The streets were silent.
Not peaceful—just empty. The air hung thick with the stench of blood and feral musk, though not a single drop stained the pavement.
At the center of it all stood Joren.
Within a two-meter radius, animals lay strewn like discarded dolls: Doberman Pinschers, stray cats, rats, even snakes—dozens of them, unconscious but unharmed, stacked in a grotesque, breathing mound. A "mountain of corpses" without a wound to show for it.
High above, behind the smudged glass of distant apartment windows, the faint blue glow of cell phone screens flickered—dozens of eyes watching, recording, wondering.
Joren's gaze swept over the scene.
Yare yare…
Tony Stark's car.
Trouble.
Animals gone wild.
Trouble.
Someone watching from the shadows.
Big trouble.
Just as Joren frowned, weighing how to vanish the mess before dawn, three black SUVs roared around the corner—tires screeching, smoke curling from their drifts—as they boxed him in with military precision.
Doors snapped open in perfect unison.
Out stepped a dozen agents: faces blank, movements synchronized, roles already assigned before their boots hit concrete.
Then came the man in the suit.
Early thirties, East Asian, with a disarming smile and a black leather wallet in hand. He stopped a few paces from Joren and flipped it open.
"Mr. Joestar," he said, voice smooth as polished teak.
The ID inside bore an insignia Joren knew all too well.
"Jimmy Wu. Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."
He paused, then chuckled at his own mouthful of a title. "But everyone just calls me Detective Wu. We'll be taking over now."
Joren looked at him. The shift was subtle, but it was there: posture straighter, eyes colder.
S.H.I.E.L.D.
Again.
But this time… they weren't here to interrogate. They were here to clean.
Wu's gaze drifted over the mangled Ferrari and the sea of unconscious beasts. His smile didn't waver.
"We'll handle everything from here—police reports, witness statements, traffic violations…" He gave a knowing tilt of his head toward the glowing windows above. "...and any inconvenient memories."
The message was clear: This never happened.
Efficient. Absolute. Erased.
Joren studied the man—this smiling agent who carried oblivion in his briefcase—and did something rare.
He spoke.
"…Thanks."
The word was so quiet it nearly vanished on the night wind.
Wu's smile flickered—just for a heartbeat. Then it returned, wider now, almost warm.
"Don't mention it. Really. It's what we're here for."
CRASH.
A streak of crimson and gold slammed into the asphalt beside them, kicking up a spray of asphalt shards.
The helmet retracted with a hiss.
Tony Stark stepped out, eyes wide, jaw slack—then twitching into his trademark smirk as they landed on the ruined Ferrari.
"Oh. My. God."
He let out a low whistle, voice dripping with theatrical despair.
"Jarvis—make a note. One Ferrari 488 Pista. Rosso Corsa red. Full carbon-fiber trim. And… oh, look! A spontaneous avant-garde installation titled 'Night of the Beasts.' I'm telling you, this'll go for seven figures at Sotheby's."
Tony walked to the front of the car, crouching to pluck a few blood-smeared feathers from the hood. He clicked his tongue, impressed.
"Look at this," he murmured. "Clean. Efficient. No viscera, no dismemberment—just precise nerve strikes. High-frequency sonic pulses? Or maybe directional kinetic dispersion?"
His eyes locked onto Joren, sharp as a scalpel. "I'd love to take you apart and see what makes you tick."
"Jarvis," he called, straightening, "delete all photos, videos, and cloud backups within a 500-meter radius—mobile phones, home security cams, the works. Overwrite the data with Level-10 encryption."
"In progress, sir."
As the AI worked, Tony circled the scene, flashing a playful grin at Jimmy Wu. "Agent Wu, right? S.H.I.E.L.D.'s response time's getting scary fast. New GPS tracker? Or did you plant a bug on one of my people?"
"Mr. Stark," Wu replied smoothly, smile unwavering, "we're just doing our job."
"Responsibilities?" Tony scoffed, then pivoted sharply toward Joren. "Hey. Kid."
He jabbed a finger at himself, then at the mangled chassis behind him. "I lent you my beloved car. You turned it into scrap metal. And now? I'm scrubbing your digital trail clean. Ring any bells?"
Joren stared back, expressionless.
Tony waited. Three seconds. Five. Nothing.
His eye twitched. "Is 'thank you' really that hard? You said it to that grinning tiger—what's his name, Fisk?—but you can't even grunt at me? Me? The guy who's bankrolled your gear, patched your hide, and just erased your massacre from the internet?"
He threw his hands up. "I'm Tony Stark! Any one of the things I've done for you would land you on the cover of Time!"
Without a word, Joren turned and walked straight to Jimmy Wu.
"Is there a car to take me home?"
"Certainly."
Wu immediately gestured with an open palm and practically leapt to open the SUV door, as if ushering royalty.
"Hello?!" Tony sputtered, hopping in place. "You're just gonna ignore me?!"
Joren slid into the back seat and didn't look back.
The tinted window rose with a soft hum, sealing Tony's outraged face outside.
Yārē yārē.
This guy's noisier than a whole damn zoo.
The SUV pulled away smoothly, leaving the wreckage—and Tony—behind.
Inside, silence reigned.
Jimmy Wu sat up front, stealing glances at Joren through the rearview mirror but saying nothing.
Joren leaned back, eyes closed, the woman's voice echoing in his skull:
"You put my 'king' in a cage."
King.
Kingpin—the underworld emperor who'd been punched clean through a concrete wall by Star Platinum.
So… was this an act of vengeance by remnants of Fisk's empire?
No. That didn't fit.
Beyond rage, her voice carried something darker: a feverish, obsessive devotion. She'd called him "my king"—not with the deference of a subordinate, but like a zealot addressing her god.
And her powers? Telepathy. Beast-commanding. That wasn't street-level. That wasn't even standard superhuman.
Who was she?
Joren's mind raced through possibilities:
— A secret lover?
— A business partner with hidden abilities?
— Or some unknown meta, cultivated in the shadows, never cataloged by S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Avengers?
Clues were scarce.
But one thing was terrifyingly clear:
She knew his face.
Knew his name.
K
new exactly where to find him.
An enemy in the dark. Watching. Waiting. Ready to strike from anywhere, anytime.
Yārē yārē…
Peaceful days would have to wait.
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