There are people in this world that money cannot buy.
They have their own principles and their own loyalties.
They have noble spirits and stubborn tempers.
But at this moment, in Hell's Kitchen, in this place where the lines between right and wrong blur, money plays a greater role than force.
Here, most people have shed the moral codes and principles that guide ordinary lives. The allure of money is overwhelming.
That is why John likes to use it.
It is exactly what he has in abundance.
If Matt were here, as a masked vigilante, he would have chosen to solve things with swift justice.
But John's money made the four men in front of him fall silent.
One of them shifted uncomfortably and said, "Sorry, sir, we cannot break the rules."
Even the lowest street gangsters, when faced with enough money, will hesitate.
"How much do you make a month?" John asked, tossing a stack of bills to the man. He stepped closer, pressing his finger against the man's chest. "Here is five thousand dollars. I want my car back. That is all."
"Are you afraid of Viper Gang's retribution?" John asked, his voice soft but sharp. "Then I will give you one last chance."
The man opened his mouth several times, but the words died in his throat.
John reached into his pocket again. Foggy's eyes widened. Was that pocket connected to a vault? How could there be so much money in there?
"Fifty thousand dollars," John said, holding up the cash and glancing at the others. "Who is willing to risk fifty thousand dollars? Think about your children's school fees, your mother's hospital bills, and your own small pleasures."
With every word, the expressions on their faces shifted.
Finally, all eyes turned to the man John had been speaking to.
"One last chance," John said quietly. "Who is willing to take it?"
"I-I will!" The man with short hair and a floral shirt rushed forward, pleading with the man blocking John. "Rand, my child has leukemia. I need the money."
"Shut up!" Rand shouted, his anger barely contained. "You are breaking the rules!"
John clapped his hands and said meaningfully, "It seems your salary is higher than your friends'. Or do you think he should let his child die just to follow your rules?"
"Rand, you are loyal, but you are not a good friend."
The other two men's eyes changed.
The man who had been scolded grew angrier. "So that is what you think, Rand? Damn you!"
"You do not have a sick child, or an old parent, or a wife who needs care. It is easy for you to deny others a chance to change."
John's words were like a devil's whisper, stoking the anger in the group.
Foggy pulled at John's arm, fear in his eyes. What was John doing?
Ferdinand, watching, remembered the time John had stabbed his hand. That same madness was back.
The tension snapped. Rand reached for his walkie-talkie to call for backup, but the desperate father exploded. He shoved Rand against the wall, pulled a switchblade from his pocket, and stabbed Rand in the stomach.
Again and again.
His inner demon was unleashed.
When the walkie-talkie clattered to the floor, Rand's face was already covered in blood.
A murder, right in front of the innocent lawyer Foggy.
There was no turning back.
Foggy remembered Matt's warning: This man is very dangerous.
John walked up behind the trembling man and gently placed his hand on his shoulder.
The panting man quieted, soothed like a wild animal.
He stared at the dead Rand in horror, unable to believe what he had done.
He was terrified. Now that he had killed a member of the Viper Gang, he would surely be hunted.
"Shh-" John helped him up and raised a finger to his lips. "You are brave. Yes, brave."
John used a hundred-dollar bill to wipe the blood from the blade, then took the knife from the man's hand.
"I-I killed someone," the man stammered, his mind in chaos.
"No, no, no," John said, patting his shoulder with approval. "What I saw was not a criminal, but an angry father. You are a warrior. Your son is lucky to have a father who would do anything for him."
The man's panic eased. He needed someone to excuse him, even if it was a lie.
He looked at John, desperate. "Is it true?"
John turned him toward the other two men. "Ask them, would they risk everything for the ones they love?"
The two witnesses were tense, shocked that such a mild man could kill.
"Life forces you to go astray," John whispered, pressing the promised money into the man's hand. "Now, you must learn to change."
"They are not Rand. They are like you. You know what you must do. They are your people. Think about your child. He has many years ahead, and he will need you."
John let go, and the man looked at the money, then at his companions.
