Nolan had finally discovered the location of Kingpin's stronghold.
But time was not on his side.
He had no choice but to temporarily withdraw, putting that knowledge aside for now.
Fortunately, his rampage the previous night would not immediately raise Fisk's suspicions. After all, Nolan's attacks had been indiscriminate. By dawn, more than a hundred gangsters lay dead, their blood soaking the gutters of Hell's Kitchen. Only one of them had any real tie to Fisk's empire.
To Fisk, it would look like nothing more than a random storm of violence.
And after such a massacre, the entire Hell's Kitchen was locked down under emergency measures. Tension gripped the streets. Gangs moved carefully, patrols doubled, and every shadow felt heavier than the last.
Fisk would never imagine that someone, in the midst of this chaos, would still dare to come directly for him.
At the same time, deep beneath the city, Fisk was indulging in one of his darker hobbies.
He stood inside a steel cage, a makeshift arena drenched in the scent of blood. The bars were caked with dried stains, thick brown patches of death that no scrubbing could ever erase. Even from dozens of feet away, the copper tang of blood clung to the air, suffocating and metallic.
This was not a fight meant for entertainment. There was no cheering audience, no gamblers waving bills in excitement. The cage existed solely for one reason to satisfy Fisk himself.
Though his massive frame appeared bloated under his usual suits, now, shirtless inside the cage, his physique was revealed for what it truly was. His body was not soft, but carved with heavy muscle, like an ancient statue brought to life.
Seven or eight fighters entered the cage hesitantly, their eyes betraying a mix of fury, fear, and desperation. Each one had a reputation somewhere in the world. Champions of their disciplines. Masters of their arts. Yet here, they were nothing but prey.
Fisk's cold voice echoed off the cage walls.
"There is only one way out of here," he said, his lips curling into a cruel grin. "Kill me."
His eyes glinted with madness.
This was his ritual. A private pleasure. Every week, he gathered the best fighters money or leverage could bring. And every week, they died.
The floor was a graveyard of names forgotten, men who had once been legends in their fields but now lay rotting beneath concrete.
One of the fighters, a Muay Thai specialist with calloused fists and a scarred face, suddenly shouted in defiance.
"I will not kill for your amusement!"
His voice trembled with a mix of rage and despair. He had only agreed to come because his younger sister had been kidnapped. She was his only family, his reason for living. He had hoped compliance would ensure her safety.
But Fisk did not tolerate hope.
With a gesture, one of his men dragged a woman into view. The fighter's eyes widened.
"Little sister!"
Before he could take a step forward, the thunder of a gunshot cracked the air.
The girl collapsed instantly, her lifeblood seeping into the filthy floor.
The Muay Thai fighter froze. For a moment, the world went silent inside his skull.
Then rage consumed him.
"I'll kill you!" he roared, his muscles coiling with fury.
Muay Thai was born for war. Its reputation was forged in brutality. He had never taken a life before, but he had broken men, crippled them with ease. Tonight, he would kill.
He charged at Fisk, fist swinging like a hammer, the strike powerful enough to drop a bear.
But Fisk did not flinch.
The punch landed squarely on his abdomen with a sickening thud. For a moment, the fighter thought he had won. Surely no man could take that hit unscathed.
Then he saw Fisk's eyes cold, unblinking, filled with cruel amusement.
Before he could recover, Fisk's massive hand shot out, gripping him like a child's toy. With terrifying strength, Fisk hurled him across the cage.
The fighter's body slammed into the bars, bones snapping audibly. He crumpled to the ground, unmoving.
Gasps filled the cage.
The other fighters stared, their courage draining from their bodies. To them, Fisk no longer looked like a man. He was a beast wearing human skin.
"Pathetic," Fisk spat, dismissing the corpse with contempt.
Then his gaze swept across the others. Some clutched blades, others brandished swords. All of them trembled.
"Kill me," he growled, his voice carrying the weight of death itself, "or I kill you."
