In a dimly lit warehouse in Hell's Kitchen, a man hung by a rope, his body swaying in the air. He was pale, with an upturned nose, curly red hair, and wore an outdated black leather jacket. His face looked tired and beaten.
"Please, put me down," he pleaded weakly.
"You're not from around here, are you?" Matt Murdock, standing in front of him, asked.
"Your accent gives you away. By 'around here,' I mean North America. You sound more like you're from Germany, Poland, or somewhere else in Eastern Europe."
Matt deduced this from the man's voice, then addressed him directly: "Am I right, Mr. Jason Teague?"
Jason, hanging in midair, opened his swollen eyes and nodded. He tried to beg for mercy, but Matt quickly interrupted him.
"Mr. Jason, you shouldn't have messed with my employer's goods," Matt stated bluntly. "My employer doesn't like trouble; he prefers people to follow the rules. And you made a mistake he can't ignore."
Matt then turned to his associate. "Did you find all the goods he took?"
"Most of them, but some are still unaccounted for," his associate replied. "He claims to have sold some."
Matt acknowledged this with a nod, then gestured for his men to gag Jason. They stuffed a dirty sock into his mouth and secured it with tape, muffling any further pleas.
After Jason calmed down, Matt regarded him like a predator examining its prey. Though blind, Matt's fingers traced over Jason's face, brushing against dried blood, swollen ears, and numbers carved into his forehead—etched there with a razor blade. His fingers slid to the back of Jason's neck, touching the torn and bruised skin.
"It seems like you've been through quite an ordeal," Matt observed quietly. He tapped lightly on the wounds, his tone cold and detached. "Looks like a new method of interrogation."
He turned back to his men. "What exactly did you do to him?"
"New tools, sir," his subordinate replied. "We grabbed a few things from his kitchen—graters, garlic presses. I even broke three of his fingers with a garlic press."
"Combining torture with kitchenware is certainly... unique," Matt remarked flatly, leaving it unclear if he was criticizing or praising them.
Matt took a step back, adjusting his sunglasses. "I have some faith in your 'cooking' skills, but not as much in your ability to extract information."
"But he already talked, sir. Do you think he's still lying?" his associate asked, sounding uncertain.
"I'd rather hear it directly from him," Matt said with a grim expression. "This issue has dragged on long enough, and my employer is losing patience."
Reaching into his pocket, Matt pulled out a small bag and emptied its contents onto the floor. Tiny bones—some no bigger than marbles, others resembling long teeth or delicate finger bones—scattered across the ground. The wrist bones were like gravel, the metacarpals like building blocks, and the finger bones resembled dog treats or the ends of umbrella spokes.
He didn't touch the bones directly, but ran his fingers over them as if reading a story written in bone. Jason stared in terror, unable to comprehend what the man in sunglasses intended.
Matt picked out one of the bones with precision. "This will do," he said, sounding satisfied as he returned the bones to the bag.
He stood up and fixed his gaze on Jason's fearful, bloodshot eyes. "You really shouldn't have made that mistake."
He gestured toward the bones. "Do you know where these are from? They belonged to people who had to be... corrected."
Matt's tone remained disturbingly casual. "I have a little hobby—cooking hands. I boil them until the meat falls off, like preparing veal knuckles. When the bones are clean, I bleach them, smoke them, and add them to my collection."
Before Matt could continue, Jason desperately mumbled through the gag, begging for mercy. "I'll tell you everything, just please don't cut off my hand!"
Hearing this, Matt smiled and nodded. He'd achieved his goal. With the information he needed, Matt left the warehouse behind.
Once outside, one of his subordinates hesitantly asked, "Sir, did you really do all that—collecting bones for cooking?"
Matt adjusted his sunglasses with a smirk. "Of course not. I'm a lawyer, not a butcher."
He gestured toward the bag. "Those were just cow bones and bear claw bones. I'm not bored enough to indulge in such a twisted game. But my employer? Well, he's done it before."
The subordinate swallowed hard, glancing at Matt's sharp profile. A chill ran through him as he thought, *You may not be a butcher, but you're definitely a devil.*
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**Midtown High School**
Peter placed his schoolbag in his locker and glanced at the empty locker beside his—Gwen's locker. After a moment of hesitation, he took out his phone and sent her a message.
"Still taking time off, Gwen?"
She replied quickly: "Yeah, I need time to get a grip on myself. If I lose control again, it'll be a disaster."
Peter frowned at her response. "Control? What do you mean by that?"
"It's a long story, Peter. But let's just say controlling yourself can be hard sometimes. I'm working on it. Don't worry, I'll be back tomorrow, and maybe I'll even surprise you."
Peter sighed and texted back, "I'll look forward to it."
He put away his phone and walked to his classroom, but as he entered, he noticed something felt off—the atmosphere in the room was different from usual.
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