"Lord Wilson, don't worry—I've got another way!"
Scorpion's voice rang out, frantic but determined, as he yanked a compact explosive charge from his pocket. His mechanical tail twitched behind him while he held the device up like a threat. "Turtle freak, back off right now… or we all go down together!"
"Together?"
Leo paused for a brief second, as if genuinely caught off guard. Then a laugh slipped out, low and amused, the kind that carried more mockery than humor. He tilted his head slightly, studying Scorpion like he'd just discovered something absurd.
Where had they even found this idiot?
A bomb, waved right in front of him? That wasn't intimidation—that was suicide with extra steps. It was like lighting a firecracker in your own hand and hoping the other guy would panic first.
Leo didn't retreat. Instead, his fingers moved swiftly, forming a hand seal with practiced ease.
A deep breath followed.
"Fire Release: Great Fireball Technique."
A massive sphere of flames erupted from his mouth, blazing forward with overwhelming heat and destructive force. The air distorted as it moved, the temperature spiking instantly.
"Run! Move!"
Wilson's eyes widened as realization hit him. This wasn't a bluff. This wasn't a warning shot. This was annihilation.
Scorpion's face drained of color, the bravado from moments earlier evaporating completely. The bomb in his hand suddenly felt less like leverage and more like a death sentence.
The two men grabbed onto each other instinctively, stumbling forward in a desperate attempt to escape. Their movements were clumsy, hurried, driven entirely by fear as they rushed toward the exit.
They were too slow.
The fireball slammed into them just as they reached the threshold.
"Sizzle—sizzle—sizzle—"
The sharp, terrifying sound of a fuse catching fire filled the air. The explosive charge, heated beyond control, had been triggered.
Wilson's expression turned ashen, a sick realization sinking in. Of all the ways he had imagined his death, this was never one of them. Not like this. Not because of his own subordinate's stupidity.
"Throw it away! Now!" he roared.
"O—okay!"
Scorpion froze for a split second before finally reacting. With a panicked motion, he hurled the explosive away like it had burned his hand.
It detonated mid-air.
"BOOM—!!!"
A violent explosion tore through the villa, flames and shockwaves ripping apart the structure. The detached building collapsed under the force, walls shattering, debris flying outward in all directions as heat surged through the area.
From the shadows beyond, Leo didn't immediately pursue. Instead, he moved upward, scaling a nearby tree with ease. Perched among the branches, he closed his eyes briefly, listening.
The crackling of flames.
The settling of debris.
The faintest signs of movement.
Satisfied, he turned and vanished into the night, his mission complete.
—
"Cough… cough…"
A weak, ragged sound broke through the silence of the ruins.
From beneath the scorched debris, a pitch-black hand pushed upward, fingers digging into broken concrete. Slowly, a massive figure pulled itself free.
Wilson Fisk emerged.
His body was burned almost beyond recognition, his clothes reduced to charred remnants clinging to torn flesh. Yet somehow, impossibly, he was still alive.
A hoarse laugh burst from his throat, growing louder with each breath.
"I… survived…"
For a moment, there was nothing but that laughter, raw and unhinged.
Then it stopped.
Abruptly.
His gaze shifted forward, landing on the half-collapsed wall that still stood amidst the destruction. Carved into its surface, deep and deliberate, were words etched with a blade:
"My lord commands… obey immediately… disobey… and you die."
Fisk's face twisted as he read it. The wounds across his skin burned, but the pain barely registered compared to what settled in his chest.
He hadn't won.
He hadn't even come close.
He had been spared.
Everything he had done—his defiance, his anger—it was nothing more than a performance. A joke. A clown show played out in front of someone who could have ended his life in an instant.
And that realization brought something far worse than pain.
Fear.
The assassin had only made one move.
One.
And it had nearly killed him.
If that attack had been repeated…
Would he even be alive to think about it?
"I… I lost…"
The words came out slowly, like they were being forced past something lodged in his throat.
A long silence followed before he let out a bitter breath.
"…Fine. I'll do it."
His voice steadied, though it carried none of its former arrogance.
"What does it matter who I work for?"
The ambition that had once burned within him—to rule New York's underworld, to stand as its undisputed king—crumbled in that moment. Before it could even take shape, it had been crushed completely.
