The signal followed for four hundred meters.
Ron counted his steps, each one splashing through puddles, the sound drowning out his slowed breathing.
Frank walked ahead, right hand on the grip of his M16A4, shrapnel from his left shoulder still clinging to his body, each step causing a piece of broken ceramic to fall off.
"Keep going," Ron whispered.
Frank turned his head.
"Turn left at the second intersection, into the laundry room underpass, back to the safe house."
Frank's pace didn't change, but his right hand moved from the grip to the trigger guard.
"A tail?"
"Mine. You go first."
Frank didn't turn around. He quickened his pace, turned into the left alley, and disappeared into the darkness.
Ron stopped.
The alley was narrow, flanked by fire escape staircases from old apartment buildings. The smell of rust mingled with the acrid stench of the garbage can.
He didn't turn around.
His Observation Haki continued to track the signal. The other person was 12 degrees to the left, directly above him, forty meters away. Clinging to the crossbeam of the fire escape, their breathing rate was nine breaths per minute.
Extremely low.
Well-trained, or perhaps exceptionally gifted.
But the strangest thing was the person's method of perception. Not sight, not thermal sensing, not any reconnaissance method Ron had ever seen.
It was sound waves.
An extremely sophisticated receiving network continuously emanated from the person's earlobes, covering a radius of over three city blocks. Every rebound of a water droplet hitting the ground, every vibration of a piece of rust falling from the fire escape, every faint sound of a rat scurrying through the garbage heap—all were captured, analyzed, and reconstructed into a three-dimensional map by that network.
A blind man.
Using A blind man who "sees" the world through his ears.
Ron's foot slid across the concrete.
"Come down."
Silence.
Rain dripped from the fire escape, tapping against the trash can lid.
"I'll count to three. One."
The sound of fabric rubbing against metal came from above.
A deep red figure flipped down from the fourth-floor fire escape beam, spinning one and a half times in mid-air before landing silently.
Crouching, right hand on the ground, left hand gripping a red stick.
The stick was made of a special alloy, capable of being split in two.
Matthew Murdoch straightened up.
A red mask covered the upper half of his face, revealing only his jawline and tightly pursed lips. There were no openings for his eyes.
The two were six meters apart.
Ron, hands behind his back, sized him up. His Observation Haki returned. The information flashed through his mind: 1.83 meters tall, weighing approximately 85 kilograms. His muscle density was 40% higher than the average person, but lower than that of enhanced humans injected with the serum. Calluses were concentrated on the base of his palms and the second joint of his fingers; a fighting style.
He had numerous old injuries. His seventh and eighth ribs on his right side showed signs of old fracture healing; his left knee ligaments showed signs of elasticity loss from repeated strains; and there was a knife scar on the edge of his right scapula.
Like Frank, he had spent years fighting his way through Hell's Kitchen, covered in wounds.
"You burned 'Eden' last night."
Matthew's voice was low, with the rough texture characteristic of Hell's Kitchen natives.
"And tonight you demolished the warehouses in the dock area."
Ron didn't deny it.
"You killed someone."
"No."
Matthew tilted his head slightly. Ron understood the meaning of the gesture perfectly. His super hearing was analyzing his heartbeat, blood pressure, and vocal cord vibration frequency to determine if he was lying.
Three seconds later, Matthew's jaw twitched.
His heartbeat was steady. There were no physiological signs of lying.
"Where did those people go?"
"They're locked up."
"Where are they locked up?"
"A place they can't get out of."
Matthew twirled his stick halfway in his right hand, changing his grip from overhand to underhand.
"You have no right to imprison anyone. Trial is a matter for the law."
Ron smiled.
Not a sneer, but the reaction of hearing a familiar joke.
"Matthew Murdoch."
Matthew's body tensed.
"Nelson & Murdoch, Partner. Columbia Law Firm." "Graduated from Bia Law School, specializing in criminal defense."
