New York, Seventh Avenue—deep within Viper Castle—lay a chamber sealed by heavy soundproof doors, isolating it completely from the clamor of the outside world.
Inside the lavish conference room, a long table carved from a single slab of obsidian dominated the space, its edges inlaid with gold serpentine patterns that coiled like living things.
Seven high-backed chairs lined either side of the table, their occupants—the core members of the Viper Gang—lurking in the shadows like venomous predators.
The Water Snake rose first, smoothing the wrinkles from his Italian custom-made suit and revealing platinum cufflinks glinting at the silk cuffs.
He activated the holographic projector and began to speak in a hoarse voice:
"Under the wise leadership of Lord Rattlesnake, our seven real estate companies saw a 23% increase in share prices this month. Two of our nightclubs secured alcohol licenses, and our 'special trade' channels expanded into three new districts…"
He paused, bowing deeply toward the head of the table, and added obsequiously,
"And all of this… is thanks to Lord Rattlesnake's wisdom—deep and inexhaustible as the Nile."
"Indeed," murmured the figure at the head of the table.
Lord Rattlesnake gave a slight nod, wisps of smoke curling from the cigar between his fingers. He wore a dark green silk robe embroidered with intricate snake-scale patterns along the hem. Beneath his golden mask, his eyes gleamed coldly in the dim light.
No sooner had the Water Snake resumed his seat than the Black Mamba shoved his chair back and stood, his tactical boots striking the marble floor with a sharp crack.
With a flick of his wrist, he summoned fresh holographic data. A crimson loss report scrolled downward like a waterfall of blood, and his voice—sharp as a poisoned blade—cut through the silence:
"Now that we've covered the good news… let's move on to the bad.
Last night, a warehouse at the East End docks was raided by the Night Owl. Twenty million dollars' worth of goods were incinerated. Three distribution points in the Bronx were wiped out, resulting in a cash loss of $8.7 million.
The Giant Viper responsible for distributing those goods was found this morning in the East River—his spine snapped into three pieces.
Rock Python, who guarded the East Wharf warehouse, was discovered strangled with chains…
And all of this…" He let the words hang, then finished, "was done by the Night Owl alone."
As names and figures were announced one by one, the temperature in the room seemed to plummet.
When the African Tree Snake was mentioned—pinned through the chest to his own club's neon sign—the Copperhead's glass shattered in his grip.
The Black Mamba pulled up a city map. Three red zones flashed ominously.
"Hell's Kitchen has been seized by the Kingpin due to our manpower shortages. Our operations in Chinatown have collapsed under relentless Night Owl attacks. And the worst part—"
He zoomed in on a new data set, his voice icy:
"Our pharmaceutical factory was destroyed. Production capacity is down by at least 60%."
"The next shipment requires eight tons of product," he continued. "We currently have only three—and it'll be two weeks before the next batch is ready."
The Giant Viper slammed a fist on the obsidian table and roared,
"That damned Night Owl! Last night, he not only raided our biggest casino—nailing the dealer to the roulette table with a playing card—but then burned the entire place to the ground!"
"He must be eradicated! We can't just sit back and let this happen!"
"Imagine this," the Giant Viper ranted, voice cracking with fury, "you're walking into a casino with cash in your pocket, a glass of red wine in your hand, flirting with girls—and suddenly, bam—a Night Owl comes crashing through the ceiling!"
Before he could finish his tearful tirade, the Copperhead Snake clamped a hand over his mouth and shoved him back into his seat.
Silence fell—thick, heavy, suffocating—broken only by the soft hiss of burning tobacco.
All eyes turned to the figure at the head of the table: the man who ruled New York's underworld.
Rattlesnake slowly stubbed out his cigar. The last wisp of smoke curled upward from the ashtray as he spoke—his voice unexpectedly gentle, yet commanding enough to make hardened criminals sit straighter.
"The Night Owl… is no ordinary vigilante."
He tilted his golden mask slightly, surveying the pale faces around him.
"He doesn't want money. He doesn't want territory. He doesn't even touch our product."
"He's not fighting us for profit… he's dismantling us—systematically."
His gaze swept the room once more.
"Does anyone have a plan to deal with this… street cleaner?"
After a long, suffocating pause, the Water Snake cleared his throat.
"Perhaps… we could try incentives? Everyone has a price. If ten million isn't enough, offer a hundred."
"And if money won't work," he added with a smirk, "then we'll use beauty. I refuse to believe there's nothing that can make him submit."
The Black Mamba scoffed. "Don't you get it? That man has transcended base desires. He's not here for wealth or vice!"
He stood abruptly, slamming both palms on the table.
"We've confirmed his hideout—it's that bar called Angel's Gift. We take hostages: everyone close to him. Bar staff. Regulars. Friends."
"I don't care how good he is in a fight. Even the Night Owl won't risk innocent lives just to throw a punch."
"And even if he could take us all on at once," the Black Mamba snarled, "he can't fight forever. Once he's exhausted, he dies."
"You brute," muttered the Spearhead Snake, glaring at him with open contempt.
"Forget your tricks. Let's just go in guns blazing. We've got numbers. Give each of us a Glock, and we'll turn him into roadkill."
"Real men face their enemies head-on!"
The Water Snake let out a cold laugh. "You've got the nerve to call him a brute? Have you forgotten how Hellfire Viper died?"
"Then what do you propose?!" the Spearhead shot back. "Just sit here and wait for owls to nail us to walls like martyrs?!"
The argument spiraled—each member clinging stubbornly to their plan, none willing to yield.
---
Meanwhile, inside Angel's Gift bar…
Afternoon sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows, casting dappled patterns of color across the oak table.
Diluc, Fischl, Oz, Damian, and Peter Parker sat around half-finished plates of pasta and salad.
A tiny listening device on the bar counter played the Viper Gang's meeting in real time—Black Mamba's roar cutting through the calm with startling clarity:
"Even if we all attacked at once, the Night Owl might not be able to kill us all…"
All eyes turned to Diluc.
But Diluc merely continued cutting his steak with elegant, unhurried strokes of his knife and fork—not a flicker in his expression.
"Hmm…" mused Damian, stroking hi
s chin thoughtfully, his eyes growing distant.
"…Who was the last person brave enough to say something like that?"
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