Beside him, Scorpion groaned, his armored body sparing him from the worst of the explosion. He was injured, but alive.
Fisk didn't even look at him.
Trust?
After that stunt?
That explosion had carved itself into Fisk's mind like a permanent scar. The kind that never faded, no matter how much time passed.
What kind of ally nearly kills you by accident?
That wasn't a partner.
That was a liability.
—
Elsewhere in Hell's Kitchen, shadows stretched long across the streets as Weaver waited in silence, his pitchfork resting lightly in his hand.
From the distance, the low hum of engines grew louder.
Two SUVs rolled into view, their headlights cutting through the darkness. Inside were members of the Russian Brotherhood, tasked with transporting goods for one of Madam Gao's operations.
Each delivery earned them tens of thousands of dollars. In the early 2000s, that kind of money was more than enough to keep men loyal.
As long as no one double-crossed them.
"Looks like tonight's smooth sailing," one of the men in the lead vehicle said, leaning back slightly. "We might actually get home early for once."
His partner chuckled, tension easing from his shoulders.
"Swoosh—!"
A flicker of green flashed past.
Before they could react, the attack began.
Hailstones.
Dozens—no, hundreds of them—shot through the air at incredible speed. They weren't ordinary ice. Each one struck with the force of a bullet.
The driver jerked violently as one smashed into his head, knocking him unconscious instantly. His body slumped forward, pressing against the steering wheel.
"Ahhh—!!!"
The passenger screamed, panic overtaking him.
The calm, dry night twisted into something unnatural. A sudden gale roared through the street, carrying with it shapes that defied logic.
A narwhal.
A massive, ice-formed creature surged forward, its horn leading the charge.
It crashed into the SUV.
Metal crumpled like paper as the beast tore through the vehicle, biting down and ripping it apart. Half the car was gone in an instant.
"Monster!"
"What the hell is that?!"
The remaining thugs scrambled, terror replacing any sense of control.
But there was no escape.
From above, blades descended.
Knives and forks, carried by wind and frost, rained down in a deadly storm. The second SUV was crushed under the combined force, its frame collapsing as it slammed into the wreckage of the first.
Cargo spilled across the ground, scattering into the dirt.
"Tap tap tap—!"
The surviving men in the second vehicle threw open their doors, guns already in hand. Without hesitation, they opened fire.
"Clang!"
A bullet streaked forward—
—and stopped.
An iron fork pierced it mid-air, halting it completely.
Weaver stood calmly, his expression unchanged. He lifted a hand, almost lazily.
The air responded.
Water molecules condensed, gathering rapidly as they twisted together into massive forms.
Two white whales.
"Ice Release: One-Horned White Whale."
The creatures surged forward, massive and unstoppable.
"Remember this moment," Weaver said softly, his voice carrying over the chaos. "It'll be the most memorable thing in your lives."
The whales crashed down.
The SUV exploded into fragments.
—
Among the criminal forces of Hell's Kitchen, Madam Gao was often considered the most "benevolent." Those who worked in her factories were given… purpose.
Their sight was taken.
Their freedom stripped.
And in return, they were granted endless labor.
From morning to night.
Every day.
It was exploitation perfected.
Today, however, that system was about to be disrupted.
Mikey stood inside the factory, his gaze sweeping across the workers. Blind eyes. Mechanical movements. Endless repetition.
At first, he had been confused.
Then he understood.
And anger surged through him.
This wasn't business.
This was cruelty.
"Cough… cough…"
A dry, aged voice broke the silence.
An old woman stepped forward, her face lined with wrinkles, her presence calm yet suffocating.
Madam Gao.
"Young man," she said gently, though her eyes remained cold, "what brings you to my factory?"
Mikey lifted his head, a grin spreading across his face.
"I'm here to destroy it."
Her expression darkened instantly.
"Is there no room for negotiation?" she asked, a dangerous edge slipping into her tone.
"No."
Mikey's voice was firm, unwavering.
"This human trafficking operation ends tonight."
He clenched his fists, energy building within him.
"And I'm doing it because it's an order."
"An order?"
Gao's gaze sharpened slightly.
"From who?"
.....
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