a crash.

This was a performance of restraint.

Luckily, the taxi driver had little discernment in this regard.

"Get back to your seat! You wanna die? I don't! Please, trust my driving!" The driver was in a panic, his forehead beaded with sweat.

Large droplets slid down his cheeks, yet he didn't slow down or stop. This guy was stubborn. Seeing Ian still lunging for the handbrake, he shouted, "Don't blame me! I'll cover the medical bills!"

Instead, he grabbed a thermos and swung it at Ian's encroaching head, clearly trying to knock him back to the rear seat.

[Berserker occupation experience +1]

It didn't hurt Ian. The "upgraded pendant" continued its "health-draining" effect, conveniently granting him a point of occupation experience at that moment.

But Ian wasn't in the mood to celebrate.

"If you don't wanna die, hit the damn brakes!" Ian gripped the front seat's headrests tightly, his tone furious. He wasn't usually quick to anger.

Despite Ian's shouting, the driver stayed silent, one hand on the wheel, the other clutching the stainless steel thermos, wildly swinging at the air even after Ian retreated, just in case.

"It's a matter of life and death!" the driver roared, stomping the gas again. The scenery outside blurred, the speedometer needle quivering near 250, the car's frame emitting an ominous metallic groan.

"Huh? Wanna check my skin color again? My life's not worth anything?" Ian finally gave up struggling, helplessly hiding behind the driver's seat.

He clung tightly to the metal bars of the front seat's headrest.

Honestly, Ian was genuinely nervous.

He cursed himself for not carrying a helmet. As long as his head stayed intact, he could use his skills to heal his battered body.

Of course, nervous as he was, Ian hadn't completely lost his cool. As a second-generation hero, he had one last card to play: screaming, "Dad, save me!"

With Superman's speed, he was sure his father could rescue him before he was torn to pieces. He hadn't felt this way before, but now Ian was just grateful his dad was truly up there.

A real man standing tall in the skies above Earth.

"I'll definitely report you! You'll lose your license!" Ian grew angrier, gritting his teeth, convinced the driver was out of his mind.

Probably an illegal immigrant from nearby Gotham.

"License? Hilarious, I don't even have one!" The driver kept swinging his thermos, hitting the air, clearly wary of Ian launching a sneak attack if he let his guard down.

"..."

Ian was speechless, unable to fathom his rotten luck. Under his gaze, the taxi transformed into a single-player GTA game.

Drifting around corners? Basic maneuvers.

Leaping over an unfinished bridge gap, chassis sparking, it narrowly grazed an oil tanker, the side mirror shattering into a spray of fragments with a "crack."

"Damn it! Are you filming Fast and Furious?"

Ian's face paled.

Several times, he nearly screamed for help. The driver, piloting his insane taxi, performed high-stakes stunts, racing out of the city and crashing into a suburban farm.

The weather here was starkly different from the city.

The city basked in sunshine, but here, dark clouds loomed, the sky so dim it felt like midnight, an oppressive atmosphere blanketing the farm.

Ian sensed an ominous vibe.

"Where the hell did you take me?"

He wondered if this was some black-market organ harvesting den.

His loud questions went ignored by the driver.

"Kid! Buckle up!" the driver shouted, then drove straight into a wooden house.

Of course, he was finally braking.

Boom!

With a deafening crash, the taxi came to a stop inside the house.

The front end was completely mangled, the windshield shattered, the hood popping up with a bang, black smoke hissing from within.

"Constantine, you still alive?" The driver forced open the warped door, clambering out, shouting into the house as he rushed to the back seat.

He wanted to check on Ian, the high school kid.

At that moment, a man in a beige trench coat emerged from the shadowy rubble, his blonde hair disheveled, a noticeable bloodstain on his lip.

"Charles, you were late enough to collect my corpse!" he yelled. "When I said I was dying, I meant it literally, got it?"

He was shouting accusations.

But Charles, the driver, didn't respond. He yanked open the back door, only to find no sign of the insane high schooler.

"Where is he?"

Charles looked bewildered.

"Who?"

Constantine, the trench coat man, approached, frowning.

"He was just here!" Charles, unwilling to give up, climbed into the car, searching every corner but finding not even a hair. A chill crept into his heart.

Had he really hit a ghost in broad daylight?

"Over here." As the driver stood lost, a hand slowly emerged from the collapsed bricks ahead of the car, a weak, youthful voice sounding out.

Charles rushed over, helping Ian free himself from the debris. After checking, he found the kid was just disheveled and dirty, nothing serious.

"You're one freaky kid! Didn't I tell you to buckle up?" Charles exhaled in relief, then shouted in lingering fear.

"Hm?"

Ian, the victim, was livid. "Why don't you check your damn car? Feel the back seat and tell me if there's even a seatbelt!"

At that, Charles fell silent.

"Might've missed it during inspection... well, I never got it inspected." He mumbled, clearly guilty, his voice lacking conviction.

"..."

Ian was at a loss for words. Given the driver didn't even have a license, this situation didn't seem all that surprising.

Fuming and ready to throw a punch, Ian was interrupted.

"Charles! Why'd you bring a kid to a place this dangerous? That demon's still out there!" A shocked, angry voice rang out.

Ian looked over.

A scruffy man in a trench coat ran toward him, face full of shock and rage. If Ian heard right, this was the infamous DC jinx, Constantine? And the taxi driver was his partner? No wonder Ian's luck had tanked since meeting him!

He'd been cursed by a jinx!

"We need to get this kid out of here!" Constantine, unaware of Ian's thoughts, stared at him, his voice trembling with fear.

With that, he grabbed Ian, trying to drag him toward the door.

But then, "Hm?"

Constantine found he couldn't budge the 5'6" kid.

"What's with this guy?"

Before he could process it, a sharp crack of splintering wood came from the second floor.

His face changed.

The next moment, "Eat! Eat! Eat! Delicious kid!"

With a chilling cackle, a black shadow with a grotesque face shot down from the dim second floor like lightning, shrouded in thick, rolling black mist, lunging at Ian.

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