At the top floor of Fisk Tower.
Wilson Fisk, dressed in a black suit, moved with precision in his lavishly appointed, elegantly remodeled private space.
He whisked eggs, added butter to the pan, and gently swirled it. Just before finishing, he sprinkled a few sprigs of rosemary. Finally, he plated the perfectly cooked scrambled eggs on a fine blue-and-white porcelain dish.
Fisk, expressionless, carefully picked up the plate.
He left the spacious kitchen, entering an empty living room. The soft light from the chandelier illuminated the room, casting a gentle glow over the chessboard at the center, where a fierce battle was unfolding.
Moving with elegance, Fisk approached the board, still holding the plate. He glanced down at the game and casually picked up a black knight, moving it left to capture a white pawn.
Simultaneously, on a massive screen on the wall, the red numbers representing Madame Gao's side flickered, dropping by one.
It seemed like a strange coincidence, but Fisk paid no attention. His focus remained on the chessboard, lost in thought.
Minutes passed, and the eggs began to cool — now at the perfect temperature to eat.
Yet, when Fisk snapped out of his reverie, he tossed the valuable porcelain plate, eggs and all, into the trash without hesitation.
Thunk—
At that moment, the door to the living room was thrown open with force.
Lester, a blond man with flecks of blood on his face, hurried in, his expression urgent. He swiftly approached the chessboard, his hands clasped behind his back, and spoke.
"Boss, the Hand's 'Finger'— Murakami — is dead... and all the ninjas in the area have vanished. They ran!"
But Fisk seemed to not have heard a word. He moved aside, taking a few steps before sitting in a chair facing the chessboard.
His massive, terrifying frame loomed like a mountain over the chessboard, casting a shadow that made Lester instinctively lower his head.
With a cold, detached gaze, Fisk stared down at Lester's bowed figure. After a pause, his deep voice rumbled:
"No matter. The Hand was always a group of cowardly, treacherous vermin huddling together for warmth. They could betray Madame Gao to help me, just as they could betray me to help someone else..."
"I understand, boss."
Lester smiled slightly, responding quickly. As he moved around the chessboard, he edged closer to Fisk.
"Boss, Madame Gao's forces are dwindling. Should we wipe them out in one strike? Although..."
Before Lester could finish, and just as he was mere steps away from Fisk, his hands suddenly flew into motion.
Shink! Shink! Shink!
In an instant, a barrage of metal playing cards shot through the air like deadly projectiles, whistling as they hurtled toward Fisk's neck and head.
Clink! Clink! Clink!
Yet Fisk, still calm and unmoved, didn't even blink. The cards, sharp enough to slice through flesh with ease, didn't leave a single mark on him. Not a scratch.
Impossible!
Lester's face twisted in disbelief. In his eyes, tiny green lights began to flicker and swirl. His fingers, adorned with metal rings, twitched slightly as a razor-thin blade shot out from his sleeve.
But Fisk, immovable as a mountain, had already reacted.
Seated in his chair, he reached out with one massive hand, effortlessly grabbing Lester by the head, fingers sinking into his hair.
With his other hand, Fisk casually swung, delivering a bone-crushing blow to Lester's arm and chest.
Crack—
The sound of bones snapping echoed through the room. Lester's body crumpled, his limbs hanging limp. In an instant, nearly all his bones had shattered.
"Ugh..."
Lester's eyes widened in pain, his mouth opening to scream, but Fisk's massive hand clamped over his face, silencing him completely.
As Fisk held Lester's head, he noticed the eerie green lights dancing deep in the man's eyes.
"Brainwashed, just as I thought," Fisk muttered.
Before the words even fully left his lips, he tightened his grip.
Splat!
Lester's skull shattered under the pressure, his eyes bursting from their sockets as half his head was crushed.
Without any change in his expression, Fisk discarded the body, flicking the blood and brain matter off his fingers.
Standing up, he spoke in a low, menacing tone.
"Your remote-controlled puppet is broken… Time to take matters into your own hands."
From behind another door, a figure emerged from the shadows—Zaire, fully armored. In one hand, he held a blood-soaked chainsaw sword.
"Shame," Zaire said in a muffled, gravelly voice through his gas mask. "He was a good tool. But honestly, I didn't expect him to succeed anyway."
Fisk, emotionless, glanced at Zaire standing ten meters away. He stepped around the chessboard, loosening the buttons of his black suit as he asked casually:
"Personal vendetta?"
Zaire shook his head slightly, his chainsaw sword dripping blood. He clipped it to his belt as his voice once again echoed from behind his mask.
"It started as a personal grudge... but then, the gangs in New York just got in my way. And you, you're the king of the underworld."
"Fair enough. I like your reason."
Fisk swiftly removed his suit jacket, revealing a shirt laced with silver threads. He rolled up his sleeves, nodding in agreement.
"At least it's better than those street heroes and their games of justice."
Seconds later, his bare forearms came into view—muscles like steel, bulging and shining faintly.
"My body has been tempered through endless sweat and time..."
Strange, faint patterns seemed to shimmer across Fisk's massive forearms as he fixed Zaire with a cold stare.
"It's been blessed with black magic and pagan rituals… I doubt your weapon can hurt me anymore."
"So... how do you plan to die, stranger?"
"Heh..."
Hearing Fisk's confident proclamation of his victory, Zaire chuckled.
Casually, he grabbed the Hellgun from the side of his battery pack. Aiming it at Fisk, Zaire's voice remained calm.
"This is a battlefield relic… from an old friend."
Before he could finish, Fisk seemed to sense the danger of the situation. His massive muscles swelled, his already huge frame expanding as he became even more imposing.
In a split second, his inhuman strength shattered the floor beneath him, launching Fisk forward like a cannonball toward Zaire.
"... specifically for killing 'bugs.'"
Zaire smiled slightly, pulling the trigger of the Hellgun.
..........................
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