He took out a portion and handed it to the other two. "I will use the rest—some for my child's treatment, some for Rand's family, and the rest for our business."
He watched as fear gave way to hesitation in their eyes. "I hope you will join me. The Viper Gang is no longer a place for us. We can go somewhere else. Harold, your mother needs care in a nursing home. Vincent, your father-in-law needs you to prove yourself."
The two men fell silent. Each had their own burdens.
Finally, they reached out. "Thank you, Gil."
They accepted the invitation, and the desperate father found a new path.
John watched, smiling.
"Now, there is one last thing you need to do."
He walked to the door and pushed it open. "Let me in."
The three men stepped aside.
Foggy hurried to catch up, disbelief etched on his face.
"What are you doing?" he whispered, horrified. "You are instigating a crime!"
"What are you talking about, Foggy?" John smiled. "I did nothing."
"I saw it!" Foggy pointed at the closing door. "A murderer was just born!"
John stopped and blinked. "So I killed someone?"
"You—no, no." Foggy felt the breath leave his chest.
"Some people cannot be saved by the law," John said, descending the stairs to the Death Race. "Check Rand's record. You will find his death is more useful than his life."
His words hung in the air.
Foggy's expression shifted several times before he finally snorted, "I will."
He understood now: the only way out was to follow John. This man loved to play with people's hearts. Life, to him, was a game.
Behind the door, a staircase led down to the underground club.
Inside, it was a riot of noise and color.
With the fall of Hell and Heaven, new guests had come to the illegal zone known as Satan's Mansion.
Absorbing the resources of Hell and Heaven, Corey, the owner of Satan's Mansion, had become the new boss of Hell's Kitchen.
Not everyone knew what had happened that night.
Corey had heard it was the Night Stalker—Daredevil—who had done it.
Almost everyone in the underworld immediately thought of the masked vigilante. Corey did not like Daredevil. Few in Hell's Kitchen did.
In the room, massive windows looked out over the racetrack. A two-meter-long striped snake slithered over dead branches. A man with a snake tattoo sprawled in a chair, enjoying the company of a woman from the red-light district.
"Damn Daredevil," Corey cursed. "If he had not ruined my business, Madam Gao would not have reprimanded me."
He had taken over the contraband trade from Hell and Heaven. Madam Gao did not care who sold her goods, as long as they were safe.
But Corey, now targeted by Daredevil, was under suspicion. He used human couriers and ran deals through the Death Race.
Everything had been smooth until Daredevil found out and crashed the party, ruining another business.
"The Russians still need to move the girls. Daredevil cost me more than ten grand today."
Corey grew angrier. He pushed the woman away and stared out the window.
"Tonight's Death Race had better make me rich!"
The striped snake hissed and slid down the branch. The woman screamed as the snake approached. Corey laughed, enjoying the panic.
Meanwhile, in a neon-lit corridor, a series of low, pained moans echoed.
Matt was drenched in sweat, his shirt torn, his breathing ragged. His fists moved in a steady rhythm, pounding an attacker's head until the man collapsed. Matt staggered back, leaning against the wall, blood dripping from his hands.
He was not a superman. He had fought wave after wave of men, surviving only by sheer willpower.
He pressed on, wounds burning, telling himself, "Keep going, Matt."
The stench from a nearby room drew his attention. The so-called Death Race was a front for trafficking. The game was rigged; only the house ever won. Losers were discarded and drained of every last use.
Matt opened a door and recoiled at the pungent odor. Inside, a bag of contraband sat waiting for transport. He grabbed it and hurried out, only to be confronted by another group. After a brutal fight, he escaped, another scar added to his collection.
He stumbled into a bathroom, blood seeping from his wounds, and locked himself in a stall.
"Fudge, wait for me here."
"Where are you going?"
"Bathroom."
He heard footsteps approaching, stopping outside his stall.
"I think you need help," a voice said.
The bag dropped from Matt's hand with a dull thud.
He opened the door, pale and weary. "Yes, I need help."
"Mr. Wick."