Ron took a step forward. Matthew's stick immediately met his chest.
"How many cases have you represented in court for those victims?"
Matthew didn't answer.
"How many won?"
Silence.
"Let me count for you. In the past two years, you've handled seven criminal cases involving Kingpin's influence, and your success rate—zero."
Matthew's jaw twitched.
"Seven charges, seven dismissals. Witnesses were threatened to recant three times, crucial evidence disappeared from the courtroom twice, and judges dismissed the cases twice for procedural flaws."
Ron took another step. Four meters away.
"You wear a suit and read legal statutes in court during the day, and beat people up in alleys at night in a bodysuit. Does the law authorize you?"
Matthew's stick pointed towards... Towards Ron's chest.
"I'm not like you. I don't throw people into some black jail."
"You break their legs, throw them to the cops, the cops take them to court, the court releases them. Then you break them again."
Ron stopped.
"Murdoch, what you're doing is like pouring water into a leaky bucket."
The stick came at him.
It was incredibly fast. Matthew's explosive muscle power was concentrated in his waist, abdomen, and forearm. The tip of the stick was aimed straight at Ron's throat, at a fifteen-degree angle from the front, avoiding a conventional block.
Ron raised his right forearm.
Armament Haki condensed into a black shell on his skin.
The tip of the stick struck his forearm, producing a crisp metallic clang. The vibration traveled along the stick back to Matthew's palm, making his hand numb.
Matthew's head It veered off course another degree.
The sonic feedback told him: the tip of the stick wasn't contacting a metal prosthetic, nor any known alloy. It was organic tissue—human skin and muscle.
But harder than steel.
"Your arm..."
"Harder than your stick." Ron didn't retaliate, his arm remaining in a blocking stance. "Want to try again?"
Matthew withdrew the stick, spun around, and swept a second strike from below towards Ron's knee.
Ron raised his leg to avoid it.
A third strike followed immediately. Matthew used the spatial model constructed by the sonic waves to strike from Ron's blind spot—behind his right ear.
An ordinary person couldn't react in time.
Ron's left hand reached out and precisely gripped the stick.
In Matthew's sonic map, this person had no blind spots.
A layer covering his body... A 160-degree perception field, every attack from any angle is predicted 0.3 seconds in advance.
Almost isomorphic to his own ability.
Even stronger.
Ron released the stick and took a step back.
"Three moves are enough."
Matthew's breathing rate increased from nine to fourteen breaths per minute. He gripped the stick again but didn't attack again.
Ron pulled a USB drive from his inside suit pocket.
Small, about the size of a thumbnail, with a black plastic casing.
He tossed the USB drive over.
Matthew caught it, running his fingertips over the surface for two seconds. No extra electronic components, no miniature antenna structure for tracking.
"What's this?"
"Judge Harold Mickson's bank statements. Over three years, anonymous accounts in the Cayman Islands transferred a total of seventeen million dollars to him. The timing of the transfers coincided with his release..." "The sentencing dates of the twenty-seven convicts are listed one by one."
Matthew's fingers tightened.
"Eleven of them committed murders again after their release. The names, dates, and victim information are all in there."
"Why did you give this to me?"
"Because you still believe in the law."
Ron turned away, his back to Matthew.
"I don't believe anymore. You do your way, I'll do mine. But one thing—don't block my way."
He walked towards the alleyway.
"Wait a minute."
Ron didn't stop.
"What you call 'imprisonment'—where did you send those people?"
Ron's steps faltered.
"A place more suitable for them than any prison."
Matthew's hearing scanned again. Heart rate sixty-two beats per minute, blood pressure stable, vocal cord vibration frequency normal. Constant fluctuations.
The truth.
But he heard something else.
A continuous, low-frequency vibration emanated from Ron's body, extremely low, almost infrasound. This vibration was accompanied by unusual thermal radiation.
This man's body contained a volcano.
