Joren's brows furrowed slightly.
He hated repetition.
Repetitive work. Repetitive lectures. Repetitive enemies who kept showing up at his door—only to get themselves killed.
Sixty percent of the bones in his body had been broken.
And yet, here he was again.
"Jin doesn't make meaningless investments," he muttered under his breath. "Osborn Industries' military tech represents the most advanced individual combat capability of this era."
"Besides," he added, voice low and edged with disdain, "Hammerhead isn't some pencil-pusher like Wesley. He's a full-blown thug—and his men? All outlaws."
Matt Murdock didn't respond to the warning in Joren's tone.
He simply lifted his foot and stepped forward—straight into the darkness.
Actions always spoke louder than words.
Matt watched the tall, cloaked figure vanish ahead of him, then followed without hesitation.
The two moved in silence, their forms swallowed whole by the night.
---
Hell's Kitchen.
An abandoned central slaughterhouse.
Decades had passed since the last carcass was hung here, but the air still clung to the stench—rancid, metallic, the ghost of blood and old fish oil.
The massive cold-storage chamber had been repurposed as a temporary arms depot.
A dozen heavily armed men in leather jackets and scuffed boots stood guard inside and out, assault rifles slung over their shoulders like badges of honor.
At the center of it all stood a man with a skull flattened by steel plates and a nose that looked like it had lost a war with a sledgehammer.
Hammerhead.
A relic of a bygone era—half gangster, half madman, and all brute force. They said his brain was welded shut with scrap metal.
"Beautiful," he murmured, running a gloved hand over a row of dark green ammo crates stamped with the Osborn Industries logo. "Absolutely beautiful."
He popped open a crate and lifted out a sleek, angular pulse rifle—its surface humming faintly with contained energy.
A grin split his face.
"Kingpin—that fat bastard—finally did something useful."
One of his lieutenants grinned back. "Boss, with this shipment, we can wipe out the O'Connells and claim every Irish block in Hell's Kitchen!"
Hammerhead snorted and tossed the rifle back into the crate.
"Shortsighted," he snapped. "I don't want just the Irish turf. I want all of Hell's Kitchen."
Suddenly—
Thud. Thud. Thud.
A muffled cry cut through the cold air outside.
"Who's there?!" Hammerhead barked, his hand flying to his sidearm.
Every thug snapped to attention, rifles raised toward the reinforced steel door.
He grabbed his walkie-talkie. "Report! What's going on out there?!"
Static.
Then—
BOOM!!!
The concrete wall exploded inward, ripped apart as if by a freight train.
Chunks of rebar and shattered masonry tore through the room like shrapnel. Two men near the blast zone dropped instantly—skulls cracked open, blood pooling on the frostbitten floor.
Through the dust and smoke, two figures emerged.
One wore a blood-red suit, horns casting long shadows under the flickering lights.
The other walked with his hands in his pockets, a low-brimmed cap shadowing his face—just a kid, if you didn't know better.
"Daredevil…" Hammerhead snarled, recognizing the Devil of Hell's Kitchen instantly. But his eyes locked onto the second figure—a stranger.
"You don't belong here," Joren said calmly. "So why don't you go home?"
Hammerhead's face twisted into a snarl.
"You fools don't know when you're outmatched! Open fire! Turn 'em into Swiss cheese!"
Flames erupted as a dozen rifles roared in unison, filling the cold storage with deafening thunder.
Matt vanished instantly, using shipping containers and slaughterhouse hooks to swing through the air at high speed.
Joren remained rooted in place.
Bullets rained down on him—but he still collapsed helplessly just a meter short of Joren.
The roars from Hammerhead's men gradually died out.
They clutched their scorching-hot gun barrels, staring blankly at the unharmed boy.
Hammerhead, too, was stunned—but he was, after all, a ruthless veteran who'd weathered countless storms.
"Don't stop! Switch weapons!" he barked, snatching a pulse rifle from the ammo crate and leveling it at Joren.
"I don't care what you are—try this!"
Buzz—
The muzzle glowed with a ghostly blue light, and a searing beam of energy lanced out—
the true masterpiece of Osborn Industries!
But—
A bluish-purple afterimage flashed past Joren.
Star Platinum's fist, though arriving a split-second late, struck the energy beam with perfect precision.
"Ora!"
There was no earth-shattering explosion.
The beam—powerful enough to melt through steel plates—dissipated midair with a soft "poof," scattering into countless shimmering blue sparks.
It was beautiful.
And fatally ridiculous.
Bang!
Daredevil dropped from above, driving a crushing kick into Hammerhead's shoulder and sending the crime boss staggering backward.
The battle reignited.
Daredevil moved like a phantom, weaving around Hammerhead with inhuman agility, his every motion pushing the limits of human endurance.
Meanwhile—
Joren strode toward the remaining gunmen, now trembling in terror.
"Ora ora ora ora ora!"
An invisible fist unleashed a storm of death.
To the henchmen, it was like being struck by nothingness—no warning, no visible attacker.
In under five seconds, every one of them lay unconscious on the ground, save for Hammerhead, still locked in combat with Daredevil.
Joren walked over to the ammunition crates, ready to destroy the weapons.
Finally—peace and quiet.
Then, without warning, an impossibly sharp whistle sliced through the air from the rafters above the cold storage!
It was faster. Sharper. More lethal—aimed straight at the back of Joren's head!
In an instant, Star Platinum materialized.
Its right hand snapped out, index and middle fingers clamping together midair with surgical precision.
"Bite!"
A crisp, metallic twang echoed through the warehouse.
A custom-made playing card—edges honed to knife-like sharpness—was caught firmly between two fingers, less than half an inch from the back of Joren's skull.
Joren turned slowly, his gaze cutting through the drifting smoke and dust to the crisscrossing steel beams overhead.
A figure stood there in silence.
Bullseye.
But something about him was… different.
His arms were sheathed in a sleek silver exoskeleton, gleaming with a cold metallic luster.
Intricate wiring and miniature hydraulic rods snaked from his elbows down to his fingertips.
Even the red bullseye tattoo on his forehead had been redrawn—
now an almost blinding, eerily vivid crimson.
Bullseye grinned, revealing a twisted, manic smile.
"Monster… we meet again."
His eyes burned with morbid confidence and fanatical hunger for revenge.
"You guessed right. I'm back."
"And thanks to you… I've been reborn."
He flexed the exoskeleton-clad arms, savoring the power thrumming through them—strength far beyond human limits.
"Mr. Kingpin gave me a little 'upgrade.' Osborn Industries' tech is truly fascinating, isn't it?"
"Now I can throw seventeen cards per second—each one faster than sound. My dynamic vision lets me see a fly's wingbeat from a hundred meters away."
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming like a child showing off a new toy—cruelty dancing in their depths.
"I've analyzed your invisible 'bodyguard.' Its defensive range is still one meter around your body… right?"
"Last time, I only wanted to break your legs."
"But now? Mr. Kingpin's given me new orders."
"He wants you brought back… piece by piece. Inch by inch."
"The warm-up's over, monster!"
Bullseye roared—and leaped from the beam!