The leader of the men in black wore a cold, practiced smile—the kind that meant business, not amusement.
"I'll ask you one last time, kid," he drawled, letting the words hang like smoke in the alley air. "Come with us quietly… or we drag you out cold. Your pick."
From the shadows behind him, another voice sneered, "Spare the sales pitch. Break his legs and be done with it. The boss isn't waiting all night."
Yeah, yeah.
Joren exhaled silently. How fast can I put down seven of you?
He said nothing. To them, his silence was fear.
"Guess that's your answer," the leader said, thumb easing off the safety.
His finger tightened on the trigger—
Platinum Star tensed, coiling to strike—
Whist.
A sharp, slicing sound split the air from above.
A dark red blur dropped like a comet from the fire escape.
"Who the hell—?!" the leader snapped, whirling his gun upward.
Too slow.
Crack! Crack!
Two precise strikes—one to each man's wrist, then a brutal upward snap to the jaw. Guns clattered to the pavement. Bodies followed, crumpling before either could cry out.
The red figure moved like liquid shadow—part acrobat, part predator. His weapon, a compact baton, split mid-swing, the halves connected by a thin, whip-like cable. One moment it was a club; the next, a coiling viper.
A thug raised his sidearm—
Whoosh.
The cable lashed around his throat, yanked him clean off his feet, and slammed him spine-first into brick. Lights out.
Another lunged in close—
The red blur sidestepped, drove a shoulder into his ribs, then cracked the baton down on his kneecap. As the man buckled, a sharp elbow crushed his temple. Down.
Joren watched, motionless.
Every movement was economy incarnate—no wasted motion, no showboating. Angles optimized. Leverage maximized. The environment used like a third limb.
No Stand. No superpowers. Just peak human combat mastery, honed in alleyways far darker than this one.
Twenty-eight seconds.
The last man hit the ground with a gasp, clutching his shattered knee—then went still under a precise chop to the neck.
Silence returned to the alley, broken only by the red-clad figure's measured breaths.
He stood at its center, chest rising faintly beneath the armored suit. His mask covered the upper half of his face, crowned with two small, stylized horns.
His white lenses fixed on Joren—the only one left standing.
"This isn't your kind of fight, kid," he said, voice low but calm. "Go home."
Joren didn't move. "I heard you in the bar earlier. You asked about someone. Why?"
The man tensed slightly. Recognition flickered.
Daredevil.
Joren had read the reports. Guardian of Hell's Kitchen. Blind lawyer by day, demon in red by night.
"You're looking for an assassin," Joren said. "One with a red bullseye tattooed on his forehead."
Daredevil went still. "...You know Bullseye."
"Not personally. But he came after me last night. Said he was going to break my legs."
Daredevil's head tilted—just slightly. The lie? Or the truth?
Bullseye didn't waste bullets on civilians. Let alone students. His kills were statements—bloody, theatrical, expensive.
"Say that again," Daredevil said, voice edged with disbelief.
"He wanted to break my legs," Joren repeated, calm as concrete. "Because I humiliated his client's son at school. Some rich kid named Eugene Thompson. His father hired Bullseye to send a message."
He adjusted his cap, just enough to catch the dim streetlight in his eyes.
"But Bullseye failed. And today, I heard Old Thompson died. Car crash. Company imploded. Assets seized. Like someone erased him."
Joren met Daredevil's blank lenses.
"When a job goes south and the client's name gets out… who cleans up the mess?"
A beat of silence.
Daredevil didn't answer—but his fists tightened.
Kingpin.
Only Wilson Fisk operated with that kind of surgical cruelty. Loose ends didn't just get cut—they got buried.
And now a high school student had not only survived Bullseye…
He'd traced the blood trail straight back to the throne.
This boy hadn't just survived—he'd taken the initiative to come to Hell's Kitchen and investigate.
Did he even know what he was doing?
Did he have any idea who he'd just crossed?
Daredevil's expression darkened. The situation had escalated far beyond his expectations.
This high school student was shrouded in mystery.
