At night in Brooklyn, New York, a fine drizzle fell, and neon lights cast distorted reflections on the wet streets.
Foggy Nelson lay in a pool of blood that mingled with rainwater, forming a dark red stream on the ground.
Karen Page pressed her hands tightly against his chest, but warm blood continued to seep through her fingers.
"Help! Someone, help!"
Her voice was hoarse—almost inaudible—and tears blurred her vision.
Tat-tat-tat…
Just then, footsteps echoed from the darkness behind her.
Bullseye approached silently, his black combat uniform absorbing every trace of light. He looked down at Karen's trembling back, slowly raised his pistol, and twisted his mouth into a sick smile.
"Hi, Karen."
His voice scraped like a rusty blade across metal—cold, harsh, morbid, and deranged.
Karen whipped her head around, her pupils contracting sharply. The muzzle of the gun was pointed directly between her eyebrows.
Bang—!
A split second before the gunshot rang out, a red blur dropped from the sky. Matt Murdock's boot slammed into Bullseye's chest with a sickening crunch of bone.
Bullseye flew backward like a rag doll, crashing through the bar window and sending glass shards flying like shrapnel.
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
Chaos erupted inside the bar. Screams mingled with the crash of glasses and the clatter of overturned tables and chairs. Drunks shoved and stumbled toward the exits, tripping over one another in their panic. The entire place descended into pandemonium.
Bullseye slowly rose from the broken glass and casually plucked a shard from his shoulder. Blood dripped down his arm, but he didn't even flinch.
At some point, two throwing knives had appeared between his fingers.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
A cold glint flashed—and the throats of the three bartenders standing between him and Matt Murdock burst open in unison. As they collapsed, clutching their necks, Bullseye had already hurled a knife at Matt.
Swish!
Matt tilted his head. The blade grazed his earlobe and embedded itself in the wall behind him.
Shwa-shwa-shwa—!
The second and third knives followed in rapid succession. Matt weaved through the deadly arcs like a dancer, each movement precise to the millimeter.
"You're slowing down, Demon."
Bullseye's voice slithered like a venomous snake. Matt didn't answer. Instead, he hurled three smoke bombs. Thick smoke instantly filled the bar, blinding everyone inside.
The next second, Matt materialized behind Bullseye like a ghost and drove his elbow toward the back of the assassin's neck. But Bullseye—somehow sensing the strike—ducked and lunged upward, driving a dagger into Matt's ribs.
Ding! Ding! Ding—!
Metal clashed repeatedly as Matt's billy club deflected the blade. The two men fought blindly in the smoke, sparks flying with every impact.
Outside the bar, Foggy Nelson's breathing grew weaker. Karen's hands were soaked in blood, but she didn't dare let go.
"Hold on, Foggy… please—help—"
Her tears fell onto Foggy's pale face.
"The ambulance will take another twelve minutes."
A strange voice cut through the rain.
Karen looked up warily—and saw a handsome man with red hair tied in a high ponytail standing beside her. His windbreaker remained perfectly dry despite the downpour, as if shielded by an invisible barrier.
He placed a golden fruit on Foggy's chest. It exuded a warm, otherworldly fragrance, and faint lines of light pulsed softly across its surface.
"Give him this," the stranger said. "Or he won't survive until the ambulance arrives."
Seeing her friend gasping for breath, Karen Page didn't have time to think. She pried open Foggy's lips without hesitation and stuffed the fruit inside.
The flesh melted in his mouth, and golden juice trickled down the corners of Foggy Nelson's lips.
As soon as the fruit reached his stomach, the bleeding from Foggy Nelson's wound slowed noticeably, and his chest began to rise and fall more steadily. Though his face remained as pale as paper, at least his breathing had stabilized.
Karen looked up, relieved, eager to thank the mysterious red-haired man.
But by then, he had already stepped into the bar behind him. As he closed the door, he deliberately flipped the "Open" sign to "Temporarily Closed."
Inside the bar, the metallic tang of blood mingled with the sharp scent of alcohol.
Matt Murdock knelt on one knee, three throwing knives buried deep in his thigh, ribs, and right shoulder.
Blood seeped from his crimson suit, pooling into a dark red stream on the floor. Bullseye was in no better shape—his left arm bent at an unnatural angle, at least three ribs cracked, and blood steadily oozing from the corner of his mouth.
"You can take a beating better than I thought," Bullseye rasped, his voice rough as sandpaper. He limped forward, his boots crunching over shards of broken glass.
Matt didn't answer, his breaths coming in ragged, shallow gasps.
Without warning, Bullseye lunged. A flying knife slammed into Matt's shoulder. The blade twisted in a brutal arc, and the wet, sickening sound of tearing flesh made Karen wince from outside.
Matt groaned, veins bulging on his forehead—but his right hand shot out and yanked the dagger from his ribs.
Thwack!
The blade plunged into Bullseye's forearm, its tip bursting through the other side. The two men froze in a bloody stalemate, their crossed weapons dripping crimson onto the floor.
Bang!
The bar door burst open. Diluc strode in—no words, no warning.
In one fluid motion, he drove a whip-like kick into Matt's chest, launching him through the doorway and out into the rain, where he crashed down beside Foggy Nelson.
Seizing the opening, Bullseye staggered back, his left hand fumbling for another throwing knife at his belt—
Swish!
Diluc moved faster than humanly possible. He seized Bullseye's injured arm and ripped the dagger free. As Bullseye howled in pain—
—a backhand thrust!
Thud!
The blade pierced his throat with surgical precision. Arterial blood erupted like a geyser, splattering the wine cabinet behind the bar in vivid scarlet.
Bullseye stumbled backward, hands clawing uselessly at his throat, eyes wide with disbelief.
Thump…
He collapsed, twitched once, and lay still—already cold.
Diluc flicked the blood from his fingers and turned toward the exit.
Outside, Matt Murdock dragged himself through the rain toward Foggy, leaving a smeared trail of blood in his wake.
Diluc stepped over Bullseye's body, shoved open the bar's shattered glass door, and flipped the sign back to "Open."
Matt knelt in the downpour, his fingers tightening around Foggy's wrist.
"Whoever you are… thank you," Matt said hoarsely as he heard Diluc's footsteps. "But you didn't have to kill him."
Diluc paused, glancing sideways. His voice was low, edged with quiet intensity:
"I'm just a passing intelligence dealer. And as for why I helped you… hold on to your dignity. You'll succeed—no matter what it takes."
Matt frowned, sensing the impatience beneath the words.
Before he could press further, Diluc added:
"One more thing. Redesign your helmet. Make the eye slits more prominent—so your enemies won't instantly know you're blind."
Matt froze, stunned.
But before he could respond, Diluc vanished into the rain.