Joren's brow creased faintly.
He hated repetition.
Repetitive classes.
Repetitive routines.
Repetitive enemies who insisted on returning after being buried.
Sixty percent of his bones shattered… and still coming back.
Matt walked beside him through the darkness.
"Fisk doesn't invest without purpose," Daredevil said quietly.
"Oscorp's experimental weapons represent the cutting edge of battlefield lethality — compact, high-yield, and designed for asymmetric warfare."
He paused.
"And Hammerhead isn't Wesley. He's not a strategist — he's a blunt instrument. His men are killers, not accountants."
Joren gave no reply.
He stepped forward into the night.
That was answer enough.
Matt followed.
The darkness swallowed them.
Hell's KitchenAbandoned Central Slaugherhouse
The facility had been closed for years.
But the smell never left.
Rust.
Rot.
Cold metal and old blood soaked into concrete.
The enormous refrigeration chamber now served as a temporary exchange site.
Floodlights glared across stacked crates.
Armed men guarded every approach — disciplined, nervous, alert.
Inside, a broad-shouldered man with a flattened skull and a nose broken too many times to count ran his fingers over matte-green weapons crates.
Hammerhead.
His skull, reinforced decades earlier after catastrophic trauma, gave his head its infamous shape — a living battering ram beneath skin.
He opened a crate and lifted a sleek rifle.
A pulse accelerator.
Oscorp prototype.
A fanatic grin spread across his face.
"Now this," he muttered, "is how you run a city."
One of his men grinned.
"With this gear we can wipe the Irish out in a week."
Hammerhead snorted and slammed the rifle back into the crate.
"Small thinking."
"I don't want turf."
"I want the whole damn kitchen."
Suddenly—
Dull impacts sounded outside.
A shout cut off mid-word.
Hammerhead grabbed his radio.
"Report."
Silence.
Then—
BOOM!!!
The reinforced cold-storage wall detonated inward.
Concrete fragments and twisted rebar blasted across the room.
Two men near the breach dropped instantly, struck by debris before they could react.
Through dust and drifting frost vapor, two silhouettes walked in.
A red devil.
And a boy with hands in his pockets.
"Daredevil," Hammerhead growled.
His eyes lingered on the second figure.
New.
Unknown.
"Fire! Cut them down!"
Assault rifles erupted.
Muzzle flashes strobed the cold chamber.
Matt vanished into motion, ricocheting off hanging hooks, steel rails, and crate edges with acrobatic precision.
Joren did not move.
Bullets struck an invisible boundary and dropped harmlessly one meter from his body.
The gunfire faltered.
Men stared at the growing pile of flattened rounds.
Hammerhead's eyes narrowed — shocked, but not frozen.
"Switch weapons!"
He snatched up the pulse rifle and leveled it at Joren.
"I don't care what you are."
"Let's see you stop this."
The weapon hummed.
Oscorp capacitors screamed.
A lance of blue energy tore through the air.
Star Platinum flashed into existence.
Its fist met the beam.
"Ora."
No explosion.
The beam fractured into harmless photons and dissipated like mist.
Hammerhead's pupils shrank.
Impossible.
Matt dropped from above and drove a crushing kick into Hammerhead's shoulder, staggering him.
The fight erupted.
Daredevil flowed like liquid violence — striking nerve clusters, destabilizing balance, targeting joints with surgical precision.
Hammerhead countered with raw force, his reinforced skull smashing through steel supports and forcing Matt to evade rather than block.
On the opposite side—
Joren walked forward.
"Ora ora ora ora!"
Invisible blows tore through the gunmen.
Five seconds.
Silence.
Bodies collapsed.
Joren reached the crates.
Finally.
Peace and quiet.
Then—
A razor whistle cut the air.
Star Platinum materialized instantly.
Two fingers snapped shut.
CLANG.
A razor-edged playing card vibrated between them.
Half an inch from Joren's skull.
Joren turned.
Above the refrigeration chamber, among cross-beams and shadows, a figure stood motionless.
Bullseye.
But altered.
His forearms were encased in silver exoskeletal braces — compact Oscorp tactical reinforcement units designed to restore structural integrity and enhance micro-motor precision.
Hydraulic micro-actuators traced from elbow to wrist.
Gyroscopic stabilizers hummed softly.
His movements were unnaturally smooth.
On his forehead, the target tattoo had been redrawn in darker, sharper pigment.
Bullseye smiled.
"Monster…"
"We meet again."
His voice carried manic delight.
"You were right."
"I'm back."
"And thanks to you… I've been improved."
He flexed his arm.
Servos whispered.
"With Fisk's funding and Oscorp's experimental orthopedic augmentation, my fracture lattice is reinforced with carbon-titanium micro-bracing."
He tossed a card into the air and caught it without looking.
"I can now throw seventeen projectiles per second."
"Each supersonic."
"My dynamic tracking lets me read muscle tension and micro-movement."
He tilted his head.
"I mapped your invisible bodyguard."
"One-meter defensive perimeter."
His grin widened.
"Last time, I was hired to break your legs."
"This time…"
He dropped from the beam.
"…I'm being paid to dismantle you piece by piece."
He landed silently.
Combat stance perfect.
Eyes burning with ecstatic violence.
"Warm-up's over, monster."