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The silver car screeched to a halt beside the smoldering wreck.
Three men with machine guns jumped out, unleashing a hail of bullets at the burned-out vehicle. Shell casings rattled across the pavement as they emptied their magazines, but when police sirens echoed in the distance, the shooters scrambled back into their car and sped away.
Once the chaos faded, on a side street nearby, Ferdinand clung to a lamppost, retching violently.
"How do you feel?" John asked, watching him with a hint of amusement.
Ferdinand wiped his mouth, his face as pale as chalk. "It felt like someone stuffed me into a pipe, squeezed me from the inside, and flushed me out like a toilet."
"With descriptions like that, you should consider a career in literature," John said, giving him a thumbs-up.
Ferdinand glared at him, too miserable to appreciate the joke. He bent over and vomited again, feeling as if his insides might come out.
John watched the silver car disappear down the street. "Looks like someone in Hell's Kitchen is getting restless."
The person who had once targeted his father was now sending a warning to him. But this time, it was not the Ten Rings Gang making the move. Perhaps they had their own problems to deal with now.
Ferdinand continued to retch, groaning between breaths.
John shook his head. "It was just Apparition. Young Muggles are always dramatic. If you do it a few more times, you'll get used to it."
Ferdinand finally straightened up, his eyes glassy. "Boss, how did I get here? I don't remember anything after the explosion."
"Oh, just a little trick," John replied, slipping a green bill into Ferdinand's pocket. He raised his hand, and a yellow taxi pulled up to the curb. "Your shift is over for today."
He bundled Ferdinand into the back seat, and the taxi roared off, leaving John alone on the sidewalk.
John stood for a moment, then drew his wand from his coat. "Time to see who's behind this."
In the distance, the police arrived at the scene of the explosion, searching for any sign of the attackers or survivors. They found nothing.
"Mission complete."
Inside the silver car, the aftermath was being reported.
The man in the passenger seat spoke into his phone, his tone flat. "Yes, there are no survivors. Not even one."
The car rolled to a stop beneath a viaduct. The man ended the call and glanced at the killer in the back seat. "Your job is done."
The two assassins were still buzzing with adrenaline.
Without warning, the man in the passenger seat pulled out a silenced pistol. Two soft pops echoed in the car.
The driver turned, terror in his eyes. "I won't say a word, I swear—"
"Sorry. There are no survivors," the man repeated, and pulled the trigger again.
Blood sprayed across the window.
The man stepped out calmly, fetched a can of gasoline from the trunk, and doused the car and the bodies inside. He placed a cigarette between his lips, struck a match, and inhaled deeply. When the flame licked his fingers, he flicked the match into the car.
The fire caught instantly, flames leaping high and devouring the evidence.
Standing a safe distance away, the man watched the blaze, the wind ruffling his brown hair. He did not toss the cigarette butt aside but pinched it out between his fingers, crushed it, and slipped it into his pocket before turning to walk back toward Hell's Kitchen.
He sighed, hands in his pockets, a shadow drifting through the city's darkness. "So many young lives, gone just like that."
He vanished into the night, a ghost with no home.
*********
In a mansion overlooking Hell's Kitchen, a tall man in a white suit set his phone down with deliberate care. His body was broad, almost bloated, but his presence filled the room.
Behind him, a bespectacled man stood silently. He knew this man better than anyone and could sense the excitement simmering beneath the calm surface.
"Are we really going to pay them?" the man with glasses asked quietly.
The tall man turned, his gaze cold. "We keep our promises. But this is the last time."
The bespectacled man nodded and left the room.
Alone, the tall man looked out over the city. Ambition burned in his eyes. He had been born here, grown up here, and committed his first crime here. He had clawed his way up from nothing to become a kingpin of the underworld.
But he wanted more. Much more.
He needed more power, more influence, and more energy to fuel his rise.
"Wick," he murmured to the glass, seeing his reflection half in shadow. "The death of the Wick family's son will shake that old man. This is a chance to take his place. My ambition will cover all of New York, the country, and the world."
His face was half-hidden in darkness, but his intentions were clear.
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Elsewhere, Matt Murdock practiced with his cane, the movements sharp and precise, every swing filled with controlled violence. Stick had taught him these moves, techniques meant for killing. But Matt had his own code. As a lawyer, he believed in the law above all. As a Catholic, he believed in redemption. The Murdock family had its demons, but Matt refused to let his become a monster.
