The private bar once owned by Sean "the Butcher" Reilly—leader of the Five Points Irish—was no longer a place for whiskey and whispered deals. It had become a charnel house.
Inside, the dead were arranged with grotesque precision. One man was crucified against the bar top, a shattered pool cue driven clean through his sternum. Another hung from the ceiling fan, suspended by his own entrails, swaying in slow, creaking circles.
Through the shattered front window, a figure in deep crimson slipped inside—silent, deliberate.
In Matt Murdock's world, silence wasn't empty. It was full of absence.
A dozen heartbeats that should have filled this space were gone. Snuffed out. Not chaotic. Not panicked. Silent.
He crouched beside the nearest body, fingertips brushing the clean, precise cut across the man's throat. No hesitation. No tremor. Surgical.
An execution.
He rose, ears tuning past the drip of blood and settling dust. In the distance—sirens. Closer—shattered glass, distant screams, the muffled crump of an explosion. Chaos. Distraction.
But beneath it all… a single heartbeat. Faint. Frantic. Three blocks east. An abandoned meat-packing warehouse.
The last one.
Or the bait.
Matt didn't hesitate. He vanished into the rain-slicked night.
---
The warehouse was blacker than pitch, the kind of dark that swallowed sound. At its center, a man—face swollen, eyes wide with terror—was chained to a support pillar, a rag stuffed so deep in his mouth he could barely breathe. His heartbeat fluttered like a trapped bird, arrhythmic, fading.
Matt landed soundlessly on a rusted I-beam overhead.
He's minutes from cardiac arrest.
He dropped without a word, reaching for the chains—
—and a whoosh sliced through the air to his left.
He twisted mid-motion. Cold iron grazed the cowl, missing his temple by millimeters. The chain's sickle end slammed into the concrete pillar behind him with a sharp clang.
Too fast. Too quiet.
Who was this?
Adrenaline spiked. Matt drew his baton, snapping it taut, and swept it in a wide arc toward the source of the attack.
CLANG!
The impact jarred up his arm—like striking forged steel. His attacker didn't flinch.
From the shadows, a figure emerged.
Tall. Armored in black lacquered plates that absorbed light. A demon's mask covered his face—hollow eyes, snarling mouth, ancient and utterly inhuman.
And no heartbeat.
Matt's breath stilled. Not just silent—empty.
"Daredevil," the figure said, voice distorted, resonant like stone grinding on stone. "Self-appointed guardian of Hell's Kitchen."
"Who are you?" Matt's stance shifted. Knees bent. Weight forward. Every sense straining.
"Us?" The figure reeled in his kusarigama with a whisper of chain. "We are the ones who own this city. You've only been playing house."
Contempt dripped from every syllable.
Before Matt could respond, the warrior lunged.
Metal hissed through the dark.
"Jingle bells—?"
Matt barely had time to register the absurd, off-key whisper before the next strike came.
Daredevil was forced to retreat—defeated.
His finely honed combat skills and radar-like senses, capable of tracking bullets in midair, felt dull and useless against this monster.
He couldn't hear the subtle contractions of muscles or the strain in bones—the telltale signs that usually guided his every move.
All he had left were raw instinct and desperation. He parried and dodged like a wounded animal, barely holding on.
"Too weak."
The masked samurai's voice dripped with disappointment.
In one fluid motion, he flicked his wrist. The chain shot out like a serpent from its den, coiling instantly around Matt's left leg.
Not good!
The alarm screamed in Matt's mind—but it was already too late.
He was yanked into the air and slammed down onto the concrete with brutal force.
"BANG!"
The impact rattled his ribs, knocked the breath from his lungs, and sent a spray of blood from his mouth. His organs felt like they'd been rearranged by a sledgehammer.
The samurai gave him no reprieve.
"Your protection is meaningless," he declared.
He raised the flail high, its weighted end glinting in the dim light, and aimed it squarely at Daredevil's left leg.
"In the face of true order… chaos is your only destiny."
Gritting his teeth against the pain, Matt braced himself with his right hand and hurled Billy Club like a javelin straight at the warrior's chest.
The samurai barely moved—just a slight tilt of his head—and the weapon whistled past his mask.
In that split second, Matt twisted free of the chains and lunged for the exit.
"Trying to leave?"
A cold snort. The chains lashed out again.
This time, Matt couldn't dodge.
The scythe-end sliced cleanly across his back, carving a deep, bloody furrow. The wound was so severe the white of bone gleamed through torn muscle.
He let out a choked groan and used the momentum to crash through the window, vanishing into the night.
The samurai didn't follow.
He walked calmly to the shattered frame and watched the crimson-clad figure stagger into the shadows, his expression hidden behind the mask—but his disdain unmistakable.
Then he turned.
Behind him, the man who'd served as bait the entire time lay curled on the floor, trembling, having lost control of both bladder and bowels in terror.
The samurai raised his flail.
Silently.
---
Top Floor – Fisk Building
Kingpin stood at the window, gazing down at the city he'd set ablaze—figuratively, and perhaps soon, literally.
Behind him, Madame Gao knelt with serene grace, pouring herself a cup of steaming tea. The delicate fragrance of jasmine clashed violently with the coppery stench of blood drifting up from the streets below.
"Your 'stone' failed to crush that little bug," she remarked, lifting the cup to her lips.
"He was… more resilient than anticipated," Fisk rumbled, his voice low and controlled.
Madame Gao took a slow sip. "Irrelevant."
"What matters is that the city has witnessed the arrival of new rules."
She set the cup down with a soft clink. "Fear is a more effective tool for domination than money, Mr. Fisk. You of all people should understand that."
A pause.
"My operatives report our 'target' has begun to move."
"Oh?" Fisk's brow furrowed slightly.
"He's heading toward Hell's Kitchen."
A flicker of interest finally surfaced in Madame Gao's eyes.
"Excellent."
She rose slowly to her feet.
"Then let my other child meet your 'Iron Fist.'"
She turned toward the window, her silhouette sharp against the city's glow.
"We shall see… whose light burns brighter—his righteousness, or my child's poison."
---
Hell's Kitchen – Later That Night
Joren walked the rain-slicked streets, the neon signs above casting long, jagged shadows.
This part of the city was always more chaotic—more raw.
He stopped.
Ahead, in the middle of the road, lay more than a dozen bodies. Each slumped in unnatural poses, a single silver needle embedded precisely in the base of their necks.
At the center of the carnage knelt a woman.
She wore a pristine white kimono, her jet-black hair spilling like ink down her back. With meticulous care, she wiped a slender blowgun using a snow-white handkerchief—her movements slow, precise… serene.
Then, as if sensing his presence, she lifted her head.
Her face was breathtaking—flawless—but her eyes were empty. No sorrow. No rage. Only cold, clinical killing intent.
"The sun should not walk at night," she said, her voice soft yet edged like glass.
Joren tugged the brim of his hat lower, glancing at the corpses.
Yare, yare…
"You're blocking my way."