Joren withdrew his hand.
His gaze drifted from the white kimono pooled on the ground to the torn cuff of his coat.
The pinhole was small—but enough to bother him.
Yare, yare…
That dress was custom-made, shipped straight from Italy by his mother just last month.
Just then—
a dark figure emerged from the alley's shadows behind him.
No murderous intent. No hostility. Just silence.
Dressed head to toe in black ninja garb.
The Hand. Again.
Joren's fingers twitched toward his weapon—but before he could act, the ninja stepped forward and knelt three meters away, one knee hitting the pavement with quiet reverence. Between both hands, he held a black card raised high above his head.
It was an invitation—exquisitely crafted.
Solid black cardstock, edged in delicate antique cloud patterns embossed in gold foil. At its center, strange characters shimmered:
[ティーパーティー]
Tea party?
What nonsense.
Joren—didn't answer aloud.
He didn't need to. He already knew who sent it.
The same shadow pulling strings from behind the curtain.
Again. And again.
Each clumsy attempt dragging more innocents into the mess.
But now…
the puppeteer had finally tired of games.
No more preliminaries. No more feints.
Joren reached out and took the card.
Inside, only a single line:
Hell's Kitchen. Grandview Abandoned Theater.
Yare, yare…
All the chaos, neatly bundled and left on his doorstep.
So brazen. So arrogant.
…Perfect.
The invitation bore no date.
Because the tea party had already begun.
The moment Joren accepted it, the kneeling ninja collapsed into a wisp of black ash—scattering on the wind like smoke.
He'd been dead from the start. A messenger forged from shadow and silence.
Joren snapped the card shut and slipped it into his coat pocket.
He tugged the brim of his hat low over his eyes and turned toward the theater.
Time to end this farce—for good.
---
Meanwhile, in Matt Murdock's apartment…
Antiseptic and blood stewed in the cramped air.
Shirtless, Matt gritted his teeth as he drove a suture needle into the raw flesh of his back.
The sickle wound gaped deep—bone peeking through torn muscle.
Sweat rolled down his brow. No sound escaped his lips.
This pain? Nothing.
Not compared to the screams still echoing in his ears.
He'd failed.
As Hell's Kitchen's guardian—he'd failed them all.
Then—
the cell phone on the sink vibrated.
Matt paused, set down the needle, and answered.
Joren's voice crackled through:
"Grandview Theatre. The Hand's throwing a party tonight. Want front-row seats?"
"Now?"
"No time listed. So I'm going now."
"…Okay. I'll be there."
Call ended.
Matt tossed the phone aside.
He knew it was a trap—crude, obvious, barely trying to hide itself.
But traps cut both ways.
And tonight, he was the blade.
He reached for his tattered red suit and the cracked demon mask beside it.
The law he'd sworn to uphold felt hollow now—useless against the tide of blood in these streets.
If light couldn't judge…
then let darkness execute.
---
Trident HQ – S.H.I.E.L.D. Central Command
A ring of screens pulsed with live footage: chaos erupting across Queens, Harlem, Hell's Kitchen.
Maria Hill stood rigid, voice sharp with urgency.
"Sir, multiple unidentified armed units—ninjas—have hit key districts simultaneously. Preliminary intel links them to 'The Hand.'
They move with surgical precision, but their goal seems to be maximum civilian panic. NYPD's overwhelmed—they're shrugging off bullets. National Guard en route, but ETA's too slow."
Nick Fury didn't blink. His eye stayed locked on the central display.
"Hill."
"Yes, sir."
"Redirect all surveillance—satellites, drones, street cams—to this coordinate."
His finger jabbed the map.
Grandview Abandoned Theater.
Before Hill could respond, an analyst shot to his feet.
"Sir! Massive energy surge detected beneath the theater! Waveform's… unknown. It's warping local spacetime—this isn't anything in our physics databases!"
Almost simultaneously, another agent shouted:
"We've tracked the movement of target 'Joestar'—he's heading to the same location!"
"Daredevil's also moving in that direction!"
All the clues converged on a single destination.
Fury paused, eyes narrowing at an anomalous energy reading flickering on his screen.
"Trap," he muttered.
Hill drew her own conclusion.
"It's a feast."
Fury corrected her with a grim half-smile.
"Let our 'experts' get ready to board."
"Let's go see a play."
…
The abandoned Grandview Theater.
Faded Broadway posters clung to the mottled walls, fluttering like ghostly whispers in the night wind. The chains on the front gate had long since rusted through and snapped. Not a sliver of light pierced the darkness behind the slightly ajar doors.
Joren stepped inside through the main entrance.
His footsteps echoed—the only sound in the cavernous silence.
Most of the red velvet seats in the auditorium had rotted away, revealing blackened cotton and coiled springs that grinned like rows of skeletal jaws.
At the center of the stage stood a simple low table.