He finished his warm-up, sweat running down his face. He clicked his cane together, transforming it into a simple walking stick. After wiping his brow, he pulled on the mask that hid his identity.
It was time for Matt the lawyer to sleep and Daredevil to wake up.
Matt stood on the rooftop, listening to the city's chaos. Somewhere in the distance, a scream was swallowed by the night. He turned and ran toward it, leaping across rooftops with the ease of long practice.
He was almost there.
"Stop!" Matt! he shouted as he dropped down from a fire escape. The criminal paused, startled.
"Out for a walk?" came a familiar voice.
Matt recognized it immediately. "Superheroes really do spend most of their time at night," John said, releasing the battered thug and wiping blood from his knuckles. "Don't you guys ever sleep?"
"Mr. Wick?" Matt's nose wrinkled at the scent of blood. "Care to explain?"
"Nothing much. On my way home, this guy tried to blow up my car with an RPG." John shrugged. "I'm just asking who sent him."
"Another assassination attempt?" Matt asked.
"Not the first time," John replied, looking almost bored.
Matt realized he had interrupted John's interrogation, not a mugging. "I can help. I can tell if he's lying."
"No need." John tossed away a bloodstained handkerchief. "I already know the answer. Don't forget, I can do magic."
He shook his head. "This guy is a retired special forces soldier. His boss paid him a lot, but there was one condition: no survivors."
John looked down at the dying man. "Fisk. Do you know him?"
Matt frowned, thinking. "I've heard the name."
"Looks like we'll need to investigate. But don't worry—he's about to use that gun on himself."
The man, barely conscious, pulled a pistol from his waistband. Matt tensed, but John just watched.
A gunshot rang out. The man slumped, blood pooling beneath him.
John's face was calm. Matt was troubled.
"He was a good father," John said quietly. "But not a good man."
"You could have stopped him," Matt said. "Why didn't you?"
"Why would I save someone who tried to kill me?" John raised an eyebrow. "You don't expect me to repay violence with kindness, do you?"
Matt was silent.
"Now that we have our answer, the game continues." John stretched, twirling his wand. "By the way, the FBI will probably contact you about my car explosion. Just say I was not in the car."
He waved goodbye and disappeared into the night.
Matt waited a moment, then left as well.
The assassination made the news. The next morning, the story of the explosion was all over the city.
John looked at his right hand, now covered in a thin layer of silver. "The fusion of two pieces of Uru metal makes the magic flow even better."
He raised his finger, and his phone floated into his hand. Natasha's name flashed on the screen.
He answered, and her voice came through, sounding relieved. "It seems you survived that explosion after all."
"Not even close," John replied with a smile. "Maybe next time."
"What did you get out of it?" Natasha asked, ignoring his joke. "You wouldn't get hit like that for no reason."
"You're sharp, Miss Romanoff."
The silver faded from John's hand, forming a ring on his finger. "If you can use SHIELD to check on Wilson Fisk for me, I'll give you a raise."
"Wilson Fisk?" Natasha's tone grew serious. "Was he behind the assassination?"
"If that PTSD-ridden veteran could lie to me, maybe not. But I doubt it."
"Do you know him?" John asked.
Natasha glanced at Barton, who was standing nearby, and shook her head. "I don't know him personally, but in the FBI files, there's someone codenamed Kingpin. I always suspected it was him."
"Kingpin is part of the hotel system. If it's him, it makes sense."
The ones who benefit most from the disappearance of the underground boss are those under the hotel system. Kingpin was one of the largest underground forces in New York and a member of the High Table. He was ambitious and controlled many factions. It was not impossible for him to take over the Underground Alliance after Watson Wick left.
John listened to Natasha's analysis, stroking his chin.
"You don't seem to be working today, Miss Romanoff."
Natasha smiled. "I'm your assistant, not the company's, remember?"
"Right."
John hung up.
A faint smile lingered on Natasha's lips as she put away her phone.
From across the room, Barton watched and asked, "Boyfriend?"
"No, nothing like that," Natasha replied, rolling her eyes. "He's even more reckless than Tony Stark."
Barton looked sympathetic. "The director always gives you the tough jobs."
Far away, Fury's face darkened as if he had heard them talking about him.
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