The muffled sound of voices filled the underground hall, hidden beneath tons of concrete and steel. Cold lights illuminated the oval table at the center, where men in dark suits and tense expressions had gathered. At the head of the table sat a towering figure with an almost suffocating presence: Wilson Fisk, the man the New York underworld called Kingpin.
"Sir, the police have been increasing surveillance at the port," one of the henchmen reported, his voice trembling. "Many shipments of our merchandise are being held up. If this continues, half of our operations will be compromised."
Kingpin remained still, resting his chin on one hand. His fingers, adorned with a heavy gold ring, tapped slowly against the table. A dry tick-tock that made the others swallow nervously.
The men began arguing among themselves, each shifting blame, each trying to justify his own failure.
"If we keep losing shipments, we'll be in the red!" "It's the customs officers—they've become stricter!" "No, the real problem is George Stacy! He—"
"Enough."
Kingpin's voice cut through the air like a blade. It wasn't a shout. It was a command.
Silence fell instantly. Even the sound of breathing seemed to stop.
Kingpin leaned back in his chair, speaking with the calm of a man who could destroy lives with a simple gesture.
"George Stacy is merely trying to gather evidence. I admit he is persistent—but predictable. Continue keeping a low profile."
His tone was cold, methodical, almost clinical.
"I don't care if you make less money right now," he continued. "Avoid any direct conflict with the police. A scandal at this moment would be a significant problem… and I do not tolerate problems."
The words hung heavy in the air. They were enough to silence everyone.
But there was always a fool among them.
"With all due respect, sir…" a man on the right began, nervous yet insolent. "Isn't he just a police captain? Why should we fear someone like that?"
Another, emboldened, added, "He's right. We could simply… pay someone to handle it. One shot, one dark night, and—"
Kingpin raised his gaze.
Silence fell again—this time laced with pure terror.
The air seemed to grow heavier. Fisk's cold, unrelenting stare pierced the man like a spear.
The henchman stopped speaking immediately. He swallowed hard. The words that tried to escape died in his throat.
Kingpin didn't need to say anything. The mere tightening of his jaw was enough to make the man shrink back.
After a few seconds, Fisk simply murmured, "Do only what I ordered."
That deep, controlled voice sent a chill down every spine in the room.
"Understood, boss," they replied in unison, like prisoners confessing guilt.
Kingpin gave a brief nod.
Then one of the men, trying to lighten the mood, chuckled and changed the subject. "By the way, Damian… didn't you say you were going to secure the rights to those books for adaptation? How's that going?"
Damian Silver—a man in an expensive suit with an arrogant expression—crossed his arms and let out an irritated sigh. "It all went to hell. That bastard made a complete mess of my studio."
"Ha! I told you your plan was complete stupidity," another laughed, slamming his hand on the table.
"Shut up, idiot!" Damian snapped, his voice rising. "How was I supposed to know that bastard would pull something like that?! But I guarantee he won't be alive by the weekend."
Laughter spread through the room, hollow and forced—the laughter of men who believed themselves untouchable.
But then—
"WEEEEEHHH—WEEEEEHHH—WEEEEEHHH!"
An alarm blared suddenly, echoing off metal and concrete. The lights flickered, and a red beacon began spinning in the corner of the ceiling.
The laughter died instantly.
The silence that followed was almost deafening.
Kingpin frowned, his eyes narrowing. With a simple press of a button embedded in the side of his chair, a monitor slowly descended from the ceiling.
The screen lit up.
What appeared made even the bravest among them go pale.
All the guards on the upper level were down. Some decapitated, others missing limbs, others simply butchered. The floor was soaked in blood—it looked like a scene torn straight from hell.
The cameras shook slightly, as if something—or someone—had moved through too fast to track.
"What the hell… is happening here?" one man asked, his voice shaking.
Kingpin watched in silence, his frown deepening. Even he, accustomed to chaos and betrayal, sensed something unusual in the scene: a supernatural precision.
The henchmen began whispering, unease spreading like a rising tide.
"Why are you panicking?" Kingpin asked calmly, his voice like a muffled thunderclap. "No one but me knows the entrance to this room. And even if someone did, there is no human force capable of breaching those doors."
His words restored some confidence to those present. A few exhaled in relief.
They remembered clearly: to enter, they had been blindfolded and personally escorted by Kingpin himself. That underground hideout wasn't on any map—it was a secret buried even from the underworld.
Still… something inside Fisk warned him. A bad feeling. The same instinct that had saved him from death countless times told him something was terribly wrong.
He pressed another button, and the monitor switched feeds.
Now the screen showed a narrow corridor lit by emergency lights—the only passage leading directly to their chamber.
Kingpin's eyes widened in disbelief. "Impossible…" he muttered. "How could he know about this access?"
The other men stared at the screen, stunned. The figure advancing down the corridor was not an army.
It was a single man.
"Sir… didn't you say no one could find this place?" "Who is that guy?" "He took down all the guards by himself?!"
The noise escalated until Kingpin slammed his cane hard against the floor.
"Silence!"
The crack echoed like thunder. His authority was absolute.
The room fell quiet once more.
Fisk adjusted his jacket, staring fixedly at the screen. "Even if he reaches this room," he said with the calm of a bored monster, "there is no chance he'll get through that door."
"Sir, look!" one of the men shouted, pointing.
On the screen, the intruder—wearing a dark uniform—pulled a red-bladed katana from a golden portal and assumed a striking stance.
Kingpin smiled with disdain. "What does he think he's going to do? Cut the door? That armor is reinforced with titanium and—"
A flash sliced across the screen.
In less than a second, the metallic shriek of blades cutting through steel echoed, followed by a burst of air and sparks.
When the dust settled…
The door—nearly a ton of reinforced metal—lay in pieces, severed into perfect sections.
Kingpin's expression hardened. The others instinctively stepped back.
And then, from within the smoke, he emerged.
Arthur walked slowly into the room, holding the katana with effortless ease, his face partially concealed by a mask. The blade's glow reflected the red emergency lights, casting an almost infernal image.
"I hope…" he said with a cold smile, his voice laced with sarcasm, "…I'm not interrupting anything important."
Silence.
---
(End of Chapter)