Matthew stood there, clutching the USB drive, listening to Ron's footsteps fade into the distance.
Rain dripped from the edge of his mask onto the stick.
Frank waited at the door of the safe house three blocks away.
Seeing Ron return alone, he glanced at the empty alley behind him.
"Solved?"
"Talked."
"Talked?" Frank's right eyebrow twitched. "You talked to the stalker?"
"He's not an enemy. Not for now."
Frank didn't press further. He pushed open the iron door, entered the armory, and climbed off the cot. He pulled out a brown paper bag and tossed it onto the folding table.
"Information received. Sent by the old informant an hour ago."
Ron opened the bag.
Inside were three photos and a handwritten note.
The first photo: the entrance to an abandoned Bronx subway station, a "Danger: Do Not Enter" sign hanging on the iron railing.
The second photo: the platform inside the subway station, piled high with military-green ammunition boxes and rocket launchers.
The third photo was of a person.
Bald. Wearing a dark leather jacket. A full-face shot, but his eyes sent chills down your spine.
Not fierce, not cold-blooded. It was the patience of someone scrutinizing their prey.
The handwritten note was only two lines long:
"New guard. Arrived three days ago. Killed the original four guards and took over the entire warehouse by himself."
Frank stood across the table, arms crossed. "Bullseye."
Ron stared at the eyes in the photograph.
"Real name unknown, mercenary assassin, Kingpin's ace. Genetically precise perception; anything in his hands becomes a weapon. A playing card can sever a throat, a toothpick can pierce an eyeball."
Frank's right hand unconsciously touched the barrel of his M16.
"This guy is ten times more dangerous than Kingpin. He doesn't kill for money, he kills for pleasure. He never misses a target. Not even once."
A red analysis box automatically popped up on the left side of Ron's field of vision.
[Target: Bullseye. Real name unknown. Guilt level: 4500.]
[Extraordinary Trait: Genetically precise perception, can turn any object into a deadly weapon. Accuracy 100%] [%.]
[Recommended level for kill/capture: Impel Down Level 2.]
[Current Impel Down Level: Level 1. Insufficient level.]
Ron put the photo back on the table.
"Impel Down Level 2..."
He brought up the upgrade requirements for Impel Down.
[Level 2 will be unlocked once 10 people are captured on Level 1.]
[Current number of people captured: 2/10.]
[8 more people needed.]
Frank noticed Ron's silence.
"What? Can't you kill them?"
"I can kill them. I can't hold them."
Ron closed the system panel and reopened the Hell's Kitchen street map.
He picked up a red pen and circled eight of the forty-seven marked points on the map.
"Clear these eight before hitting Bullseye."
Frank leaned closer to look. Eight The locations are scattered across the East and North sections of Hell's Kitchen, labeled "Casino," "Underground Boxing Ring," "Loan Shark," and "Human Trafficking Hub," respectively...
"They're all Kingpin's peripheral businesses. The managers are all mid-level henchmen with criminal records, wanted posters, and crime scores."
Ron tossed the red pen back onto the table.
"Forty-four hours. Eight locations. One every five and a half hours on average."
Frank unlocked the ammunition box and began loading bullets into the magazine.
"When to make our move?"
Ron glanced out the window. A sliver of gray was visible on the eastern horizon.
"Before dawn, take down two."
He picked up a photo of the first target—the underground boxing ring on 39th Street, managed by "Hammer" Hank, wanted for three years, crime score 680.
Frank loaded the magazine... The magazine clicked into the gun.
Ron walked towards the iron gate, then suddenly stopped.
His Observation Haki picked up a new signal. A black SUV was slowly driving past on the street above the safe house. The two people inside had very low heart rates, their breathing controlled through professional training.
The passenger's body temperature was low, two degrees Celsius below normal.
Moreover, Ron recognized her heart rate pattern from S.H.I.E.L.D. files.
Natasha Romanoff.