Using his enhanced hearing, Matt zeroed in on the boy's heartbeat—steady, strong, utterly devoid of fear or panic.
That wasn't normal.
It was impossible.
Daredevil took a slow breath and asked the one question burning in his mind—the most crucial, and most unsettling:
"Bullseye never misses."
His voice carried a quiet edge of disbelief.
"Then tell me… how did you survive his shot?"
"I didn't survive it."
A pause. Then, calm and deliberate:
"I beat him so badly he's still in the hospital."
Beneath the mask, Daredevil's face twisted in shock.
"What did you say?"
"Over sixty percent of his bones are shattered. Multiple internal organs ruptured. He won't be walking for months—if ever."
Matt's mind went blank.
Even his hyper-developed senses couldn't process the implications fast enough.
That's why Bullseye's been off the grid…
This wasn't some ordinary kid. This was something else entirely.
Suspicion, caution, and a rare flicker of dread coiled through him. Words wouldn't cut it—he needed proof. Real proof.
Without warning, Daredevil dropped low, his right foot slamming into the slick pavement. In an instant, he closed the distance between them.
His leg lashed out in a whip-fast low kick aimed at the boy's knees.
Here we go again…
Why do people always say hello with their fists?
Joren—, he reminded himself—saw it coming. Of course he did.
He knew this was just a test.
He suppressed the blue-purple energy flickering at his fingertips and simply raised his left leg to intercept.
CRACK!
The impact jolted up Daredevil's shin like he'd kicked solid granite. But he didn't hesitate—using the rebound, he twisted midair, crossed his legs, and drove his heel down like an axe toward Joren's shoulder.
Joren caught it bare-handed.
THUD.
No flinch. No strain. Just a quiet, unshaken block.
Daredevil's radar sense screamed: Bone density off the charts. Muscle fibers operating at inhuman efficiency.
He landed, pivoted, and surged forward—not with power, but speed. A storm of jabs, hooks, and elbows rained down in rapid combinations, each strike layered with feints and micro-adjustments.
"This is really getting old," Joren muttered, finally losing patience.
He ignored the flurry entirely and swept out with a backhand.
Daredevil's senses flared—air displacement, trajectory, lethal force—and he flipped backward just in time, landing a meter away, balanced and alert.
"Your technique is crude," Daredevil said, voice tight. "No discipline. Just raw strength."
"It's enough to win."
No more words.
Daredevil attacked again—faster this time. A whirlwind of close-quarters combat: boxing precision, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu takedowns, Aikido redirections—all fused into a seamless, lethal dance. Every strike targeted pressure points, joints, nerve clusters. Every motion hid three follow-ups.
And yet—
Joren anticipated everything. Not by reaction, but by prediction. Half a second ahead, every time.
His strength? Monstrous.
His speed? Superhuman.
This isn't a person, Daredevil realized with growing horror. This is a weapon wearing human skin.
"Call it!" Daredevil barked, leaping back to create space.
"Leave Hell's Kitchen. I'll handle this. That's my advice."
"Ugh. You're so annoying."
Joren's patience snapped.
"Since you started it… don't blame me."
This time, he moved.
No flourish. No setup. Just a single, straight right cross—thrown with terrifying simplicity.
It was fast.
Unnaturally, impossibly fast.
Daredevil barely had time to cross his nunchaku in front of his chest.
CLANG—!!!
The force blasted through the alloy sticks and into his arms like a freight train. His boots tore twin furrows in the wet asphalt as he skidded backward, ribs screaming, breath knocked clean out of him.
A metallic tang filled his mouth. His organs felt like they'd shifted places.
Joren lowered his fist, adjusted the brim of his hat, and locked emerald eyes onto the crimson lenses of the mask.
He was done playing.
The alley fell silent—only the drip of rain and the ragged sound of Daredevil's breathing.
Matt swallowed hard, fighting down the pain and disbelief. He let his nunchaku hang at his sides. Resistance was futile.
He lifted his head.
"Your power… your body…" His voice was raw. "No human being—no one—should be able to do what you just did."