Chapter 2 : Streets of Kitchen
The subway dropped Roy at 50th Street, and Hell's Kitchen opened around him like a wound.
It wasn't the Hell's Kitchen of gentrification brochures—all artisanal coffee shops and luxury condos. That version existed in pockets, sure. He passed a yoga studio and a vegan bakery within the first two blocks. But between them, the old neighborhood showed through. Boarded windows. Graffiti tags marking territory. A bodega with iron bars over its glass.
Roy walked slowly. Watching. Learning.
Three men in tracksuits on the corner of 46th and 9th. They weren't subtle about what they were doing—lookouts for something happening in the building behind them. Russian, if the visible tattoos meant what he thought they meant. One of them glanced at Roy as he passed, but his clothes were casual enough, his posture unremarkable enough, that the attention slid away.
Good. Stay invisible.
He mapped the streets in his head. Noted which buildings looked abandoned, which had accessible fire escapes, which sat on corners with good sightlines. If he was going to operate here—whatever that ended up meaning—he needed to know the terrain.
A woman pushed a stroller past him, eyes fixed straight ahead, walking fast. An old man sat on a stoop, drinking from a paper bag, watching nothing. A group of kids kicked a soccer ball against a wall, their laughter the only bright sound on the block.
These are the people who'll suffer, Roy thought. When Fisk makes his play. When the bombs go off. When the Russians and the Chinese and whoever else start their wars.
He needed to eat. Think. Plan.
The diner appeared like a beacon—a greasy spoon joint wedged between a pawn shop and a dry cleaner. Faded sign: MIKE'S. The kind of place that had been there for decades and would probably outlast the city itself.
Inside, cracked vinyl booths and a counter with spinning stools. The smell of burnt coffee and frying bacon. A waitress with tired eyes and a nametag that said LINDA.
"Anywhere you want, hon."
Roy slid into a booth near the window. The menu was laminated, sticky with something he didn't want to identify. He ordered eggs, bacon, toast, and coffee. Breakfast for lunch. The comfort of routine.
The eggs arrived watery. The bacon was perfect—crispy, salty, almost burnt at the edges. The toast was buttered with something that might have been margarine from the Nixon administration.
Roy ate every bite. It was real in a way the penthouse espresso hadn't been. This was Hell's Kitchen. This was the neighborhood he was choosing.
At the booth behind him, two men argued in hushed voices.
"—rent's up forty percent. Forty! Where'm I supposed to get that kind of money?"
"They want us out. Same as everyone else. Some developer's gonna buy the whole block, watch."
"Developer my ass. You know who's behind it. Everyone knows."
"Keep your voice down. You want to end up like Marco?"
Silence. The conversation died.
Roy filed the information away. Fisk's influence, spreading. The neighborhood squeezing tighter.
Linda refilled his coffee without asking. He left a twenty on a twelve-dollar bill and walked back into the afternoon heat.
Nelson & Murdock occupied a building on 48th Street—a converted residential complex with law offices and dental practices sharing narrow hallways. Roy stood across the street and looked up at the windows.
Third floor. Cardboard in one of them, patching what might have been a broken pane. The building needed new siding, a paint job, probably a new roof. This was where Matt Murdock defended the defenseless. Where Foggy Nelson built a practice on hope and student debt.
Roy didn't go in. Not yet.
He walked instead. Block by block, photographing buildings with his phone—framing shots like a tourist, hiding his real interest in the metadata. Abandoned warehouse on 44th. Residential building with a FOR SALE sign and no apparent tenants on 45th. A church with a soup kitchen operating out of the basement.
Safe houses, he thought. Emergency caches. Places to disappear when things get bad.
Because things would get bad. He knew that with absolute certainty. The only question was whether he could be useful when they did.
The park bench found him around four o'clock. His feet ached—the leather shoes looked good but weren't made for walking. He sat down across from a small square of dead grass that someone had optimistically called a park.
An old woman shared the bench. Her coat was too heavy for September, her shopping bag overstuffed with old newspapers. She was throwing bread to pigeons who'd learned this spot meant food.
"You're new," she said without looking at him.
"Just visiting."
"No one visits Hell's Kitchen." She tossed another chunk of bread. The pigeons fought over it. "They're born here, they die here, or they run as soon as they can."
"Which one are you?"
"Born here. Watched my parents die here. Still waiting for the last part." She laughed, dry as paper. "Used to be safe, you know. Forty years ago, fifty. Cops walked the beat. People looked out for each other."
"What happened?"
"Money happened. Wrong kind of money. Kind that wants what you have and doesn't care how it gets it." She finally looked at him. Her eyes were sharp despite the age. "You look like money. The right kind or the wrong kind?"
Roy considered the question seriously.
"Haven't decided yet."
She laughed again—warmer this time. "Honest. I like that." She stood, gathering her bag. "Be careful with that honesty, young man. Gets people killed around here."
She walked away before he could answer. The pigeons scattered, searching for crumbs she hadn't left.
Roy sat alone in the dying light. The sun was dropping behind the buildings, turning the sky orange and purple. Hell's Kitchen transformed around him—the afternoon crowds thinning, the evening shift beginning. More men in tracksuits. More nervous looks from people hurrying home.
I'm going to fix this, he thought. Whatever it takes.
He got up, his feet protesting. Time to head back to Manhattan. Time to plan.
Tomorrow, he'd make contact with Foggy Nelson. Start the long game. Build the relationships he'd need when everything fell apart.
Behind him, on the corner of 46th, a man in a tracksuit pulled out a phone.
"Da. The new guy. Took pictures all day. No, I don't know who he is. Probably nothing. Yeah. Yeah, I'll keep watching."
He hung up. Lit a cigarette. Watched Roy's back disappear into the subway entrance.
The neighborhood had noticed him. That was how Hell's Kitchen worked.
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