The black SUV didn't stop. It drove across the street above the safe house, turned onto Ninth Avenue, and its taillights disappeared into the gray morning light.
Ron pushed open the iron gate.
"Let's go. Before she figures out where we are."
Frank shouldered his gun and followed.
The iron gate closed behind him, the latch snapping into the lock with a muffled click.
那个信号跟了四百米.
罗恩数着脚步,每一步都踩在积水上,溅起的水声盖住了他放慢的呼吸.
弗兰克走在前面,右手搭在M16A4的握把上,左肩的防弹衣碎片还挂在身上,每走一步就掉一块碎陶瓷.
"继续走."罗恩压低了嗓子.
弗兰克侧过头.
"前面第二个路口左转,进洗衣房地下通道,回安全屋."
弗兰克的步子没变,但他的右手从握把移到了扳机护圈旁.
"有尾巴?"
"我的.你先走."
弗兰克没回头.他的脚步加快了两拍,拐进左侧巷口,消失在黑暗里.
罗恩停下来.
巷子很窄,两侧是老旧公寓的防火梯,铁锈味混着垃圾箱的酸腐气.
他没有转身.
见闻色持续追踪那个信号.对方在他正上方偏左十二度,距离四十米.攀附在防火梯的横梁上,呼吸频率每分钟九次.
极低.
训练有素,或者天赋异禀.
但最奇怪的是那个人的感知方式.不是视觉,不是热感应,不是任何罗恩见过的侦查手段.
是声波.
从那个人的耳廓持续发散出极其精密的接收网络,覆盖半径超过三个街区.每一滴水珠击中地面的回弹,每一片铁锈从防火梯上脱落的震动,每一只老鼠在垃圾堆里翻爬的细响,全部被那张网捕获,解析,重构成一幅三维地图.
一个瞎子.
用耳朵"看"世界的瞎子.
罗恩的脚掌在水泥地上碾了一下.
"下来吧."
安静.
雨水从防火梯上滴落,敲在垃圾桶盖上,一声一声.
"我数到三.一."
头顶传来布料摩擦金属的声响.
一个深红色的身影从四楼防火梯的横梁上翻下,在半空中旋转了一周半,双脚无声落地.
蹲姿,右手撑地,左手握着一根红色的棍子.
棍子是特制合金,中间可以拆分成两截.
马修·默多克站直身体.
红色面罩遮住了上半张脸,露出下颌和紧抿的嘴.面罩的眼眶位置没有开孔.
两人相距六米.
罗恩背着手,打量对方.见闻色反馈回来的信息逐条在脑中排列:身高一米八三,体重约八十五公斤.全身肌肉密度高于普通人百分之四十,但低于注射过血清的强化人类.双手茧层分布集中在掌根和指节第二关节,格斗型.
旧伤极多.右侧第七第八根肋骨有陈旧性骨折愈合痕迹,左膝韧带存在反复拉伤的弹性损失,右肩胛骨边缘有刀伤瘢痕.
和弗兰克一样,带着满身伤在地狱厨房拼了好几年.
"你昨晚烧了'伊甸园'."
马修的声线压得很低,带着地狱厨房本地人特有的粗糙质感.
"今晚又拆了码头区的仓库."
罗恩没否认.
"你杀了人."
"没有."
马修的头微微偏了一度.
罗恩对这个动作的含义很清楚.超级听觉正在分析他的心跳,血压,声带震动频率,判断他有没有说谎.
三秒后,马修的下巴收了收.
心跳平稳.没有说谎的生理特征.
"那些人去哪了?"
"被关起来了."
"关在哪?"
"一个他们出不来的地方."
马修的棍子在右手里转了半圈,握法从正握换成了反握.
"你没有权力关押任何人.审判是法律的事."
罗恩笑了一下.
不是冷笑,是那种听到一个熟悉笑话时的反应.
"马修·默多克."
马修的身体绷紧了.
