"Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!"
A dozen razor-edged alloy playing cards sliced through the air, cutting off every possible escape route for Joren!
But it was all a feint.
The instant the cards launched, Bullseye's left-arm exoskeleton ejected a high-tensile cable. It latched onto a massive butcher's hook overhead, yanking him into a lightning-fast midair swing. Simultaneously, his right arm whirred to life—the targeting system locking onto the industrial chandelier suspended above Joren's head.
"Try this!"
A pulsed energy beam lanced out from his forearm, striking the chandelier's support with surgical precision.
Crack!
Metal groaned. Sparks showered.
The half-ton steel fixture—crackling with live wiring—plummeted straight down.
Above: a storm of playing cards.
Overhead: a crushing deathtrap of steel and electricity.
Flank: Bullseye himself, swinging in on cable tension, exoskeleton-enhanced fist already cocked for Joren's temple.
Sky. Overhead. Flanks.
This triple-phase kill zone was leagues beyond his earlier alleyway ambush—faster, deadlier, perfectly calculated.
He'd use this flawless combo to erase the shame that boy had branded into him.
"ora!"
Star Platinum didn't flinch. With a casual wave of his hand, he dismissed the torrent of alloy cards—
—and sent them screaming back at Bullseye, faster than they'd come.
The chandelier crashed down like a meteor.
Star Platinum raised his right arm—just one—and drove his fist upward.
BANG.
The impact detonated from within. Steel shattered into shrapnel, scattering across the cold storage floor like hail.
And then came Bullseye's pride: his "newborn" iron fist, screaming in from the side at terminal velocity.
Star Platinum turned his head. Cold eyes locked onto Bullseye's.
One simple straight right.
Then—
"ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA!"
A storm of blows followed, each punch a hammer strike from a god of war.
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
The sound wasn't just impact—it was annihilation, echoing through the freezing warehouse.
This time, Bullseye didn't even get the dignity of being launched away.
Bone after bone splintered. Flesh gave way. His body was less a target than raw material—pounded, crushed, re-pounded, re-crushed—by fists moving faster than thought.
His consciousness blinked out before the second punch even landed.
Only destruction remained.
"ora!"
With a final roar, Star Platinum ended the barrage.
Bullseye's ruined form—barely recognizable as human—shot backward like a cannonball, blasting clean through the far wall of the cold storage and vanishing into the night.
Inside, only Daredevil stood frozen, having just dropped Hammerhead with a brutal over-the-shoulder slam. His masked head swiveled slowly—from the boy with his hands in his pockets… to the smoldering, human-shaped crater in the wall.
His jaw hung slack beneath the cowl.
Joren adjusted the brim of his hat with a soft chuckle.
"Yare, yare…"
Finally swatted that annoying fly dead.
"You—" Daredevil started.
Joren ignored him, already striding toward the untouched ammunition crates.
He stretched out his right hand and tapped one of the crates with his index finger.
Buzz—
Ripples of distorted energy radiated from his fingertip, slithering across the floor and climbing every surface until they'd touched all the ammunition crates.
Inside each box, the core circuitry and firing mechanisms of Osborn Industries' precision pulse rifles disintegrated—fused, shattered, or scrambled beyond repair by the silent pulse.
To the eye, the crates looked untouched.
But inside? Nothing but dead metal.
Joren lowered his hand and turned to leave.
"Wait!"
Daredevil finally snapped out of his daze and stepped into his path.
"You're just… walking away?"
Joren raised an eyebrow. "What else would I do?"
"Kingpin. Bullseye. They're criminals," Daredevil said, voice tight with urgency. "They belong in court—in chains—not in a morgue."
It was more than ideology. It was who he was: lawyer by day, guardian of Hell's Kitchen by night.
Joren stopped. Turned. Stared straight into the lenses of Daredevil's mask.
"Court?" he said flatly. "I took that man to the hospital after he nearly bled out on a rooftop. Kingpin pulled him out, bolted an iron arm to his stump, and sent him back to kill me."
"If I'd left him in Rikers, Kingpin would've bought his way out in a week. And next time, he wouldn't just have a bionic arm—he'd have a sonic cannon, a plasma whip, maybe a damn teleporter. Osborn's got toys for days."
"And if he fails again?" Joren's voice dropped, colder than winter steel. "He'll go after the people I care about. My little sister. My teacher. The bodega owner who gives me free coffee. He'll burn my whole world down just to watch me suffer."
"I hate trouble," he said. "But I loathe repeat customers."
"So I chose the simplest solution. One that lasts."
He stepped past Daredevil without another word.
"Make him disappear."
Daredevil didn't move. Didn't reach out. He just stood there, Joren's words echoing in the silence like a cracked bell.
For the first time, the justice he'd sworn to uphold—the trials, the rules, the system—felt fragile. Naïve. Like building sandcastles in a hurricane.
...
Manhattan — Penthouse, Fisk Tower
Kingpin stood motionless at the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing down at his city like a god surveying a flawed creation.
Wesley stood nearby, arm in a cast, face pale, barely daring to breathe.
On the wall-mounted screen, security footage played from the slaughterhouse cold storage—a feed transmitted from Bullseye's ocular implant.
They watched him stride in, smug, invincible. They saw his "triple-kill" setup: thermal lures, magnetic pulse traps, reinforced ambush points. A masterpiece of overkill.
Then—
The screen twisted violently. Blood sprayed across the lens. A shape moved—too fast, too clean.
Darkness.
Kingpin didn't blink. "What… was that?"
His voice was quiet. Dangerous.
"An invisible ghost?" he murmured, more to himself than to Wesley. "A boy who shatters bullets with his bare hands? Who breaks energy fields like glass?"
His best weapon—reforged with Osborn tech, trained for years, perfected for death—hadn't even landed a scratch. Hadn't touched the hem of that teenager's jacket.
That realization carved a hollow space in Kingpin's chest. Not fear. Worse: doubt. The first crack in an empire built on absolute control.
Then—
Heh… heh… hehHEH—
Laughter bubbled up from his throat, low at first, then rising into something unhinged, raw, and sharp as broken glass. It filled the penthouse, bouncing off polished marble and steel.
Suddenly, he whirled and slammed his fist down.
CRACK!
The five-centimeter-thick titanium-alloy table crumpled like foil beneath his blow.
"I don't care what he is," Kingpin growled, eyes burning with feral resolve. "Wesley!"
"Y-yes, sir!" Wesley flinched.
"Mobilize every asset. Every informant. Every black-site contact. I want everything on that boy—Joren Quinn. His school schedule. His favorite subway stop. His mother's maiden name. His allergies."
"I want to know what scares him. Who he calls when he's hurt. Where he sleeps."
"Then," Kingpin said, voice dropping to a whisper that carried more weight than any shout, "we turn his world into a nightmare."
"That boy dies. And this time—permanently."