The muffled sound of voices filled the underground hall, hidden beneath tons of concrete and steel. Cold lights illuminated the oval table at the center, where men in dark suits and tense expressions had gathered.
In the main seat sat a giant of almost suffocating presence — Wilson Fisk, the man the underworld of New York called Kingpin.
"Sir, the police have been tightening surveillance at the docks," one of the henchmen reported, his voice trembling. "Many of our shipment batches are on hold. If this continues, half of our operations will be compromised."
Kingpin remained still, resting his chin on one hand. His fingers, adorned with a heavy gold ring, tapped slowly on the table — a dry, rhythmic tic that made the others swallow hard.
The men began arguing among themselves, each trying to shift the blame or defend their own actions.
"If we keep losing cargo, we'll go broke!"
"It's the customs officers' fault! They're getting stricter!"
"No, it's George Stacy! He—"
"That's enough."
Kingpin's voice sliced through the air like a blade.
It wasn't a shout. It was a command.
Silence fell instantly. Some even seemed to stop breathing.
Kingpin leaned back in his chair, speaking with the calmness of a man who could destroy lives with a single gesture.
"George Stacy is merely trying to gather evidence. I admit he's persistent, but predictable. Just keep a low profile."
His tone was cold, methodical — almost clinical.
"I don't care if you make less money for now," he continued. "Avoid any direct conflict with the police. A scandal right now would be a huge problem… and I don't tolerate problems."
The words hung heavily in the air. That alone was enough to silence everyone.
But there was always a fool among them.
"With all due respect, sir…" began a man to the right — nervous, but insolent. "He's just a police captain, isn't he? Why should we be afraid of someone like that?"
Another, encouraged, added:
"He's right. We could just… pay someone to take care of it. One bullet, one dark night, and—"
Kingpin looked up.
Silence fell again — this time laced with sheer terror.
The air itself seemed to grow heavier. Fisk's cold, implacable stare pierced the man like a spear.
The henchman froze mid-sentence. He swallowed hard. Whatever voice he still had died in his throat.
Kingpin didn't need to say a word. The subtle movement of his jaw was enough to make the man shrink back.
After a few seconds, Fisk finally muttered,
"Do only what I tell you."
That deep, controlled voice sent a chill down everyone's spine.
"Understood, boss," they answered in unison — like a choir of prisoners confessing guilt.
Kingpin gave a brief nod.
Then, trying to ease the tension, one of the men laughed and changed the subject.
"By the way, Damian… didn't you say you were going to secure the rights to those books for adaptation? How's that going?"
Damian Silver — a man in an expensive suit with an arrogant expression — crossed his arms and let out an irritated sigh.
"It all went to hell. The bastard trashed my entire studio."
"Ha! I told you that plan of yours was a complete joke," another laughed, slapping the table.
"Shut up, idiot!" Damian snapped, his voice rising. "How was I supposed to know that damn guy would do something like that?! But I guarantee he won't live through the weekend."
Laughter spread through the room — false, forced laughter, the kind shared by men who thought themselves untouchable.
But then—
"WEEEEEHHH—WEEEEEHHH—WEEEEEHHH!"
The sound of an alarm suddenly echoed through the walls, reverberating off the metal and concrete. The lights flickered, and a red warning beacon began spinning in the corner of the ceiling.
The laughter died instantly.
The silence that followed was almost deafening.
Kingpin frowned, his eyes narrowing.
With a simple press of a button built into the side of his chair, a monitor slowly descended from the ceiling.
The screen flickered to life.
What appeared on it drained the color from even the bravest faces.
All the guards on the upper levels were down. Some were decapitated, others missing limbs — or simply shredded. The floor was soaked in blood, like a scene pulled straight from hell.
The cameras shook violently, as if something — or someone — had moved past them too fast to be seen.
"What the hell… is happening up there?" one of the men asked, voice trembling.
Kingpin watched in silence, his brow deepening. Even he — a man accustomed to chaos and betrayal — sensed something unnatural in that scene: a precision beyond human.
The henchmen began to whisper, panic building like a wave.
"Why are you panicking?" Kingpin asked calmly, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. "No one but me knows the entrance to this room. And even if someone did, there's no force on Earth that could break through those doors."
His words restored a bit of confidence to the room. Some men breathed again, cautiously relieved.
They all remembered: to enter this place, they had been blindfolded and personally escorted by Kingpin himself. This underground hideout didn't appear on any map — it was a secret buried even deeper than the underworld itself.
And yet… something deep inside Fisk warned him.
A bad feeling.
His intuition — the same that had saved his life countless times — told him something was very, very wrong.
He pressed another button, switching the camera feed.
Now, the screen showed a narrow corridor lit only by emergency lights — the single passage leading directly to the room they were in.
Kingpin's eyes widened in disbelief.
"Impossible…" he muttered. "How could he know about this access?"
The others stared at the screen, confused and frightened.
The figure advancing through the corridor wasn't an army.
It was just one man.
"Sir… didn't you say no one could find this place?"
"Who is that guy?"
"He took down all the guards by himself?!"
The noise grew until Kingpin slammed his cane against the floor.
"Silence!"
The sound echoed like thunder.
The authority in his voice was absolute.
The room fell quiet again.
Fisk straightened his jacket, eyes fixed on the monitor.
"Even if he gets here," he said with the calmness of a bored monster, "there's no way he can get through that door."
"Sir, look!" shouted one of the men, pointing.
On the screen, the intruder — dressed in a dark uniform, a cloth mask covering the lower half of his face, and a crimson-bladed katana at his side — took a stance as he slid the blade back into its sheath.
Kingpin sneered.
"What does he think he's going to do? Cut through the door? That armor is reinforced with titanium, concrete, and—"
A flash of light cut across the screen.
In less than a second, the metallic scream of slicing steel echoed through the speakers, followed by a burst of air and a shower of sparks.
When the dust settled…
The door — weighing nearly a ton — was in pieces, sliced into perfect, even sections.
Kingpin's gaze hardened.
The others instinctively backed away.
And then, through the smoke, he appeared.
Arthur stepped forward slowly, holding his katana with effortless poise, his face partially hidden by the mask.
The blade caught the red glow of the emergency lights, casting an almost infernal reflection.
"I hope…" he said with a cold smile, voice dripping with sarcasm,
"…I'm not interrupting anything important."
Silence.
---
(End of Chapter)
"Hmph. If you really want to be useful, then entertain me, try to throw those pathetic power stones at me. Let's see if even your insolence can amuse a king."