[AUTHOR NOTE: Just one more review for 1 extra chapter. It is 4 now.]
[Constantine Consulting - Late Night]
Matt Murdock's grip on John's collar was iron-tight, his knuckles white beneath the red gloves.
"Stop changing the subject," Matt growled, his voice a low rumble. "You know exactly what I'm asking."
John didn't flinch. He looked down at the hand bunching up his trench coat with an expression of mild distaste.
"Okay, okay. Keep your horns on."
John took a slow drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke directly into the cowl's faceplate.
"Melvin Potter."
Matt froze.
"I think you're quite familiar with that name," John drawled. "Your suit is a masterpiece, mate. Kevlar weave, lightweight plating... there are very few tailors in this city with that kind of craftsmanship. And fewer still who don't ask questions."
John smirked.
"A simple investigation. Connect the tailor to the client. It wasn't hard to figure out who was wearing the devil suit."
"Mr. Matt."
John raised his hand and casually peeled Matt's fingers off his collar, as if removing a sticky child. He smoothed out the wrinkles in his coat with exaggerated care.
"Now, Mr. Murdock. Do you still require my services? Because if not..."
John checked his watch.
"I have better places to be. A beautiful night belongs to beautiful women, not to brooding men in spandex."
Without waiting for a response, John stepped around the stunned vigilante. He unlocked the door, stepped out into the rain-slicked street, and walked away, whistling a tune.
Matt stood alone in the dim office.
He slowly holstered his billy club. He felt... adrift.
'A hero's weapon cannot be pointed at ordinary people.'
John was right. He was just an information broker. A sleazy one, perhaps, but not a criminal. Matt couldn't beat the silence out of him.
But the leak was real. If John could find Melvin, the Kingpin could too.
"Melvin..." Matt whispered.
He turned and vanished into the shadows. He had to warn the tailor. The silence of Hell's Kitchen wasn't peace; it was the deep breath before the scream.
[Hell's Kitchen - The Industrial District]
An hour later, a different kind of predator entered the Kitchen.
Sebas Tian walked down the filth-strewn alleyway. In a neighborhood of rags and grease, he was a vision of perfection. His butler's uniform was immaculate, his posture rigid, his silver beard trimmed to the millimeter.
He didn't belong here. He looked like a nobleman who had taken a wrong turn.
But Sebas walked with purpose.
"It is quiet," Sebas observed softly. "Too quiet."
He stopped in front of a derelict canning factory. The windows were boarded up, the doors rusted shut. To the average passerby, it was empty.
But Sebas was not average. He was a Dragonoid.
His ears twitched. Through the brick and mortar, he heard it. The faint, muffled sound of weeping. The rhythmic strike of pickaxes.
Sebas's eyes narrowed, losing their grandfatherly warmth.
"As expected," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "No matter which world it is... slavery still exists."
He stepped into the factory, the rusted door groaning as he pushed it open with a single finger.
Inside, the warehouse was barren, filled only with rotting crates and dust.
Sebas closed his eyes.
[Fourth-Tier Magic: True Vision]
A soft, golden light flared in his pupils. The mundane world peeled away.
The illusions hiding the tracks on the floor dissolved. The false wall in the corner vanished, revealing a gaping, dark tunnel leading underground.
Sebas walked to the edge of the pit. He didn't look for a ladder. He stepped off the ledge.
Thud.
He landed twenty feet down, his leather shoes making barely a sound on the concrete. He dusted off a speck of dirt from his lapel and walked deeper into the darkness.
The tunnel opened into a massive subterranean cavern.
The air smelled of copper and rot.
Sebas took in the scene, and for the first time since arriving in this world, his composure cracked.
It was Hell.
Dozens of humans, dressed in rags, were swinging pickaxes at a massive fossil embedded in the rock wall. But they weren't just slaves.
Their eyes had been gouged out. Their ears had been punctured.
They were blind, deaf cattle, working until they dropped.
Surrounding them were guards dressed in black shinobi shozoku—ninjas of The Hand.
"Move faster!"
A tall Black man in a pristine white suit stood on a raised platform, shouting orders. This was Sowanda, one of the Five Fingers of The Hand.
"Madame Gao has located the Dragon Bone," Sowanda barked. "We need more manpower for the excavation. Tell the surface teams to speed up the delivery. The current batch is dying too quickly."
Sebas stood at the tunnel exit, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Excuse me."
The polite voice cut through the noise of the pickaxes.
The ninjas froze. Sowanda spun around on his heel.
Standing in the filth was an elderly butler, looking as out of place as a diamond in a sewer.
Sowanda's eyes narrowed. He hadn't heard the man approach. That was impossible.
"Sir," Sowanda said, his voice smooth but dangerous. "You seem to have lost your way. This is private property."
"No," Sebas replied, his voice calm, yet carrying a terrifying weight. "I believe I am exactly where I need to be."
Sebas looked at the blinded slaves, and then back at Sowanda.
"I have a request. Would you be so kind as to liberate these people? Or must I be... impolite?"
Sowanda chuckled. It was a cold, cruel sound. He sensed power in the old man, but he was a leader of The Hand. He feared no one.
"Impolite?" Sowanda sneered. "Old man, do you know where you are?"
He waved his hand dismissively.
"Kill him."
Shing.
Fifty blades were drawn simultaneously.
The ninjas moved like smoke. They were the elite assassins of The Hand, trained to kill before the target even realized they were dead. They surged forward, a tidal wave of black cloth and steel.
Sebas Tian didn't move. He didn't take a stance. He simply adjusted his white glove.
"How foolish."
The first wave of ninjas reached him, their katanas swinging for his neck.
Sebas vanished.
He didn't teleport. He simply moved faster than the human eye—or the ninja eye—could track.
SPLAT.
A mist of red erupted into the air.
The four ninjas closest to Sebas didn't even scream. Their heads simply detached from their shoulders, spinning into the air.
Their headless bodies took another step forward due to momentum before crumpling to the ground like marionettes with their strings cut.
Sebas stood in the center of the carnage, not a single drop of blood on his white suit.
He looked at Sowanda, his eyes cold.
"Is that all?"
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