"King…"
Matt's voice was barely above a whisper—low, almost reverent, as if he were tasting the weight of the word rather than merely speaking it.
"There are several key pillars in Fisk's empire."
He paused, sifting through names stained with blood in his mind.
"First, there's Bullseye."
"A pure killer. He can turn anything into a weapon—playing cards, paperclips, even someone else's teeth. He works for money, has no loyalty, only a morbid obsession with killing itself. But he's still just a man… and he never bothers to hide."
"You know what happened to him."
Joren gave no reaction.
The killer had been crushed beneath his heel—obliterated by violence even purer than his own.
"Second is Wesley. Fisk's right-hand man. His shadow. Wesley handles all the dirty work—loyal as a dog."
"I've dragged him into the precinct more than once, but Kingpin always gets him out."
"He's sharp, but his talents are limited. No superhuman abilities—just ledgers, legal loopholes, and trigger fingers. His world ends where paperwork begins."
Joren listened in silence, his fingers tapping lightly—almost imperceptibly—against the armrest of his chair.
"And then there's Echo."
Matt's voice shifted, softer now. "A deaf-mute martial artist. Her fighting style is mimicry—she can replicate any move she's ever seen. She's strong, yes, but purely physical. No extrasensory tricks."
He listed more names: Hammerhead. Tombstone.
Old-school enforcers. Thugs wrapped in trench coats and gunsmoke.
Their heartbeats were rough, blunt—brutal in their simplicity.
Their malice reeked of whiskey, cordite, and brass knuckles.
They spoke in bullets and broken bones—nothing like the cold, silent pressure of telepathy.
"Animal control… telepathy…" Matt shook his head. "In all the years I've fought Kingpin, I've never heard of anyone like that. She's either his deepest-trusted card—or she only emerged after his fall."
Joren's expression didn't change.
This was exactly what he'd expected.
A new enemy. One who lurked in the dark.
She knew herself—yet knew nothing of the war she'd just stepped into.
Yare yare.
The trouble that knocks on your door is always the worst kind.
"Maybe we start with Wesley," Matt suggested. "Kingpin's fallen. Wesley's the only one who knows where all the roots are—now that the tree's been cut down. If we make him talk, we might uncover something."
Just then—
Bang!
The weathered wooden door of the firm flew open, kicked in with brutal force.
A slightly overweight man in a wrinkled Brazilian suit stumbled inside, face slick with sweat, tie askew, eyes wide with panic.
"Matt! Something terrible's happened! You—you—"
It was Foggy Nelson—Matt's business partner—gasping for breath, words dying on his lips the moment his gaze landed on the boy sitting quietly in the chair.
A child?
Why is he here?
Foggy's mouth snapped shut, instinct overriding shock.
"It's alright, Foggy," Matt said, his voice steady, cutting through the tension.
"This is Mr. Joestar. Now tell me—what happened?"
Foggy's eyes darted from Joren to Matt, brimming with unspoken questions.
"He can be trusted," Matt added firmly.
Foggy swallowed hard. Doubt still gnawed at him—but Matt's calm was an anchor. He lowered his voice, though his hands trembled uncontrollably as he pulled out his phone and swiped to a photo.
He knew Matt couldn't see it.
It wasn't for Matt.
It was proof—for himself—that he wasn't losing his mind.
"This morning… on the exterior wall of that abandoned slaughterhouse in Hell's Kitchen… someone painted a mural."
His voice dropped to a whisper, as if the image itself were cursed.
"A huge one… depicting your mask. Those devil's horns…"
Matt tilted his head slightly. "What was it drawn with?"
Foggy paled. He glanced at Joren, then back at Matt, lips quivering.
"Blood," he choked out. "Bright red… still dripping. Human blood."
His voice cracked, rising suddenly, raw with horror.
"The police have cordoned off the scene! They said… they said it took the blood of at least five people! It wasn't paint—it was a massacre. A sacrifice!"
Silence crashed down like a tombstone.
The coffee machine in the corner gurgled softly—a mundane sound that now felt grotesquely out of place.
In Matt Murdoch's mind, the world erupted into a vision painted in dread. He didn't need eyes to see the scene: the cold, blasphemous aura of the word sacrifice coiled around him like smoke.
An artist.
One who paints not with ink or pigment—but with life itself.
His canvas? Hell's Kitchen.
His medium? Blood.
His signature? Daredevil's mask.
This wasn't just provocation.
It was a declaration.
A madman was paying homage to the devil—not with words, but with slaughter.
Joren said nothing.
He merely lifted his eyelids, first studying Foggy—on the verge of collapse—then Matt, frozen like a statue carved from vengeance.
He'd come here to solve a problem.
Instead, they'd tumbled straight into a deeper storm.
This city—all of it—was drowning in madness.
From the green-tinged lunatics atop Oscorp's
rooftops, to the beast-whispering women in the gutters below…
And now, an artist who signed his work in human blood.
Yare yare…
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