Seated behind it, draped in dark purple robes of antique cut, a woman poured herself a cup of tea with serene grace.
Wilson Fisk loomed behind her like a marble statue—his pristine white suit a stark, almost mocking contrast to the decay around them.
"You've arrived," Madam Gao said, setting down her teacup.
The porcelain clicked crisply against the wood.
"Iron Fist."
She smiled faintly. "Welcome to my tea party. It's been centuries since I last saw the Iron Fist… not since I left K'un-Lun."
Her voice carried a quiet, morbid fanaticism.
Joren stopped at the foot of the stage.
Iron Fist?
So all the ripples he'd painstakingly cultivated over more than a decade were now being stamped as someone else's legacy—by these lunatics?
Originally, he'd only been after Kingpin. But the Hand had mistaken him for the Iron Fist… and that error had painted a target on his back.
This was incredibly troublesome.
Joren had no intention of explaining himself.
He didn't care if they called him a Ripple Warrior, a Stand User, or even the reincarnation of the Iron Fist himself.
Kingpin. Madam Gao.
Neither would walk away from this night.
High above, hidden in the shadow of the theater's rafters, a dark red figure held his breath—slowing his heartbeat to near stillness.
Daredevil's senses were dialed to their absolute limit.
He could hear Kingpin's heart hammering like a war drum, threatening to burst from his chest.
He could smell the strange perfume drifting from Madam Gao—tea leaves steeped in centuries of rot.
And most of all… he could feel the abyssal vitality radiating from Joren below.
Three forces. One collision point.
Above the clouds, a Quinjet glided into position—stealth systems active.
In the command center, Nick Fury watched four distinct blips converge on his screen.
Joren glanced up, sweeping his gaze over the two figures on stage.
"No need for tea," he said flatly.
"After I let you say your last words, I still have to go home and catch the rebroadcast of that ocean documentary."
"Presumptuous!" Kingpin growled, finally snapping.
Madam Gao raised a hand to silence him.
Her face held no anger—only a near-reverent smile.
"Gods are always arrogant," she murmured.
"And believers… must offer the most devout sacrifices."
She rose, arms outstretched as if embracing a divine truth.
The moment she finished speaking, the theater trembled violently.
The stone slab at the center of the stage—the one that had served as her tea table—erupted with an eerie, blood-red glow.
Twisted runes spiraled outward from beneath it, crawling like living veins across the floor.
BOOM—!!!
The stage collapsed inward, revealing a yawning, bottomless void.
From it surged an ancient, formless malice—pure and hungry.
"Beast," Madam Gao intoned, her voice rising into a fervent aria.
"Come… devour the sun!"
The creature that spilled forth had no true shape—only a churning mass of liquid shadow, flowing toward Joren like sentient oil.
Wherever it touched—rotted wood, twisted steel—it dissolved, swallowed without a sound.
Joren frowned.
This sticky mess looks annoying to deal with.
Before him, Star Platinum materialized—its face as cold and aloof as a god's, utterly devoid of emotion.
"ORA ORA ORA ORA ORA!"
A hurricane of punches slammed into the darkness.
Each strike carried the force to shatter diamond—but the beast absorbed them without resistance.
It was like punching thick tar.
Ripples spread across its surface… but no damage followed.
Star Platinum's rapid-fire assault stalled.
Then—a shriek tore through the air.
Not a sound. A mental spear, aimed straight at the soul.
But Joren's will—tempered by decades of Ripple training—stood unbroken.
The psychic assault slid off like rain on steel.
Still… a flicker of irritation remained.
Yare yare…
This was the first time he'd faced something this resilient.
The shockwave from their clash detonated outward.
BOOM—!!!
Rotten seats exploded into splinters.
The curtain of chaos had well and truly risen.
"Oh?" Madam Gao tilted her head, amused.
"Is this a new technique K'un-Lun's developed? We never had guardian spirits like this back in my day."
She remained calm—confident, even.
At that exact moment—
THWIP!
Daredevil dropped from the rafters like vengeance made flesh.
His billy club blazed with fury as it hurtled toward Kingpin's skull.
But Kingpin didn't flinch. With a sneer, he pivoted and threw a backhand.
CRACK!
Daredevil—unprepared for the brute force—slammed into the far wall. His body, already battered from past fights, now screamed with fresh injuries.
"Insect," Kingpin rumbled, stalking forward, fists clenched.
Just as his killing blow was about to fall—
"Hey! Big guy! Bullying the weak? Not a good look!"
A red-and-blue blur swung in on a strand of webbing, planting a solid kick square in Kingpin's back.
THUD!
Spider-Man landed lightly in front of Daredevil, crouched low.
He took in the scene: the crumbling theater, the grinning Kingpin, the woman in purple robes… and the writhing, oil-black horror oozing across the stage.
He shuddered.
"Wow," he said, voice tight. "Looks like I missed the worst opening night in Broadway history."