Joren did not answer.
Daredevil didn't move either. He faced him in silence.
He could feel it clearly — the blood in his battle-hardened body was still surging from the clash.
His mastery of combat… techniques honed through years of pain and discipline…
had felt fragile in the face of that overwhelming force.
The boy had spoken the truth.
He really had put Bullseye in the hospital.
"Your trouble comes from one man," Daredevil said quietly.
"As long as he sits on that throne, this will never stop. You take down one Bullseye, he sends ten. You cripple a squad, he sends an army."
Joren lowered his hat brim.
Trouble really did stack layer upon layer.
"His name is Kingpin," Daredevil continued.
"The underground emperor of New York."
"More than half the crime in this city touches his network. You broke his pawn, disrupted his order… he will not ignore that."
Silence.
"I want to make a deal with you."
Daredevil stepped forward.
"A deal that helps you cut the problem off at its root."
He tilted his head slightly toward the waterfront.
"Tonight, Fisk is moving dirty money through the dock cargo channels. His trusted lieutenants are supervising. Security will be tight."
"We sabotage the transfer — humiliate him publicly."
Daredevil weighed his words carefully.
Involving a teenager in Fisk's affairs was reckless.
But this boy had already crossed a line most men never survived crossing.
And from his expression, retreat was not an option.
If Fisk escalated — and he would — this boy would face it alone.
Better to strike first.
Better to guide the storm than let it rage unchecked.
Joel stared at him for several seconds.
Then nodded.
"Okay."
One Hour Later
West Hell's Kitchen — Pier 13
Joren and Daredevil stood atop an abandoned warehouse.
The sea breeze carried salt and diesel fumes.
Below, the docks glowed beneath industrial floodlights.
Shipping containers towered in steel rows.
Three black sedans idled outside the largest warehouse.
Men in suits patrolled the perimeter, hands near concealed weapons.
"There are fourteen inside," Daredevil said over the wind.
"Sixteen outside. Four patrol rotations. They check in every five minutes."
His senses mapped the environment like radar.
"I'll enter from the east, cut backup power, then create a disturbance. They'll converge."
He pointed toward the illuminated warehouse.
"You finish it."
Joren nodded.
No questions.
"Objective is disruption," Daredevil added.
"Embarrass Fisk. Don't stay."
Then he vanished into the rooftop shadows, descending into the maze of containers like a phantom.
Joren waited.
Five minutes.
Then—
Searchlights on the eastern side abruptly died.
An alarm shrieked.
Gunshots cracked in chaotic bursts.
"What happened?!"
"East side! Move!"
"Go! Go!"
Guards peeled away from the warehouse, rushing toward the disturbance.
The tight perimeter unraveled.
A gap opened.
"Efficient," Joren muttered.
He stepped off the rooftop.
He landed with a heavy thud.
Two guards spun, drawing pistols.
They froze when they saw a high school student standing in the floodlights.
"Kid, you lost—"
A blur of blue-violet motion flashed.
"Ora."
Both men collapsed before their weapons cleared leather.
Joren walked past them without looking.
Hands in pockets.
He approached the massive steel warehouse doors.
Inside, voices shouted.
"Who's out there?"
"Answer!"
BOOM—!!!
The entire iron door exploded inward under tremendous force.
Twisted metal spun across the concrete floor, smashing crates and scattering splinters.
Dust erupted into the air.
A tall figure stood framed in the wrecked doorway, backlit by dock lights.
Inside, the transaction halted.
Long folding tables were stacked with bundled cash.
Money counters hummed.
Suitcases lay open.
At the center stood a composed man with gold-rimmed glasses.
James Wesley, Wilson Fisk's most trusted lieutenant.
He adjusted his glasses.
Recognition flickered.
A teenager… walking into Fisk's laundering operation alone?
Interesting.
"Looks like the team we sent earlier failed," Wesley said calmly.
He raised one hand.
"Kill him."
Gunfire erupted.
Muzzle flashes stitched a blazing net of death across the warehouse.
Bullets shrieked through the air.
Star Platinum materialized before Joren.
Its fists blurred into motion.
"Ora ora ora ora ora ora ora ora!"
A storm of strikes met every incoming round.
CLANG CLANG CLANG—
The warehouse filled with metallic echoes.
Bullets flattened, twisted, and dropped in a growing pile one meter before Joren.
Gunfire faltered.
Stopped.
Silence.
Men stared at the heap of deformed metal.
At the untouched boy.
At the impossible.
"…monster," one thug whispered, his weapon slipping from numb fingers.
Joren lifted his hand, nudging his hat brim upward.
He stepped forward.
And entered the warehouse.