Clint Barton's accusation hung in the air, sharp and unyielding, but Locke didn't react with anger. Instead, he met it with calm indifference, as if the weight of those words meant nothing to him at all. "I've killed a lot of people," he said evenly, his tone steady, "but tell me—how many of them were actually innocent?"
Clint's jaw tightened. He didn't hesitate to push back, his voice firm with conviction. "Even if they're guilty, does that mean they all deserve to die? No matter how serious their crimes are, they still deserve a trial. That's how justice works."
Locke gave a slow shake of his head, like someone who had already heard that argument a thousand times and found it hollow every time. "If the law could truly judge every evil person in this world," he replied, "I wouldn't need to exist." His gaze drifted toward the horizon, where the last glow of sunset bled into the darkening sky. "The law doesn't exist to punish crime. It exists to maintain order. And more often than not, it protects the order of the powerful while judging the weak."
He paused briefly, letting that sink in before continuing, his voice quieter but no less firm. "I don't care how S.H.I.E.L.D. sees me—whether you think I'm a monster or a savior makes no difference. Just don't interfere while I clean this world." His tone sharpened slightly. "And if S.H.I.E.L.D. itself is guilty… then it'll be part of that cleanup too."
He turned his head one last time, his eyes landing on Natasha. There was no hostility in his gaze, only a cold sense of finality. "Find Dreykov. Fix what you broke. Earn your redemption."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away.
Clint watched his retreating figure, irritation burning in his chest. In his mind, he scoffed at the arrogance. You think you can clean up S.H.I.E.L.D.? While we're carrying the weight of everything we've done? Who do you think you are? He exhaled sharply, crossing his arms as frustration lingered. Next time, he promised himself, he wouldn't just stand there. Next time, he'd put an arrow straight through that smug confidence.
From a distance, Phil Coulson observed everything in silence, his expression tightening slightly. One of his agents approached, reporting that Tony Stark was about to leave the surveillance zone. Coulson considered it for a moment before giving a simple order. "Let him go."
Right now, Stark wasn't the problem. Natasha and Clint were.
The Budapest operation had once marked Natasha's loyalty—a turning point that led to her recruitment into the Strategic Homeland Defense, Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. But now, that very foundation was being questioned. If her allegiance was compromised, then everything tied to it became unstable.
And Clint… Clint was already tangled in this mess.
Coulson rubbed his temple, a faint headache forming as the situation spiraled. Two of their best agents caught in uncertainty. It wasn't something he could ignore. He wanted to trust them—he did—but trust wasn't enough. Not when the stakes were this high.
A familiar voice echoed in his mind, stern and unrelenting. An agent must question everything.
He sighed, knowing there was no avoiding it. This had to be reported.
The line connected after a brief series of tones.
"Coulson," came the voice on the other end, impatient and sharp. "What's the status of the operation? Did you catch that bastard poisoner, or are you about to disappoint me again?"
Coulson hesitated for a fraction of a second before answering. "Sir… we have a situation."
He laid everything out clearly, not omitting a single detail. When he finished, silence stretched across the line for several long seconds. Then—
"Damn it! Fuck!"
The outburst exploded through the receiver.
…
Elsewhere, Locke opened his system interface, his gaze settling on a newly flashing section labeled Creed: Kill to Gain Redemption. The glow pulsed faintly, drawing his attention.
A notification followed.
[Congratulations. The System Gift Function has been unlocked.]
[The host may now transfer acquired upgrade sources, bloodlines, skills, and abilities to others.]
[Condition: The recipient must believe in the Creed.]
Locke stared at the message, then let out a quiet scoff. He barely had enough power for himself as it was. Giving it away wasn't just inefficient—it was ridiculous.
And believers? That was an even bigger problem. This wasn't exactly the kind of ideology people signed up for casually.
By the time he returned to Emma Church, night had already fallen. After a quick meal and a shower, he stretched out on his bed, letting the fatigue of the day settle into his muscles. The quiet didn't last long.
Close to midnight, the person he had been waiting for finally arrived.
