Fisk Building
Kingpin's body trembled violently.
Wesley stood to the side, barely daring to breathe.
Physical attacks were useless.
Mind control had failed.
His top assassin—his most trusted weapon—had been crushed like trash.
Even his last trump card, the demon who could warp reality with words, hadn't made the enemy pause for even a second.
And that enemy… was just a high school student.
"He's wrong," Kingpin growled suddenly, forcing himself upright. "In New York… only I decide who dies!"
He roared, seized the coffee table beside him, and hurled it through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
CRASH—!!!
Glass exploded outward. A gale rushed in, whipping papers, photos, and priceless trinkets into a chaotic storm.
Kingpin didn't stop.
Like a bull gone mad, he tore through the office—shattering a centuries-old Ming vase, slashing oil paintings by masters, overturning the hand-carved cigar cabinet he'd treasured for decades.
Wesley cowered in the corner, arms over his head, trembling as debris rained down around him.
Finally—
When nothing remained unbroken, Kingpin froze.
The fire in his eyes dimmed. The frenzy bled away, leaving only hollow exhaustion.
He had lost.
Everything he'd built—his empire, his fear, his control—had crumbled like a sandcastle before a tide of absolute power.
But Wilson Fisk never stayed down for long.
He had other options.
…
And so, Kingpin disappeared.
Overnight, his entire underworld apparatus shut down. Drug routes went silent. Smuggling rings evaporated. Illegal casinos locked their doors and vanished from the streets. The gangs that once ruled Hell's Kitchen? Gone—like smoke in the wind.
New York's crime rate plummeted.
The police switchboard fell eerily quiet.
Emergency rooms saw their first week in years without a single gunshot wound.
Instead, a new name flooded the headlines:
"Fisk Enterprises Announces $80 Million Investment in Hell's Kitchen Reconstruction!"
"Wilson Fisk Donates $30 Million to Victims of the Purple Man Incident—Lifetime Care and Therapy Guaranteed!"
"From Tycoon to Titan of Hope: Wilson Fisk Named 'Philanthropist of the Year'!"
On television, Wilson Fisk stood in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, his posture calm, his smile warm and measured.
He was no longer the shadow king.
Now, he was a visionary businessman. A compassionate benefactor. A civic hero devoted to healing New York's wounds.
His speeches resonated. His eyes gleamed with sincerity. He spoke of redemption, of atonement, of a brighter tomorrow built on truth and service.
Public adoration soared. Crowds cheered his name. Politicians courted him. Children waved at his passing motorcade.
To the world, Wilson Fisk had become New York's savior.
Only a handful knew the truth:
The beast hadn't been tamed.
It had simply traded bloodstained suits for silk ties and press conferences.
Its fangs were sharper than ever—
they were just hidden now…
beneath a saint's smile.
---
Matt Murdock stood at the window of his apartment.
He didn't turn on the light.
The city's neon glow filtered through the glass, casting fractured shadows across the dark red fabric of his suit.
The usual symphony of sin that filled his ears—gunshots ricocheting off alley walls, muffled screams from backstreet alleys, desperate whispers behind locked doors—was gone.
Silence.
A lie.
A colossal, suffocating lie that had wrapped itself around the entire city like gauze over a wound.
That beast—Wilson Fisk—was weaving armor not from bone or steel, but from money, influence, and carefully curated goodwill.
The law. Public opinion. Civic sentiment.
All had become his weapons.
Matt slowly clenched his fist.
The procedural justice he'd sworn to uphold, the legal system he'd once believed could balance the scales—it all felt brittle now, useless against a man the world called a hero.
You can't prosecute a saint.
You can't condemn a man the city thanks in headlines and street-corner murals.
When everyone worships the light, the one who points to the shadow behind it is branded delusional.
Matt knew.
He couldn't fight this alone anymore.
He turned, his silhouette melting into the darkness of the room.
…
Unbothered by the city's uneasy quiet, Joren sat on the rooftop of Midtown High, leaning against the water tank with a can of iced coffee in hand.
After the final bell, the campus had emptied. Now, only distant traffic and the hum of the evening lingered.
The setting sun bathed the distant Fisk Tower in gold—a monument now hailed as a beacon of progress and hope.
Joren took a slow sip.
The world had been too quiet lately.
No watchers. No ambushes. No cryptic warnings slipped under his door.
But he knew better.
The net hadn't vanished—it had simply reshaped itself, stretched wider, woven tighter, and stepped boldly into the daylight.
Then—a soft whoosh of displaced air behind him.
Joren didn't turn.
A dark red figure landed soundlessly beside him.
"He's turned himself into a hero," Matt Murdock said, voice roughened by wind and exhaustion.
Joren said nothing. Just took another sip.
"He bought the media. Won over the people. Now the whole city sings his praises like it's gospel."
Matt stepped to the rooftop's edge, hands gripping the rusted railing.
"The law can't touch him anymore. Not now. Soon, he'll use that goodwill to reach into places he never could before—courthouses, city hall, even federal oversight. Real power."
He turned his masked face toward Joren.
"He won't just be New York's underworld king anymore."
"He'll be its king, period."
Matt's voice lowered, edged with steel.
"I know you just want peace. A normal life."
"But that man's turned the whole world into his hunting ground. None of us are safe—not really."
He paused.
"I need your help."
Joren crushed the empty can in his palm with a quiet crunch, flattening it into a twisted disc.
Clang.
He flicked it into the nearby trash bin without looking.
"Tell me the location."
He stood, shoved his hands into his pockets, and stared down at Fisk Tower from beneath the brim of his hat.
No debate.
No hesitation.
Matt's carefully rehearsed arguments died in his throat.
"I… don't know," Matt admitted, frustration seeping into his voice. "He's gotten better at hiding in plain sight. In public, he's always flanked by press and security. In private—I've lost his trail three times this week."
"And he's got new allies," Matt added grimly. "Shadows within shadows. Silent. Unseen. Not like his old enforcers."
Joren didn't ask for names. Didn't ask for plans.
He hated aimless talk.
He turned and headed for the stairwell.
"Hey—where are you going?" Matt called after him.
"Home," Joren replied from the doorway.
"Do my homework."