The next day.
Midtown High School's corridors were still buzzing with the aftershocks of the recent chaos.
Students clustered in small groups, voices overlapping in excited whispers — lizard monsters, Spider-Man, structural damage, rumors, conspiracy theories.
Felicia Hardy walked toward the last row under countless curious gazes.
She slid into the empty seat beside Joren, turning slightly toward him. Her voice was soft, sweet, harmless.
"Good morning, new deskmate."
Joren did not look up.
He continued reading.
Page turned.
Silence.
Felicia's perfect smile froze for a fraction of a second before returning.
The bell rang.
The history teacher began a lifeless lecture on eighteenth-century European wars.
Felicia's operation began.
First Attempt
A subtle pulse of misfortune spread outward.
Joren's pen rolled slowly toward the edge of the desk.
Just before the nib tipped into empty air—
It stopped.
As if something invisible held it in place.
Joren reached over without looking and resumed writing.
He did not even acknowledge the near fall.
Felicia blinked.
This felt less like harassment…
…and more like performing for an empty theater.
Second Attempt
During break, she changed tactics.
Felicia effortlessly blended into nearby social circles. Within minutes she was chatting comfortably with several girls.
Her looks helped.
Her confidence sealed it.
"Joren… has he always been like that?" she asked lightly.
One girl lowered her voice.
"He's a weirdo."
Another giggled.
"But Felicia, you're brave sitting next to him."
"We thought maybe someone nice like you could influence him."
Felicia smiled.
Inside, she was increasingly unsettled.
Influence him?
She couldn't even reach him.
Lunch Break
The classroom door slammed open.
"BANG!"
Flash Thompson staggered inside.
He looked nothing like the arrogant quarterback.
Eyes bloodshot.
Hair disheveled.
Face hollow.
Every conversation stopped.
He marched down the aisle and stopped at the last row.
His voice broke.
"What did you do to my family?!"
The room erupted into shocked whispers.
Thompson's body trembled violently.
Tears streamed down his face.
"My dad… my dad died in a car accident last night!"
"My family's company collapsed! Everything's gone!"
He pointed at Joren, his voice cracking into hysteria.
"He told me he'd sent someone to deal with you! And now he's dead! It was you! Whoever you're connected to did this!"
Joren slowly closed his book.
He hated this.
Defeat a stray dog — its owner appears.
Defeat the owner — something larger arrives.
An endless chain reaction.
Exactly the sort of nuisance he despised.
"Joren Joestar!"
Thompson lunged.
"Thompson, stop!"
Peter Parker rushed forward, stepping between them.
At that moment, Joren stood.
He said nothing.
Did nothing.
But as he rose, a suffocating pressure filled the classroom.
Thompson froze mid-charge.
His legs buckled.
He collapsed to the floor, releasing a broken whimper.
Joren walked past him.
Without looking back.
Fisk Tower — Manhattan
In the immaculate white office, Wesley stood before the massive sofa.
"Boss. The Thompson matter has been resolved."
Wilson Fisk remained motionless.
"Continue."
"The father is deceased. The company collapsed overnight under financial pressure. Legal investigations have frozen all remaining assets."
Wesley adjusted his glasses.
"Our contact at Midtown High reports the target, Joren Joestar, showed no surprise. Thompson collapsed in front of him. The boy did not even look down."
A pause.
"Bullseye's failure may not have been accidental."
Fisk stopped turning the cufflink.
Curiosity flickered behind his eyes.
A variable.
An unknown.
Something that broke Bullseye.
"Investigate," Fisk said.
"I want everything on this boy."
A beat.
"Send someone to meet him."
After School
The final bell rang.
Joren left campus.
He did not take his usual route home.
At an intersection, he turned in the opposite direction.
Toward Hell's Kitchen.
If trouble insisted on finding him…
…he would locate its source first.
He needed information.
About the underworld.
About the king hiding in its shadows.
Hell's Kitchen
Even in daylight, it felt starved of light.
Trash overflowed from dented bins.
Rotting food and stagnant runoff formed foul rivulets along cracked pavement.
Arguments erupted in distant alleys.
Glass shattered somewhere unseen.
Men loitered in doorways, eyes dull and watchful.
Here, order had not collapsed.
It had never existed.
Joren hated this place.
But to catch the spider weaving trouble around him…
…he had to step into the web.
JOSIE'S BAR
The neon sign flickered weakly.
Half the letters were dead.
Only JOSIE'S glowed in crooked red light.
Joren pushed the door open.
Conversation died.
Leather jackets.
Tattoos.
Hard eyes.
A high school student did not belong here.
"Wrong bar, kid?" a scarred man said.
"This ain't your playground."
Another man laughed harshly.
"Maybe he lost his mommy."
Joren ignored them.
He walked straight to the bar.
Men instinctively shifted aside.
They did not understand why.
Only that something about him felt… wrong.
Behind the counter, an old bartender wiped a glass.
Scarred face. Clouded eyes. Veteran stillness.
Joren sat.
"I'm looking for someone."
"People disappear here every night," the bartender said flatly. "I don't run reunions."
Joren placed a roll of cash on the counter.
"I'm looking for a man with a target tattoo on his forehead."
The bartender paused.
"That's a question money can't buy."
A large man slammed his palm onto the bar.
"Leave the cash and walk away."
Joren didn't look at him.
He dipped one finger into spilled beer.
Ripple energy spread silently through the liquid.
"Buzz—"
The man screamed.
His arm convulsed violently as if struck by live current.
He staggered back in terror.
Another thug swung a punch at Joren's head.
An unseen hand caught his wrist.
Crack.
The man collapsed, screaming.
Silence.
Fear.
No one had seen what stopped him.
Only the result.
The bartender's glass trembled in his hand.
"Now," Joren said calmly, "tell me."
The bartender swallowed.
"In New York… every crew answers to the same man."
"No one says his name."
"Where does it start?"
"I don't know," the man whispered. "Only that it reaches everywhere."
Joren stood and left.
No one tried to stop him.
The crowd parted instinctively.
The Alley
Night pressed in.
Joren stepped into a narrow alley.
An unseen emperor.
A forbidden name.
This was larger than expected.
Shadows moved.
Men in black suits emerged from both ends of the alley.
Seven total.
Sunglasses. Earpieces. Professional posture.
Not street muscle.
Corporate enforcement.
Fisk's reach.
Joren adjusted his hat brim.
"Joren Joestar," the leader said calmly. "You will come with us."
Joren studied them.
Disciplined. Armed. Controlled breathing.
Not Bullseye.
But trained.
"Where?"
"You don't need to know."
"What if I refuse?"
"You don't have that option."
Seven pistols appeared in perfect synchronization.
Dark muzzles aimed at his chest.
The alley fell silent.
"Now," the man said, "will you still refuse… high school student?"