"Taste my fist—it's as big as a clay pot!"
Kilgrave strode forward as the crowd ahead of him parted like wheat before a scythe, driven by the silent command humming beneath his breath.
Joren halted mid-step.
Three meters separated them—close enough for every syllable to strike like a blade, far enough to savor the dread in his prey's eyes.
Kilgrave spread his arms like a maestro before an orchestra. As a passing teenager rolled by on a skateboard, he plucked it from the boy's grip without breaking stride—and snapped it over his knee.
Crack!
The teen crumpled, silent, eyes vacant.
Nearby, a woman chewing on her phone suddenly bit down harder. Plastic and glass crunched between her teeth; crimson drool trickled from the corner of her mouth.
Kilgrave's gaze settled on Joren.
He lived for this: the moment pride shattered, purity defiled.
"Come here."
His command, laced with viral pheromones, coiled through the air like invisible chains.
"Then…" A cruel smile curled his lips. "Kneel."
The order wasn't just sound—it was a psychological virus, potent enough to break elite soldiers, turn allies into executioners, and reduce willpower to dust.
Around them, bystanders buckled. Knees hit pavement. Some sobbed. Others fainted.
Joren didn't move.
Ugh. So noisy.
Within him, a decade of disciplined cultivation surged—ripple energy fused with his very marrow, flowing like liquid sunlight through blood, bone, and cell.
This ancient breathing technique, refined over four thousand years, had forged his body to the peak of human potential and tempered his spirit into something unbreakable: a flawless diamond of utter clarity.
Kilgrave's command struck his aura—and evaporated like mist before dawn.
"A Stand," Joren mused inwardly, "is a manifestation of one's soul, sustained by life energy, and shaped by will."
His Stand, Star Platinum, shimmered into existence beside him—an extension of his spirit, honed by mental fortitude, its power and range growing with his resolve.
Psychological attack?
Trying to control me with words?
That's as absurd as commanding the sun to rise in the west.
Kilgrave's smile froze. His eyes—usually glinting with smug control—widened in raw disbelief.
Invalid?
Impossible!
My power is absolute. Divine. I never fail!
"I said—" His voice cracked, laced with shock he couldn't mask. "Kneel!"
He unleashed a concentrated wave of pheromones. The air thickened. Two more pedestrians collapsed, twitching.
Joren raised a hand and pressed two fingers to the brim of his hat.
"Your nonsense," he said coolly, meeting Kilgrave's stunned glare, "is more annoying than your powers."
Wha—?
Kilgrave's mind short-circuited. Nonsense? This mortal had just called his god-given authority—his very identity—noise.
Humiliation burned through his veins. Rage detonated in his chest like a volcano—
—and died mid-eruption.
Because a fist, forged of golden resolve and moving faster than thought, slammed into his face.
Star Platinum's expression was as calm as Joren's own.
"ORA!"
BOOM—!!!
The world flipped. Sky. Street. Sky again.
Kilgrave didn't even feel the ground when he hit it.
---
He felt as though he'd been struck head-on by a freight truck speeding at full throttle.
An irresistible, terrifying force punched through his chest in an instant.
He heard his sternum crack.
His internal organs seemed to compress, twist—deform under the sheer pressure.
Kilgrave flew backward like a ragged sandbag, crashing into several "puppets"—frozen in place by his own commands—before slamming into a storefront window with brutal force.
Splash—!
The tempered glass exploded outward in a glittering cascade. Shards mixed with blood rained onto the pavement.
Kilgrave lay motionless amidst the wreckage, crimson bubbling from his lips.
He never even had time to scream before his consciousness plunged into endless darkness.
The moment the caster retreated, the psychic grip he'd clamped over the entire street vanished.
"Ah—!"
The man who'd been slamming his forehead against a brick wall suddenly registered the agony. He clutched his bloodied, swollen skull and let out a gut-wrenching wail before collapsing.
"My leg! My leg's broken!"
A teenage boy stared at his knee—bent at a sickening, unnatural angle—and went deathly pale.
"Ugh… vomit…"
A woman who'd been chewing on her phone dropped to her knees, retching violently, her face a mask of terror and disorientation.
Chaos erupted.
Screams, sobs, and blaring car horns tangled in the air.
Peter Parker stood frozen in place.
He'd seen it.
He'd watched the so-called Purple Demon speak—and then get swatted away like a fly.
All Joren had done was tug the brim of his hat lower.
His gaze swept over the street now spiraling into panic because of him.
Innocent people—bleeding, crying, confused.
Trouble.
And Joren hated nothing more than trouble that dragged bystanders into its wake.
Without a word, his tall frame moved through the stampeding crowd, walking calmly toward home.
---
Meanwhile…
Trident Headquarters – S.H.I.E.L.D. Central Command
On a massive circular screen wall, ultra-high-definition surveillance footage played in a silent loop.
Agent Maria Hill stood before the control panel, expression grim.
"Target confirmed as Kilgrave. Codename: 'Purple Man.'"
Her voice cut cleanly through the hushed command center.
"Threat Level 8. Capable of exerting absolute mental control over humans via vocal commands and pheromonal influence."
"Documented victims exceed three hundred. Indirect fatalities: incalculable."
"He escaped from the Raft three weeks ago. We've been tracking him ever since."
Behind her, Nick Fury—S.H.I.E.L.D.'s Level 10 Director—stood with his hands clasped behind his back, trench coat draped like a shadow. His lone eye locked onto the screen.
In the footage, Kilgrave—dressed in his garish purple suit—smiled sickeningly at the boy before him.
"Kneel down."
Then—impact.
Kilgrave's body snapped backward as if struck by an invisible battering ram. His feet left the ground; he hurtled over ten meters through the air before obliterating an entire storefront window in a shower of glass and blood.
All in less than a second.
"Slow it down. 0.1x speed."
Fury's voice was gravel wrapped in steel.
The replay stuttered into ultra-slow motion.
They watched as Joren Joestar—hands in his pockets, hat pulled low—simply adjusted his brim after Kilgrave's command.
No gesture. No shout. No visible energy.
The air around him showed no distortion whatsoever.
"Zoom in. Tighter."
Fury pointed to the space directly in front of the boy.
"Analyze every energy signature in his vicinity. Full spectrum."
Hill's fingers flew across the console.
Thermal imaging—flatline.
Electromagnetic field—null.
Spatial curvature—stable.
Radiation—baseline.
"Sir…" Hill's voice hitched with disbelief. "No detectable energy discharge. Physical parameters within a three-meter radius remained completely stable—right up until Kilgrave was launched."
Fury narrowed his eye.
On-screen, Joren glanced once at the chaos he'd unleashed—bystanders screaming, injured, bleeding—then turned and walked away without hesitation.
"He's like a ghost," Hill murmured, staring at the frozen image of his retreating back.
"A ghost that leaves physical devastation in his wake."
Fury said nothing.
He'd faced the Hulk. He'd stood beside Thor.
Their power always left traces—ripples in reality, heat signatures, gamma spikes. You could measure their wrath.
But this?
No signature. No warning. No explanation.
That silence unsettled him more than any roar.
"Check," Fury finally said, voice low but sharp as a blade.
"I want everything on this high school student—Joren Joestar. Family. Medical history. Social network. School records."
"Dig into his bloodline. Eighteen generations back if you have to."
"Yes, sir."
Hill acknowledged immediately.
"And…" Fury turned, his eye sweeping over the tense operatives in the room.
"Contact someone."
His tone left no room for debate.
"We need an expert."
"Someone who can handle threats you can't see… but can still kill you."