A cold smile crept across the leader's face.
"I'll ask one last time, high school student," he drawled slowly. "You walk with us… or we break your legs and carry you. Choose."
Another man scoffed from behind.
"Stop wasting time. The boss wants him breathing. Kneecaps are optional."
"Yare yare…"
Joren calculated calmly.
Seven opponents.
Firearms drawn.
Close range.
Less than five seconds.
The men misread his silence as fear.
"Looks like you've decided."
Fingers tightened on triggers—
Just as Star Platinum prepared to strike—
A sharp whistling cut split the air above them.
Something dropped from the darkness like a falling blade.
"Contact—!"
Too late.
Bang! Bang!
Two dull impacts.
A short baton struck with surgical precision — wrists, jaw hinges.
Two gunmen collapsed before their fingers could fire.
A dark red figure moved through the alley like flowing shadow.
The club in his hand split apart, linked by cable, snapping forward like a striking serpent.
One man raised his pistol—
The cable looped around his neck and yanked him backward, smashing his skull against brick.
Another rushed forward—
The red figure slid low, baton driving upward into floating ribs.
Air exploded from the man's lungs.
An elbow crushed into his temple.
He dropped.
Joren remained still, watching.
Weight distribution. Joint targeting. Environmental use. Tactical sequencing.
Elite combat conditioning.
Peak human.
No wasted motion.
Under thirty seconds.
The last man's knee shattered under a precise strike. He screamed, collapsing—
A chop to the carotid artery ended the sound.
Silence returned.
The red-suited figure stood in the alley's center, chest rising steadily.
He wore a mask with small devil horns. The lower half of his face remained exposed.
He faced Joren.
"This isn't a place for a student," he said calmly.
"I heard your question in the bar. Tell me why you're looking for that man."
The guardian of Hell's Kitchen.
Daredevil.
Joren had seen the reports.
"Do you know a killer with a red target tattooed on his forehead?"
Daredevil paused.
"I do."
"Bullseye."
His tone hardened.
"A psychopath. Assassin. Treats murder like performance art. We've crossed paths too many times."
"What do you want with him?"
"He came to break my legs."
Daredevil didn't move.
For a moment, he thought he'd misheard.
Bullseye.
Attacking a high school student?
That violated every pattern he knew.
Bullseye took contracts worth millions — political targets, corporate warfare, strategic assassinations.
Not teenagers.
"Say that again."
"He tried to cripple me."
Joren spoke without emotion.
"A student named Flash Thompson lost face after a confrontation at school. His father had money and poor judgment. He hired Bullseye."
Joren lifted his hat brim slightly.
"But the job failed. This morning I learned Thompson's father died in a car crash. His company collapsed overnight."
"I assume the employer was eliminated to close the trail."
He paused.
"Standard practice for the Kingpin's network. Correct?"
Silence.
Daredevil's jaw tightened.
That was Fisk's method — sever the thread before it could be traced.
Efficient.
Total.
Ruthless.
But something else troubled him.
This boy had:
survived Bullseye
• deduced the chain of events
• walked into Hell's Kitchen alone
• asked the right questions
His enhanced hearing focused on Joren's heartbeat.
Steady.
Powerful.
Not a trace of fear.
That was wrong.
Completely wrong.
Daredevil drew a slow breath.
"Bullseye doesn't miss."
A quiet challenge.
"How did you survive?"
"I didn't survive him."
A beat.
"I hospitalized him."
Silence hit harder than any blow.
"What?"
"Over sixty percent skeletal fractures. Internal trauma. He won't walk for months."
"Possibly ever."
Daredevil's mind reeled.
Bullseye missing for days suddenly made sense.
This wasn't luck.
This wasn't exaggeration.
This was something else.
Something dangerous.
Something unknown.
Words were insufficient.
He needed confirmation.
Without warning—
Daredevil moved.
A blur of red.
His leg swept toward Joren's groin in a disabling strike.
Joren suppressed the instinct to summon Star Platinum.
So.
A test.
He lifted his leg to intercept.
Bang.
Daredevil felt bone meet something like reinforced stone.
He pivoted midair, using recoil momentum—
An axe kick descended toward Joren's clavicle.
Blocked.
Silent.
He heard it clearly now:
Bone density. Muscle compression. Structural integrity beyond human norms.
He pressed forward, abandoning power for speed.
Rapid strikes.
Joint attacks.
Pressure points.
Joren deflected with minimal motion.
No wasted movement.
No telegraphing.
No hesitation.
Daredevil escalated.
This time he unleashed the storm.
A seamless fusion of disciplines:
Boxing combinations
Muay Thai elbows
Aikido redirections
Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu clinch attempts
Angles designed to break posture and collapse defense.
And yet—
Joren responded before each strike fully formed.
Half a second ahead.
Always.
Strength.
Speed.
Reaction time.
All beyond human thresholds.
Daredevil disengaged, flipping back into stance.
"Leave Hell's Kitchen," he said, voice firm. "I'll investigate. That's advice."
"Yare yare… you talk too much."
Joren stepped forward.
"My turn."
No flourish.
No stance.
Just a straight right punch.
Fast.
Too fast.
Daredevil barely crossed his batons in time.
CLANG—!!
Shock exploded through his arms.
His boots tore grooves into the pavement as he slid backward.
Air fled his lungs.
Metal vibrated violently.
He tasted blood.
Joren lowered his fist and adjusted his hat.
He had no interest in prolonging this.
Silence filled the alley.
Daredevil steadied his breathing, forcing his heartbeat under control.
He lowered his weapon.
Continuing would be pointless.
He raised his head, masked eyes fixed on the boy before him.
"Your body… your strength…"
A pause.
"This isn't human."
The night air hung heavy between them.
And for the first time in years…
the Devil of Hell's Kitchen felt something dangerously close to uncertainty.