"纳尔逊与默多克律师事务所,合伙人.哥伦比亚法学院毕业,专攻刑事辩护."
罗恩往前走了一步.马修的棍子立刻横在胸前.
"你在法庭上替那些受害者打了多少场官司?"
马修没回答.
"赢了几场?"
沉默.
"让我替你算.过去两年,你代理的七起涉及金并势力的刑事案件,胜诉率——零."
马修的下颌肌肉跳了一下.
"七次起诉,七次被驳回.证人被威胁翻供三次,关键证据在法院证物室失踪两次,法官以程序瑕疵驳回起诉两次."
罗恩又走了一步.距离四米.
"你白天穿西装在法庭上念法条,晚上穿紧身衣在巷子里打人.法律授权你了?"
马修的棍子尖指向罗恩的胸口.
"我和你不一样.我不会把人丢进某个黑监狱."
"你把他们打断腿,扔给警察,警察把他们送进法院,法院把他们放出来.然后你再打断一次."
罗恩停下脚步.
"默多克,你做的事和往漏水的桶里倒水没区别."
棍子刺了过来.
速度极快.马修的肌肉爆发力集中在腰腹和前臂,棍尖直取罗恩的喉咙,角度从正面偏了十五度,避开了常规格挡的路线.
罗恩抬起右前臂.
武装色在皮肤表面凝出一层黑色硬壳.
棍尖撞上前臂,发出一声清脆的金属碰撞音.震动沿着棍身传回马修的手掌,震得他虎口发麻.
马修的头又偏了一度.
声波反馈告诉他:棍尖接触的不是金属义肢,不是任何已知合金.是有机组织.人类的皮肤和肌肉.
但硬度超过钢铁.
"你的手臂..."
"比你的棍子硬."罗恩没有反击,手臂保持格挡姿势,"要继续试吗?"
马修撤棍,旋身,第二击从下方扫向罗恩的膝弯.
罗恩抬腿避开.
第三击紧随其后.马修利用声波构建的空间模型,从罗恩的感知盲区——右耳后方——劈下一棍.
普通人不可能反应过来.
罗恩的左手伸出,精准地捏住了棍身.
在马修的声波地图里,这个人没有感知盲区.
他的身体周围有一层覆盖三百六十度的感知场,每一个角度的攻击都被提前零点三秒预判.
和自己的能力几乎同构.
甚至更强.
罗恩松开棍子,退后一步.
"三招够了."
马修的呼吸频率从九次升到了十四次.他重新握好棍子,但没有再进攻.
罗恩从西装内袋里掏出一个U盘.
很小,拇指盖大小,黑色塑料壳.
他把U盘抛了过去.
马修伸手接住,指腹在U盘表面摸了两秒.没有多余的电子元件,没有追踪器的微型天线结构.
"这是什么?"
"哈罗德·密克森法官的银行流水.三年间,开曼群岛匿名账户向他转账总计一千七百万美元.转账时间与他释放二十七名重罪犯的判决日期一一对应."
马修的手指收紧了.
"其中十一人出狱后再次犯下命案.名单,日期,受害者信息全在里面."
"你为什么给我?"
"因为你还信法律."
罗恩转过身,背对马修.
"我不信了.你用你的方式,我用我的.但有一条——别挡我的路."
他往巷口走.
"等一下."
罗恩没停.
"你说的'关押'——那些人被你送去的地方,到底是什么?"
罗恩的脚步顿了半拍.
"一个比任何监狱都适合他们的地方."
马修的听觉再次扫描.心跳六十二次每分钟,血压稳定,声带震动频率无异常波动.
真话.
但他听到了另一个东西.
罗恩的体内有一种持续的低频震动,频率极低,接近次声波范围.那种震动伴随着异常的热辐射.
这个人的身体里装着一座火山.
马修站在原地,捏着U盘,听着罗恩的脚步声渐渐远去.
雨水从面罩边缘滑落,滴在棍身上.