Desperation tipped into madness. They knew there was no escape. One man cursed in broken English, rallying the rest.
"Fine! Kill him!"
They rushed as one, weapons flashing, feet pounding against steel.
But Fisk moved with terrifying speed, belying his size. His fists became sledgehammers, his kicks like wrecking balls. In less than half a minute, the cage floor was littered with bodies.
Blood dripped down Fisk's arms, not his own but theirs.
He scowled, turning to the man who had arranged the fight.
"Leland," he barked, "these are the champions you bring me? This is the best you can find?"
Leland Owlsley, the Owl, lifted his hands helplessly.
"Boss, these were the strongest I could gather. Masters of their arts, every one of them. But… you are simply stronger."
Fisk sneered.
Owlsley continued quickly, "There's another matter. The drug shipment last night it was completely destroyed. Everyone involved was slaughtered."
Fisk's heavy steps echoed as he approached the edge of the cage. His massive hand gripped the iron bars. With casual strength, he tore a gap into the steel, shredding it as if it were paper.
Owlsley didn't even flinch. He was used to such displays.
Most believed Fisk's power came from his intellect, his cunning strategies that bent New York's underworld to his will. But those who truly knew him understood the truth.
He was a monster in flesh.
Lions and tigers would be crushed under his fists. Stone and steel crumbled before his grip. Fisk rarely displayed his physical might, but that did not mean it was absent.
He was the apex of human strength.
"Tell me what happened," he demanded, his tone deceptively calm.
But beneath that calm burned an anger so suffocating that even Owlsley, notorious for his ruthlessness, felt his chest tighten.
Owlsley forced himself to speak. "We found mechanical fragments at the scene. Based on prior investigations… we believe the incident is tied to Roxon Technologies."
Fisk's brows furrowed.
Nolan Locke.
After Bullseye's death, Fisk had ordered a full investigation into the man. His network of spies spanned both the criminal world and the legitimate one. The picture that emerged was unsettling.
It seemed Nolan possessed a hidden force, a power no one had yet quantified.
Still, Fisk was undeterred. He was the Kingpin. The ruler of the underworld. No one broke his rules.
"Do you want me to strike back?" Owlsley asked cautiously.
Fisk considered, then shook his head slowly. "Not yet."
His eyes darkened. To him, Nolan Locke was not a true threat.
Bullseye had been competent, but in Fisk's estimation, even he would not have lasted a heartbeat in this cage. Killing him proved little.
"I've heard whispers," Fisk said, his lips curling into a smile. "A clan of ninjas wants entry into New York. Arrange a meeting. Nothing comes without a price."
Though Fisk wielded brute force like a weapon, his true game was always one of intellect. He would use pawns, pressure, and patience to break his enemies.
As he spoke, his fist slammed against a steel pillar of the cage.
Bang!
The metal dented inward under the sheer force.
Owlsley's eyes widened despite himself.
Fisk's grin widened.
Meanwhile, Nolan had returned to his company.
For now, Fisk could wait.
Morning had arrived, and with it came business. Nolan summoned Simon Phillips into his office, speaking with a firm tone.
"Simon, I intend to reorganize our security division."
Phillips blinked in surprise. "But the current team is reliable. They've done well."
Nolan shook his head.
"Roxon Technologies is no longer just another corporation. We are a defense contractor. What we need are not rent-a-cops who can patrol a parking lot. We need soldiers. Men who've seen war. Warriors who know blood. In this, there can be no compromise."
He tapped the desk with his knuckles, eyes steady.
"As for the head of security… I already have someone in mind."
Frank Castle.
The Punisher.
Nolan intended to recruit him personally.
By afternoon, Nolan had already tracked down the address.
He arrived at a modest home, its walls plain, its yard small but carefully kept. He knocked on the door, and it was answered by a gentle-looking woman.
"Hello," Nolan said politely, his voice calm but direct. "I'm here to see Frank Castle."
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