Fisk Tower.
Wilson Fisk sat alone in the vast white office.
Outside, the city hailed him as the Guardian of New York.
Inside, a new path to power unfolded before him.
Power did not rely solely on violence.
Public will.
Public trust.
Public opinion.
These were shields stronger than steel and thicker than concrete.
"The King of the Underworld" was a title born in blood and fear — a crown that could never withstand daylight.
He wanted a crown forged in legitimacy.
A thought had begun to grow inside him — not merely revenge, but ascension.
He would run for mayor.
He would rule New York openly.
The law would become his scepter.
The police, the courts, the bureaucracy — all tools in his grasp.
And with the city itself as his net…
that boy would have nowhere left to run.
The office door opened soundlessly.
Wesley had not announced the visitor.
Fisk did not turn.
He already knew.
The final piece of his design had arrived.
An elderly Eastern woman entered, clothed in deep violet robes embroidered with ancient golden patterns. Her posture was slightly bent, but nothing about her presence suggested weakness.
Her eyes were narrowed, unreadable.
Four figures followed behind her.
Black tactical garb.
Masked faces.
Movements perfectly synchronized.
They breathed in unison.
Like statues carved from the same mold.
With their arrival came a faint scent.
Old incense ash.
Damp earth.
Decaying vegetation.
The smell of tomb air long sealed.
The smell of death.
"Wilson Fisk," the woman said calmly.
"The King of New York."
Fisk remained motionless, his bloodshot eyes fixed on her.
"Your city worships you," she continued.
"But you are a king without claws… a beast without teeth."
"All of this… because of a boy."
She approached without waiting for permission.
The scent of decay intensified.
"The Hand can give you the means to reclaim what was taken."
Fisk already knew the name.
The Hand.
A centuries-old shadow empire.
Assassins, mystics, resurrection rituals whispered about in intelligence briefings and underworld myth alike.
"But we have conditions," she said.
Her calm gaze met his.
"That boy belongs to us."
"Do not kill him."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Capture him alive… and we will provide assistance."
Her eyes flicked briefly toward the four silent figures behind her.
Fisk studied her.
Kilgrave had been terrifying.
But this woman radiated something older.
Colder.
More absolute.
For the first time in years, Wilson Fisk felt like a piece on someone else's board.
Humiliation stirred inside him.
But then—
the image returned:
A boy standing calmly amid destruction.
Millions of dollars shredded with one punch.
Bullseye reduced to broken ruin.
Kilgrave thrown aside like trash.
Shame.
Rage.
Fear.
They fused into one iron certainty.
The boy must be broken.
At any cost.
Fisk raised his head.
He nodded once.
The pact was sealed.
A faint smile touched Madam Gao's lips.
"Wise."
"The Hand's resources are now open to you, Mr. Fisk."
"Do not disappoint us."
She turned.
The four silent figures followed.
They departed without sound.
Without presence.
As if they had never entered at all.
Night
Only a desk lamp illuminated Joren's room.
Warm light formed a circle over an open calculus workbook.
The scratch of pen against paper filled the quiet.
This was what he preferred.
Solving a complex function was far more satisfying than dealing with purple madmen and criminal emperors.
His pen paused mid-equation.
His eyes remained on the formula.
But his senses had already detected it.
Not sound.
Presence.
Four.
Cold.
Still.
Like soil in a winter cemetery.
The window slid open without a whisper.
Four shadows flowed into the room.
They landed silently.
Sigh.
Can't even finish homework in peace.
Joren set his pen down.
The nearest ninja moved.
A short blade flashed toward his neck.
"Ora."
Star Platinum appeared.
Its fist struck first.
THUMP.
The ninja flew backward into the wall.
Plaster cracked.
Dust fell.
A blow that should have shattered ribs and stopped a heart.
Yet the body twitched.
Then stood.
The limbs hung at unnatural angles.
Behind the mask, no life stirred.
Joren watched calmly.
"No pulse… no breath… no spirit."
"So you're already dead."
The remaining three attacked simultaneously.
Star Platinum fully manifested before him.
A storm of fists met steel and bone.
CLANG!
BANG!
THUD!
Weapons shattered.
Bones crushed.
Bodies smashed into walls, floor, ceiling.
But they rose again.
No pain.
No fear.
No hesitation.
Because they were not alive.
They were vessels.
Puppets animated by something older and darker than death.
Joren frowned.
A faint golden glow flickered at his fingertips.
The broken corpses stood once more.
Their empty gazes fixed on him.
They advanced again.
"For those who cannot find rest…"
Joren raised his right hand.
Golden light gathered like dawn breaking through cloud.
"Even death is mercy."
"Yamabuki-iro Ripple Dash."
He stepped forward.
His fist struck the first ninja.
There was no explosion.
The body froze.
Then—
a dry, shrieking sound tore from deep within its throat.
Golden energy surged through the corpse.
Ripple energy — radiant with life, sunlight, and breath — flooded every desiccated cell.
The power that sustains life itself.
The absolute antithesis of necromantic existence.
The corpse ignited from within.
Skin blackened.
Flesh disintegrated.
Bone collapsed into ash.
In less than two seconds—
nothing remained but a scatter of black powder.
The remaining three halted for a fraction of a second.
That was all the time he needed.
Joren moved.
Sunlight shimmered across his hands.
"Ora!"
Each strike carried purifying Ripple energy.
"Ora! Ora! Ora!"
Three flashes of golden light.
Three corpses burst into incandescent ash mid-air.
Silence returned.
Joren stood in the center of the room.
Ash drifted slowly to the floor.
He looked down at the black stains on his clean floorboards.
Then at the cracked plaster.
He lifted his hand and nudged the brim of his hat.
Yare yare…
Looks like the house needs repairs.