弗兰克在三个街区外的安全屋门口等着.
看见罗恩独自回来,他扫了一眼罗恩身后的空巷.
"解决了?"
"谈了谈."
"谈?"弗兰克的右眉抬了一下,"你和跟踪者谈?"
"他不是敌人.暂时不是."
弗兰克没追问.他推开铁门,走进武器库,从行军床底下拽出一个牛皮纸袋,扔在折叠桌上.
"收到的情报.一小时前,老线人发来的."
罗恩拉开纸袋.
里面是三张照片和一页手写备注.
第一张照片:布朗克斯废弃地铁站的入口,铁栅栏上挂着"危险勿入"的牌子.
第二张:地铁站内部的月台,堆满军绿色的弹药箱和火箭弹.
第三张是一个人.
光头.穿深色皮夹克.正脸照,但眼神让人后背发凉.
不是凶狠,不是冷酷.是一种审视猎物的耐心.
手写备注只有两行:
"新看守.三天前到的.杀了原来的四个守卫,一个人接管了整个仓库."
弗兰克站在桌子对面,双臂抱胸.
"靶眼."
罗恩盯着照片上那双眼睛.
"真名不详,雇佣杀手,金并的王牌.基因层面的精准感知能力,任何物体到他手里都是武器.一张扑克牌能切断喉管,一根牙签能穿透眼球."
弗兰克的右手无意识地摸了一下M16的枪管.
"这个人比金并危险十倍.他不为钱杀人,他为快感杀人.碰上他的目标,没有失手记录.一次都没有."
系统界面在罗恩的视野左侧自动弹出一条红色分析框.
[目标:靶眼（Bullseye）.真名不明.罪恶值:4500.]
[超凡特征:基因级精准感知,可将任何物体化为致命武器.命中率100%.]
[击杀/收押推荐等级:推进城第二层.]
[当前推进城等级:第一层.等级不足.]
罗恩把照片放回桌上.
"推进城第二层..."
他调出推进城的升级条件.
[第一层收押人数达到10人,即可解锁第二层.]
[当前收押人数:2/10.]
[还差8人.]
弗兰克注意到罗恩的沉默.
"怎么?打不了?"
"打得了.关不住."
罗恩把系统面板关掉,重新展开地狱厨房的街区地图.
他拿起红笔,在地图上那四十七个标注点里圈出八个.
"在碰靶眼之前,先把这八个清了."
弗兰克凑过去看.八个点分布在地狱厨房的东区和北区,标注分别是"赌场""地下拳场""高利贷""人口贩卖中转站"...
"全是金并的外围产业.管事的都是中层喽啰,有案底,有通缉令,有罪恶值."
罗恩把红笔扔回桌上.
"四十四小时.八个据点.平均每五个半小时清一个."
弗兰克拉开弹药箱的锁扣,开始往弹匣里压子弹.
"什么时候动手?"
罗恩看了一眼窗外.天际线最东边透出一丝灰白.
"天亮之前,先干两个."
他拿起第一个目标的照片——39街的地下拳场,管事人绰号"铁锤"汉克,通缉三年,罪恶值680.
弗兰克把压好的弹匣咔嗒一声插进枪身.
罗恩走向铁门,脚步忽然停住.
见闻色捕捉到一个新信号.安全屋上方的街面上,一辆黑色SUV正在缓慢驶过.车内两个人,心跳都很低,呼吸经过专业训练的控制.
副驾驶座上那个人的体温偏低.比正常人低两度.
而且她的心跳模式罗恩在神盾局的档案里见过.
娜塔莎·罗曼诺夫.
黑色SUV没有停.它驶过安全屋上方的街道,拐进第九大道,尾灯消失在灰蒙蒙的晨光里.
罗恩推开铁门.
"走.趁她还没摸清楚我们在哪."
弗兰克扛起枪,跟了上去.
铁门在身后合上,锁舌弹入锁孔,发出一声闷响.