Matt dialed the number again.
This time, the call was answered almost immediately.
"You're stubborn, Murdoch," came the voice—cold, flat, laced with disappointment. "This will kill you."
"Tell me everything you know."
A long sigh crackled through the line, as if the old man had just exhaled the last breath in his lungs.
The Stick knew better than anyone: once his most stubborn disciple made up his mind, nothing—not reason, not fear, not even death—could sway him.
"Fine," he said at last. "Since you're determined to walk into your grave, I'll at least tell you what's carved on your tombstone."
His voice dropped lower, as though recounting a forbidden history.
"The Inhumans… are the product of Kree genetic experiments."
"Kree?" Matt frowned. The word meant nothing to him.
"A warlike, arrogant race of blue-skinned aliens. Tens of thousands of years ago, they came to Earth and began experimenting on ancient humans—trying to engineer the perfect bio-weapon: superhuman slaves to fuel their empire. But they overestimated their control… and underestimated the chaos, resilience, and sheer unpredictability of human DNA."
Disdain dripped from every syllable.
"The experiment failed. Instead of obedient soldiers, they created monsters—unstable, uncontrollable, gifted with bizarre powers. So they packed up and left, abandoning their mistake like trash, pretending it never happened."
"A group of monsters," The Stick continued, "cast out by their so-called gods… yet convinced they were divine."
"They live on the far side of the moon—in a hidden city called Attilan. Isolated. Paranoid. Guarding their pathetic secrets and twisted pride like sacred relics."
"And their royal family?" Matt asked quietly.
"The most dangerous of them all. They wield power enough to level civilizations."
"The far side of the moon?"
Fudge, standing beside Matt, finally choked out a gasp—half disbelief, half existential terror.
His entire worldview had been shattered in under a minute. Now it lay in pieces, beyond repair.
He shot to his feet and began pacing the cramped office, tugging at his already thinning hair. "The moon? The far side? Jurisdictionally speaking—this falls under… under what? The Outer Space Treaty! Article II! The moon is the common heritage of all humankind! You can't just build a city there! That's illegal construction on an extraterrestrial body!"
He wheezed, eyes wide. "Do we send them a cease-and-desist? What do we even address it to? 'To: The Esteemed Royal Committee of the Inhumans, c/o Far Side of the Moon, Lunar Postal Code Pending'?"
His legal instincts spiraled into absurdity. He nearly reached for a statute book, flipping mentally through volumes for clauses on "non-terrestrial sentient entities occupying celestial bodies without UN authorization."
He'd never handled a case like this. No lawyer on Earth had.
Matt raised a hand—palm out, calm but firm—and gestured for silence. Sit down. Breathe.
Fudge deflated like a punctured balloon and slumped back onto the sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling—as if, through plaster and sky, he could see the moon hanging in the night, cloaking a mad, secret city in its shadow.
"As for the princess your friend met…" The Stick's voice grew graver, edged with warning. "She might be nothing—a spoiled royal ornament who sneaks down to Earth for amusement. The one you should fear is another woman entirely."
"Medusa. Queen of Attilan."
"Her hair is alive. Every strand stronger than steel cable. It stretches, strikes, shields—at her command. And she doesn't hesitate."
The Stick's voice paused on the other end of the line.
"Even more terrifying… is their king."
"Black Bolt."
"His power… is sound."
"He never speaks. Not even a whisper. Because the faintest utterance—even one too soft for human ears—could unleash a sonic wave powerful enough to wipe New York City off the map."
Foggy stood there, stunned.
He couldn't imagine it: a single whisper—and then Manhattan gone. The Charging Bull on Wall Street, the neon glare of Times Square, the spire of the Empire State Building, even his own shabby little office—all reduced to cosmic dust?
"You…" Matt's voice cracked slightly as he forced out the question. "How do you know all this?"
This wasn't intelligence any Earthling should possess. Not even S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most classified archives would contain details this precise.
Stick fell silent again.
"Because our Holy Order's enemy—the Hand—they've been searching for a way into Attilan."
"Immortality," the old man continued, voice thick with contempt. "That's all those scum care about. They've tried everything: using the power of the 'Beasts' to raise the dead. But those are just hollow shells—rotting puppets with no soul, no spark. They believe the Inhumans' modified genes hold the key to true immortality. To endless, inexhaustible power."
"The Hand wants the Inhumans' gene bank on Earth. They plan to turn it into their personal blood reservoir. This isn't some street war—it's a shadow conflict between two ancient powers. And it's been raging for over a century."
"Murdoch."
Stick's voice sharpened, cutting through the static like a blade. "You've blundered straight into the heart of it—all because of some kid who dropped out of nowhere."
"You're not Daredevil anymore. You're meat tossed into a grinder. You're not up against Hell's Kitchen thugs now—you're staring down centuries-old ninja ghosts and moon-dwelling monsters who could level cities with a breath."
"So tell me, kid—what good are your pitiful skills and that ridiculous red suit in a war like this?"
Beep—beep—beep—
The line went dead.
This time, Matt didn't call back.
Slowly, he lowered the phone and sank into his chair. His spine, usually rigid with resolve, curved inward under the weight of the silence.
Foggy slumped on the sofa, his face paler than the peeling walls.
He wanted to say something—anything. Beg Matt to walk away. Pack a bag. Leave Hell's Kitchen, leave New York, vanish to the ends of the earth.
But when he looked at Matt's silhouette swallowed by shadow, the words died in his throat.
He knew it was useless.
Matt pulled the audio file Joren had sent him from his pocket and played it again.
Crystal's haughty yet urgent voice. The muffled thud of space tearing open during teleportation. Joren's calm, almost chilling questions…
Joren was an unpredictable variable.
No—that wasn't quite right.
There was a time lag.
Stick hadn't recognized the princess in the recording. That meant the Holy Order's intelligence wasn't as omniscient as they claimed.
As far as Matt knew, the Order didn't seem to have active superpowered operatives—or at least, not anymore.
So how reliable was this intel, really?
He remembered Stick's tone when speaking of the Hand. It sounded like he didn't know the 'Beasts' had already been wiped out by Joren.
And the lunar base?
Maybe that was exaggeration. Maybe the Inhumans weren't on the moon at all—just hidden on some remote island, forgotten by the world.
Thinking this, Matt's breathing steadied. His pulse slowed.
Without concrete proof, everything Stick said remai
ned speculation.
And in a war of shadows, speculation could get you killed—or worse, make you surrender before the real fight began.
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