Wesley slumped to the ground, his glasses smeared with dust, staring blankly at the swirling debris. His mind was a hollow void—until a pair of iron-strong hands seized his wrist.
He let out a muffled groan as excruciating pain shot through his arm, jolting him back to reality.
"Well…" Daredevil's voice was flat, emotionless. "I ask. You answer."
Without waiting for a reply, Daredevil's other hand closed around Wesley's left pinky finger. In one precise, brutal motion, he twisted it outward.
Snap!
"Ah—!" Wesley screamed, but Daredevil clamped a gloved hand over his mouth, stifling the cry into a desperate whimper.
He released Wesley just long enough for the man to gasp in ragged breaths—then shifted his grip to the ring finger.
"Does Kingpin have any other business tonight?" Daredevil asked.
"No… nothing! I swear!"
Tears streamed down Wesley's face. His whole body shook with pain and terror.
Daredevil paused.
His enhanced hearing caught the hitch in Wesley's breath—the subtle spike in heartbeat. He was lying.
Fingers tightened.
"I'll talk! I'll talk!" Wesley choked out.
---
Elsewhere, Joren walked alone down the deserted street that wound from the docks toward the city center. The sea breeze tugged at the hem of his coat and carried away the lingering stench of gunpowder from the warehouse.
All he wanted was to go home.
Shower. Change. Sit on the couch. Watch that documentary about humpback whale migration in peace.
Just… peace.
Then—a shadow moved.
A dark red figure landed soundlessly atop the streetlamp ahead.
Daredevil looked down at him.
Joren stopped. He tilted his head up, his eyes steady beneath the brim of his hat.
"No," he said.
"You ruined Kingpin's operation," Daredevil said, leaping down to land silently in front of him. "Crippled his men. Made threats in front of his inner circle."
He stepped closer. "Do you really think he'll just let that go?"
Joren didn't answer. He only thought: This guy in the red suit is even more trouble than the thugs back at the warehouse.
"I don't want to be a guardian," Joren said, voice edged with impatience. "This city already has Iron Man. Daredevil. And that kid in the red-and-blue pajamas swinging through the sky."
"There are enough heroes."
"I just want to live a quiet life."
Daredevil said nothing. He only watched—silent, unreadable, unmoved.
He could hear Joren's heartbeat—steady, calm, without a trace of falsehood.
And, honestly? He believed it.
A few seconds later, Daredevil let out a low, almost self-deprecating laugh.
"A peaceful life?"
He tilted his head slightly, as if scrutinizing Joren with that uncanny, unseeing gaze of his.
"From the moment Kingpin's men marked you, that peaceful life ended."
Daredevil stepped forward and extended a finger, tapping the air just above Joren's head—as if pointing at something only he could perceive.
"Look at yourself."
"That hat's practically fused with your hair."
His finger dropped to Joren's collar.
"And that gold chain peeking out from the left side of your coat? Way too conspicuous."
Finally, his gaze settled on Joren's waist.
"You're even wearing two belts."
He paused, then added with a note of baffled incredulity—so dry even he didn't realize how absurd it sounded:
"Tell me, Joren Joestar…
A guy dressed like this is seriously claiming he wants a quiet life?"
He raised an eyebrow.
"Do I look like I was born yesterday?"
Joren frowned beneath the brim of his hat.
Yare yare…
"None of your business," he muttered.
"You should change your look," Daredevil said, offering what he clearly thought was a perfectly reasonable suggestion. "Lay low. Create a new identity. At least wear something that doesn't scream 'I'm hiding something.'"
Joren's eyes flicked over Daredevil's outfit—the bold crimson armor, the stitched seams, the twin devil horns jutting from his mask.
For half a second, he just stared.
An indescribable wave of secondhand embarrassment surged through him.
How can he run around the city dressed like that?
It was harder to imagine than blowing up Stark Tower.
Absolutely impossible.
As if sensing Joren's silent judgment, Daredevil let the subject drop.
"My name's Matt Murdock," he said, voice softening. "I'm a lawyer."
Joren blinked, surprised.
Matt handed him a business card—plain, black ink on white stock: a name and a phone number. Nothing else.
"If you run into legal trouble you can't handle," Matt said, "call me."
Joren took it and slipped it into his pocket without a word.
"I got new intel from Wesley," Matt continued, his tone shifting back to something sharper, darker. "Tonight—on the far side of Hell's Kitchen—Kingpin's arranging another arms deal. His men are meeting a guy called 'Hammerhead.'"
He hesitated, then added: "And Bullseye's been discharged from the hospital."
Joren froze.
Slowly, he lifted his head. In the dim streetlight, a cold glint flickered in his emerald eyes.
"Bullseye?"
Matt nodded. "Kingpin pulled him out quietly. Gave him a fresh set of 'toys.'"
Yare yare…
Like a ghost that just won't stay buried.
The man had broken sixty percent of his bones—and still crawled out of the hospital.
Was the medical tech in this world really that advanced? Or was Bullseye just… built differently?
Either way, it meant bigger trouble.
"That shipment?" Matt said grimly. "It's a prototype batch leaked from Oscorp—Osborn Industries. High-grade, hyper-lethal. If a psycho like Hammerhead gets his hands on that firepower…"
He let the implication hang in the air.
"Hell's Kitchen won't survive the night."
He turned to Joren, hand outstretched—not in demand, but invitation.
"So. I need your help."
A beat of silence. Then:
"Wanna suit up and come with me?"