A figure moved silently across the exterior, landing lightly on the balcony before slipping inside with practiced ease. She navigated the dim interior without hesitation and stopped at his half-open door before stepping in.
"Master," she said softly, lowering her head. "I've arrived."
Locke didn't move, his voice calm. "Close the door."
She did as instructed, and only then did he look at her properly. Gone was the heavy, exaggerated makeup she used to wear. Tonight, her appearance was different—cleaner, softer, almost deceptively innocent.
"Come here," he said, gesturing toward the bed. "Sit. Tell me everything… about the Hand."
She obeyed without hesitation, her posture respectful. As one of The Hand's insiders—under Madame Gao—she had access to information few others could obtain.
"Master," she began, her voice lowering, "I've learned something important. The Hand is planning something big."
…
In a lavish manor on the outskirts of the city, a massive office stood bathed in dim light.
A soft click echoed as a cigar was lit.
"Hiss… ha…"
Wilson Fisk exhaled slowly, smoke curling through the air. Normally, that first draw brought satisfaction. Tonight, there was none.
Beside him, Wesley stood stiffly, concern etched into his face. "Boss… are we really pulling out of New York?"
Fisk's eyes darkened, his voice heavy with something deeper than simple frustration. "Wesley… the world has changed."
Wesley frowned. "It's just one guy. We've dealt with vigilantes before. Daredevil didn't scare us."
Fisk shook his head slowly. "You don't understand. The reason organizations like ours survive isn't just money or weapons or manpower. It's because we operate outside the rules."
He stepped forward slightly, his tone growing more serious. "Daredevil is dangerous, yes—but he still follows rules. His morals bind him. He won't cross certain lines."
A brief silence followed before Fisk continued, his voice dropping.
"But this Devil… he has no rules. He goes further than we ever would."
He paused, his expression hardening as realization settled in fully. "Powerful people have always been constrained in some way. That's what allowed us to exist in the first place. But now… there's something out there that ignores every boundary and feeds on us."
His fingers tightened slightly around the cigar. "If he keeps going, then every gang in New York is heading toward its darkest era."
Wesley inhaled slowly, unsettled by the weight of those words. He couldn't quite accept it, but he also couldn't dismiss it entirely.
A sudden ringing cut through the tension.
The phone.
Fisk didn't move. Wesley stepped forward and picked it up, recognizing the voice immediately.
It was Madame Gao.
At Fisk's gesture, the call was put on speaker.
Her voice came through—shrill, sharp, filled with anger. "Kingpin, the Hand has suffered heavy losses. We demand revenge."
…
Hours later, in a hidden room, Fisk stood before a restrained figure.
Chains rattled softly as the captive struggled.
It was Daredevil.
Fisk's expression shifted, genuine surprise flickering across his face. The Hand had actually managed to capture him.
The moment Daredevil recognized him, rage exploded.
"Kingpin! You bastard! What did you do to Elektra? Where is she?!"
Fisk glanced down at the discarded mask on the floor, then back at the man before him. "So the famous Daredevil… is blind."
There was a hint of amusement in his voice now. "And not just that—you're a lawyer. I have to admit, that's almost as surprising as hearing you'd been captured."
Daredevil strained against his restraints, his voice raw. "Where is Elektra?! What did you do to her?!"
Fisk's patience thinned. "You enforce the law by day and break it by night. Tell me—when you send criminals to prison, do you ever imagine yourself standing in their place?"
"Where is Elektra, you bastard?!"
Fisk's irritation flared. "Elektra, Elektra… is she really that important to you? Are you a hero, or just a man chasing romance?"
Daredevil's breathing steadied slightly, but his tone remained fierce. "You wouldn't understand. She was controlled—manipulated into betraying me. I'm going to save her. If I can't even protect the person I love, then what kind of hero am I?"
Fisk went quiet.
For a brief moment, something shifted in his expression—something almost like understanding.
Yes… he understood that feeling far too well.
"The Hand uses women to break men," he said slowly. "A disgusting tactic."
A faint silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts.
Then a voice cut in from the side.
"Kingpin… you're not seriously sympathizing with him, are you?"
....
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