Fisker Building
Wilson Fisk sat upon his throne.
Citizens hailed him as the "guardian of the city." The media sang his praises. A new path—legitimate, radiant, unassailable—unfolded before him.
Power came in many forms. But public opinion? Popular support? That was armor no bullet or fist could pierce.
Underground Emperor?
A title steeped in bloodshed and brutality—something that could never see the light of day.
What he wanted was a real crown.
An idea began to take root in his mind, twisting and growing with every heartbeat: a new blueprint for power, forged from vengeance and ambition alike. He would run for mayor of New York City.
Not as a criminal hiding in shadows—but as the city's lawful sovereign. He would turn the law itself into his scepter.
Then, he wouldn't need underhanded tactics. The entire New York law enforcement apparatus would become his weapon.
And with it, he would weave an inescapable net—using the city itself—to ensnare that boy.
Just then, the office door opened silently.
Wesley wasn't there.
No one had announced the visitor.
Kingpin knew instantly: his "new ally"—the final piece of his grand design—had arrived.
An East Asian woman stepped inside, draped in dark purple robes of ancient cut. Gold thread traced intricate, arcane patterns across the fabric. Her eyes—narrowed, unreadable—locked onto him like twin blades sheathed in mist.
Behind her trailed four silent figures.
Clad in black night garb, their faces hidden behind masks that revealed only hollow eyes. Their breaths rose and fell in perfect unison; their heartbeats pulsed as one. They moved like statues carved from the same stone, breathing only by shared will.
With them came a scent—faint, yet unmistakable.
The dry residue of temple incense, layered over the slow rot of withered herbs.
The odor of death.
"Wilson Fisk," she said.
"The King of New York."
Kingpin's massive frame remained utterly still. His bloodshot eyes never left her.
"Your city adores you now," she continued, voice smooth as oiled steel.
"But you are merely a king who's lost his claws. A beast with its teeth pulled."
"And all of it… because of a boy."
She didn't wait for his reaction. Instead, she glided forward and leaned down slightly. The aura of decay thickened, clinging to the air like fog.
"The Hand can give you your revenge."
Madam Gao.
The name had already etched itself into Fisk's mind long before she crossed his threshold.
Leader of an ancient ninja sect that had manipulated the Eastern world from the shadows for centuries.
The Hand.
"But we have conditions."
Her gaze remained steady, calm—yet it bore into him like a scalpel.
"We will take that boy. Mr. Fisk, your role is not to kill him."
She lowered her voice further, until it slithered like a whisper through the cracks of his resolve.
"Instead, we'll capture him alive… and provide you with help."
Her eyes flicked briefly toward the four silent ninjas behind her.
Kingpin studied her.
He sensed in her a danger more primal than even Kilgrave—the Purple Man—had ever posed.
And in that moment, Wilson Fisk, the so-called Underground Emperor of New York, understood: he was being used as a pawn.
A surge of shame coiled in his gut—hot, humiliating.
But then… his face returned to Fisk's mind.
The boy. Hands in his pockets. Hat pulled low.
The multi-million-dollar bill shattered by a single punch.
Bullseye—vanishing in a crimson mist.
Kilgrave—hurtling backward through the air like discarded trash.
Shame. Fury. Fear.
They fused into one unshakable resolve.
He would make that boy pay.
At any cost.
He looked up and nodded to Madam Gao.
"The transaction is complete."
A faint smile curved the corners of Madam G's lips.
"Very good."
She stepped forward, her voice low but resonant.
"Mr. Fisk, the Hand's resources are now open to you."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"Don't let us down."
With that, she turned and left.
The four ninjas followed like shadows—silent on approach, silent in departure. They melted into the darkness as if they'd never existed.
---
Night.
Only one desk lamp glowed in Joren's room, casting a warm, circular halo over an open calculus workbook. The quiet scratch of pen on paper was the sole sound in the stillness.
This was peace.
Solving a complex function problem was far more rewarding than dealing with a madman in a purple suit.
His pen paused mid-equation—but his gaze didn't waver from the half-written formula.
His senses, however, had already caught a dissonance in the silence.
Not a sound.
A breath.
Four of them.
Cold. Lifeless. Like frozen soil in a cemetery at midnight.
The window slid open without a whisper.
Four black figures dropped into the room, vanishing into the deeper shadows near the walls. Not a footfall. Not a rustle.
Yare, yare…
Can't you even let me finish my homework in peace?
Joren set his pen down gently on the desk.
The ninja nearest him moved instantly—short blade arcing toward the base of his skull.
"Ora."
His response was a single, thunderous syllable—and a fist materializing from nowhere.
Star Platinum, arriving late but striking first, hammered into the ninja's chest with brutal precision.
THUD!
The figure flew backward, crashing into the wall. Plaster cracked and rained down in dry, papery flakes.
Logically, that blow should've shattered the sternum, collapsed the lungs, stopped the heart.
But logic didn't apply here.
The ninja slid to the floor, limbs bent at unnatural angles—then began to twitch. Slowly, jerkily, it rose again.
No expression beneath the mask. No pulse in its stance.
Joren saw it clearly: this thing had no life rhythm. Only a stagnant void where a soul should be.
"So… you're not alive."
The remaining three struck as one—flanking him from left, right, and above.
Star Platinum solidified fully in front of Joren, fists already a blur of violet motion.
"ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA!"
Clang! Clang! CRACK! THUD!
Steel shattered under Platinum's onslaught. Bones splintered. Bodies slammed into walls, floor, ceiling—only to rise again, unfeeling, relentless.
Pain meant nothing. Death was already their state.
Joren frowned.
At his fingertips, golden lightning sparked—brilliant, pure, alive—like the first light of dawn spilling over the horizon.
The four reanimated corpses staggered upright once more, empty eyes locking onto their target.
"For those who can't even find peace in death…"
He raised his right hand, blazing with solar radiance.
"…even death can be a mercy."
He lunged forward, voice ringing with ancient cadence:
"The mountains blow—colored ripples run swift!"
His fist connected.
No explosion. No thunder.
Just silence—and sudden, searing dissolution.
The lead ninja froze, then burned from within. A dry, shrieking wail tore from its throat—
"Aaah—!!!"
Golden ripples, like wildfire infused with pure sunlight, consumed it. Flesh, bone, sinew—everything turned to ash in under two seconds.
A small, dark pile settled softly on the floor.
The remaining three halted, as if even their hollow programming recognized the presence of something holy.
Joren didn't wait.
He moved.
Golden light flared from his hands.
"ORA!"
Now, each strike carried not just force—but purification.
"ORA! ORA! ORA!"
Three punches. Three bursts of solar flame.
Three corpses erupted mid-air into drifting ash, carried away on the faintest breath of wind.
Silence returned.
Joren stood at the center of his ruined room—walls cracked, floor dusted with black residue.
He reached up and nudged the brim of his hat upward by half an inch.
Yare, yare…
Now the house needs renovations.