The hum of servers filled the quiet office, measuring every heartbeat like a metronome for the symphony of deception Ethan Kane was composing. He sat at his console, the voice modulator active, his alias "Luc Moreau" glowing in the corner of the screen. Three layers of encryption masked the secure comm line. Outside, New York stumbled toward recovery, oblivious to the next empire quietly assembling in its underworld.
He adjusted the pitch of his French accent—refined, polished, practiced—and dialed the number he'd acquired through considerable effort. "Masque, W. Frost." Status: online. He studied the name. Madame Masque. Whitney Frost. A brilliant tactician hidden behind a golden façade, heir to Count Nefaria's shadowy legacy. A woman who might have ruled the world if she hadn't been taught it belonged to men.
The call connected.
"Bonne journée, Madame Frost," he said with effortless charm. "Monsieur Luc Moreau speaking."
A pause.
"Yes? Who are you? How did you get this number?"
He smiled. "Pardon the interruption, madame. We'll have time to address your questions, but for now, allow me to speak. I've observed your operations. Elegant design. Meticulous strategy. But—if I may—your infrastructure is… underwhelming, given the scale of your talent."
The silence thickened.
"I'll ask again," she said, voice low and cool. "Who are you?"
"A friend of industry. Arms trade, logistics, black-market intelligence. Let's say I'm someone who believes your talents deserve a greater platform."
"You presume a lot."
"Just facts," Ethan replied, letting his voice rest in velvet confidence. "Allow me to prove it."
He tapped a key. The monitors around him pulsed with movement—shipping manifests, corrupted warehouse codes, intercepted orders. He recited them. Masque said nothing, but he could almost hear the shift in her breathing. This was information buried inside the Hood's operations—data known only to his inner circle.
"You have someone inside."
"I have many eyes and ears," Luc said. "And I always keep them sharp."
"…Your reach is wider than I thought," she said after a moment. "And your accent is good."
"Merci."
He leaned forward. "I can offer something extraordinary. Resources far beyond what you currently receive under Parker Robbins, ah excuse-moi, The Hood, as he likes to be called. Real-time intel. Secure transport networks. Global supply chains. And—most important—a malleable figurehead. Someone who will stand at the front, while you orchestrate from behind the curtain."
"Go on."
"The criminal underworld in New York is fractured. Since Norman Osborn's death, law enforcement has surged. Dozens have been arrested or fled underground. The vacuum is real. You and I can fill it."
He let the silence draw her closer.
"You will be the architect. I'll provide the materials. Together, we rebuild the underworld. On our terms."
Her laughter was light and cutting. "This is generous. And expensive. What do you want in return?"
"Investment," Luc said simply. "I have no desire to wear a crown. I want order and profit. With control, we can both gain that. And for that, I need someone who can think like me—but doesn't want the spotlight."
Her voice sharpened. "And your proposed leader?"
"Une charmante jeune femme nommée Fiore Artino," he said. "Once a trusted enforcer for the Rose. Highly trained. Quite malleable. But untested in boardrooms. That's where you come in. With you guiding her, the fractured gangs will eventually fall in line.
Masque paused. "Fiore Artino… I don't know her. But I know the Rose. His people are fanatically loyal. You managed to recruit one of his?"
"I offered her something he never could. Purpose. Power. Legacy."
Masque exhaled softly. "Curious. Why not control her yourself?"
"Because I lack the time and interest in day-to-day oversight. You, madame, are already guiding the Hood's infrastructure. He wears the mask, so to speak, and you pull the strings. I'm simply offering you a grander stage to perform ma chère. And a puppet you get to mold from the start."
Her voice cooled to frost. "And if I refuse?"
Ethan paused. "Then you remain beneath the crumbling empire of the Hood. Wilson Fisk will soon resurface. Mister Negative spreads his reach daily. Hammerhead is also beginning to stir again. Once the moment passes, and everything you've built drowns with the tide."
He waited. Then added with a smirk, "But let's not be too serious. It is only our first conversation. I propose a game."
"A game?"
"If you can find anything about me—my true identity, my network, anything at all—I'll give you the resources I promised. No strings attached. Consider it a test. You have a week."
A click. The line went dead.
Whitney Frost sat in silence. The screen glowed back at her, her golden mask reflected like a specter. Slowly, she set the phone down and jotted a note on a pad: Luc Moreau. French. Fiore Artino. Offer: syndicate + resources. Then underlined the words: Most likely untraceable.
She understood the offer. And she understood the trap. The game he proposed was more than a challenge—it was a leash. If she failed to find him, she'd admit, silently, that he was her superior in the only battlefield that mattered: intelligence. She would never accept a leash. But she respected one well-placed enough to make her think twice.
Masque's lips curled behind the mask. "Well played."
Ethan removed the voice modulator and let his real voice drift back into the room. He stretched his fingers, feeling the residue of tension leave them. The digital dossier on Masque remained open on his screen.
He whispered, almost fondly, "You're going to be fun."
He opened a new log:
Subject: Madame Masque
Status: Engaged
Offer: Infrastructure + protégé (Delilah) = Controlled syndicate
Objective: Full loyalty via psychological dominance
He knew exactly how she operated—beautiful, brilliant, bitter. Her entire persona was a rebellion against a world that tried to discard her. That meant her mask wasn't just armor—it was identity.
So he'd make her question it.
Make her see that she could remove the mask and be more powerful.
And when that day came—when he healed the face beneath it—she would owe him everything.
He leaned back in his chair, satisfied. One piece moved.
Many more to go.
A soft knock. "Ethan? Dinner's ready," his mother called.
He closed the laptop and turned to the door.
"Coming, Mom."
There was always time for dinner.
There would be less time soon.