Daniel didn't need confirmation—this Elektra Natchios was the same girl he'd known before.
He'd already looked into her past. Officially, her father served as the Greek Consul in New York, dying in a so-called "accident." But Daniel knew what really happened. Hugo Natchios had crossed Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin, once an uneasy ally of Daniel's. It ended in betrayal and blood. Bullseye had pulled the trigger. It wasn't a car crash; it was murder.
Elektra had been there, trapped in the back seat—the moment her life changed forever. After that night, she vanished into the care of an old Hand rival, maybe one of those ancient orders fighting in the shadows. She became something else entirely: a weapon, sharpened for a purpose she hadn't chosen.
But somewhere along the way, she went back—to Fisk. The very man who'd destroyed her family.
Trying to hide that history, pretending at peace, only made Daniel uneasy. Elektra's presence at the diplomatic dinner tonight was a warning: she was working for Kingpin now.
And wherever Elektra showed up, chaos followed.
Embassy business banquets like this were usually careful, quiet—places for private alliances, not public aggression. Violence didn't break out by accident.
Unless someone wanted it to.
Daniel kept low-key, weaving through the clusters of diplomats and bigwigs with polite ease. His reputation as a rising academic—and the fact he was attached to Felicia Hardy—had already turned heads. By acting the perfect guest, he reassured the watchers in the room (and he always had watchers now). He wasn't looking for trouble, but he was always ready if it found him.
And he knew better than to rely on brute force with so many civilians and powerful enemies present. Even for a mage at his level, there were limits—he couldn't stop a rocket with his bare hands, and getting reckless meant burning every bridge to a "normal" life.
Influence wasn't just about muscle. By the end of the night, Daniel had a thick stack of business cards: politicians, CEOs, academics. Weak alone, but together, they meant access, leverage—power he could tap with a single call.
He guided Felicia out of the consulate as the party wound down. She swayed slightly, lips parted in a lazy smile, her gaze clouded by an act of tipsy amusement.
Daniel chuckled and lowered his voice. "You can stop pretending now—no one's tailing us."
The driver opened the car door, and Felicia slid in, waiting as Daniel joined her. When the doors closed and the car glided away, she let her mask drop.
"She's not what she seems," she murmured, head leaning against Daniel's shoulder. "Elektra. Trouble, through and through."
Daniel nodded. "She's too eager and too quick to act friendly."
"She thinks I'm all show," Felicia said, her tone sharp. "But I've dealt with people like her. And I'll never trust someone tied to Fisk."
Daniel quietly slid the soundproof panel shut between them and the driver, casting the back seat into a hush. He took Felicia's hand, lacing his fingers with hers. "Even a freshman wouldn't buy Elektra's act. She still plays by old rules. Doesn't see how the landscape's changed."
Felicia's smile was brief, not reaching her eyes. Her exit from the party—like everything else tonight—was tactical. She'd seen what she needed, made her connections. After this, calls would be made, subtle pressure put on the NYPD. Fisk wouldn't fall overnight, but he'd be pushed. And as he retreated, rivals and opportunists would smell weakness.
New York had never been patient with kings. Even the Kingpin's reign could crumble, if enough sharks circled.
But Daniel knew better than to count Fisk out. He was too smart, too stubborn—now with the Hand in his corner. Even worse? The Hardy family's history ran deeper still. Hydra-deep.
If those two powers ever crossed, things would get ugly. Fast.
Daniel's thoughts whirled, but his senses suddenly picked up something off.
The steady city rattle—all those familiar street and avenue sounds—had gone strangely silent.
Felicia noticed too. She sat up, eyes darting. "We're off route."
Without hesitation, Felicia reached under her seat and pulled out a pistol, already primed.
She rapped twice on the divider. "Jim? Where are we?"
Silence.
She tried the panel. It wouldn't budge.
Neither would the doors.
"What the—?" Felicia started, tension seeping into her voice.
Daniel stayed calm. He gently took the gun, checked the grip. "Seven rounds. Not bad, but—" He popped the magazine, checked the chamber, reloaded. Then, quick as thought, he pointed at the baffle and fired.
Felicia's breath stuttered. A shot in an armored car could have ricocheted—could have been lethal. But the bullet sailed through the steel like it was nothing.
"You're crazy!" Felicia hissed.
He rapped on the baffle, calm as ever. "We know you're listening. I can shoot through this. Stop the car, or next time I aim lower."
Felicia started to argue, but stopped. She saw it: this was Fisk's work. If they were caught, everything was at risk—for her and for her mother.
No answer.
Daniel shrugged, patience gone. He fired again, blowing a hole into the windshield. The glass cracked but held.
And that's when Daniel realized—there was no driver.
"He's gone," Daniel muttered.
Felicia had just enough time to stare, wide-eyed, before the limo jolted.
CRASH.
The car flew off the edge of the pier and plunged straight into the Hudson.
Water exploded past the glass, flooding in fast as the car plummeted beneath the surface.
Then came the gunfire.
Above, on the docks and piers, a dozen figures in black opened fire. Bullets riddled the car and churned the water, tearing through the river in a hail of deadly chaos—meant to leave nothing alive.
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