~~~ Levi Wilder ~~~
Levi sat at his kitchen table, fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against the wood. The whiskey glass sat untouched, ice melting into the amber liquid, forgotten. The weight in his chest hadn't lifted since leaving the park. If anything, it had grown heavier.
Alright, Wilder. Breathe. One thing at a time. What the hell just happened out there?
His mind wasn't just racing—it was churning, circling the drain of something that refused to come into focus. The woman. The baby. That moment when his instincts screamed that something was off—only for the feeling to be smoothed away like a fingerprint wiped from glass.
Levi exhaled slowly, deliberately unclenching his fists. Panic was an indulgence—one he couldn't afford. Not now. He activated Memory Delving.
The room dimmed, the present peeling away as his consciousness dove deep, dredging up what should have been solid. He wasn't looking for what he remembered—he was looking for what had been rewritten.
A name surfaced, dark and oily, coating everything it touched.
Kilgrave. The Purple Man.
The name itself brought a quiet, creeping horror. Levi hadn't thought about him much since arriving in this world, not with everything else vying for his attention. But now, the pieces were snapping together with an ugly clarity.
Kilgrave's power wasn't flashy. It wasn't telepathy, or magic, or some grand spectacle of force.
It was biochemical enslavement.
Pheromone-based mind control.
Kilgrave's voice wasn't a suggestion—it was a biological command, hacking the brain's reward and punishment centers, overriding conscious thought.
Neuroviral influence.
The virus infected the mind through close proximity, reshaping decision-making until it burned itself out—unless it was reapplied.
Repeated exposure deepened the control.
The longer someone was near him, the stronger the grip. Like slowly drowning in warm water, never realizing when you'd stopped struggling.
Side effects lingered.
Even after breaking free, victims reported compulsions, emotional instability, and in some cases… permanent damage.
Levi's grip on his glass tightened, his knuckles going white. How did I miss this? This bastard's been walking around Hell's Kitchen like he owns it.
The answer was simple.
Because he did.
Levi forced himself further back. If Kilgrave's influence had been at play, there had to be a pattern.
The memories sharpened.
The woman. The baby.
Every time he had passed by them, a flicker of unease had sparked in his mind—an instinct that something was wrong. But then, it would vanish. A smooth, unnatural certainty would settle over him, an invisible hand gently guiding his thoughts away.
Nothing is wrong.
Everything is fine.
His jaw clenched. His instincts had been screaming at him, and he had ignored them.
[Observation]
> Behavioral deviations began following initial exposure to compound.
> Analysis confirms cognitive suppression consistent with external influence.
Levi's brow furrowed. "So I wasn't just blind—I was steered. How often?"
[Analysis]
> Viral compound present in host at all times.
> No method available to distinguish external influence from normal cognitive function.
Levi froze.
His mind, which had been spinning in place, finally shot forward in realization. His pulse hammered in his ears, a dull, steady pounding. His fingers curled against the table, pressing hard into the wood, grounding himself. It had been there the whole time. I just hadn't asked the right questions.
His stomach churned. His vision swam, the room tilting slightly, a thin veil of static at the edges of his sight. The air felt thinner, like he was sinking into the chair. A shrill ringing built in his ears.
AL, am I close to having adapted to this yet?
[PROJECTION]
> Estimated timeframe for significant resistance: requires prolonged, uninterrupted exposure beyond current levels.
> Immunity: inconclusive—data insufficient to confirm full resistance or mutation potential.
Levi clenched his jaw, shaking his head.
That's far too long at his mercy, hoping things go my way.
Then AL's next report dropped like a hammer.
[Report]
> Further analysis indicates compound variations at times when primary source (presumed male individual) was absent.
> Influence appears to persist within localized zones in similar fashion to primary source.
Levi's pulse spiked.
"You're saying this isn't just him?"
He shoved himself deeper into the memory, ignoring the burn in his skull. He needed to see it—whatever his mind had skimmed over before.
The woman. The baby.
The way she moved—stiff, mechanical, vacant. The way he had felt fine. The way others passing by had mirrored his same dull placidity.
The stroller. A shift of fabric, gently flapping in the breeze.
Levi's eyes flicked toward it—then away. Habit. Instinct.
But something lodged itself in his mind. A hesitation. A second too long.
He forced himself to look again.
A flicker of color. A breath too deep.
The baby's eyes—too still. Too focused.
His chest tightened.
The blanket stirred.
Skin—violet.
A hollow pressure squeezed Levi's lungs, his heartbeat thudding into silence.
Not just Kilgrave. Not just him.
The influence hadn't left. It had never left.
Levi wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, smearing red across his skin. He stared down at it for a long moment before grabbing a napkin and scrubbing it away.
No. There wasn't time to get caught up in what this meant. Not yet. The kid wasn't the enemy—Kilgrave was. None of this mattered if that bastard was still around. First, Kilgrave had to die.
There was no other way. Cold. Certain. His hands curled into fists.
Either way, he's not just a threat to me—he's got the whole neighborhood on a leash, and nothing is stopping him from turning any of us into his pets.
He exhaled sharply, eyes narrowing.
He doesn't belong in my city. The only place for him is six feet under an unmarked grave.
~~~ Levi Wilder ~~~
The soft hum of computer fans filled Levi's brownstone, blending with the quiet, rhythmic clicking and clacking of a keyboard warrior. His monitor bathed the room in cold, sterile light, reflecting off his irises as he leaned back, fingers interlaced behind his head.
Numbers marched across one screen—his trading portfolio, ticking upward with increasing speed. Profits were compounding, growing beyond projections. The first major cracks in the economy had yet to appear, and he was already multiplying his warchest ahead of the collapse.
His stomach tightened. These weren't just numbers—they were the beginnings of something inevitable. Millions of people, families, small businesses, all teetering on the edge of a disaster they couldn't see coming. He wasn't causing it, wasn't accelerating it, but he was profiting from it. And that gnawed at him. For a moment.
Then the feeling passed. One man, even one with a head start, couldn't hold back a multi-trillion-dollar avalanche. He could justify it all he wanted—he wasn't causing this, wasn't accelerating it. But at the end of the day, he was still profiting from others' suffering. The only thing worse than that was pretending he could stop it. So he wouldn't pretend. He could either get crushed in solidarity, or he could come out the other side standing strong enough to do some good.
He exhaled sharply, rubbing at his jawline. This wasn't the kind of battle he was focused on today. Profits, market manipulation, financial positioning—the task at hand was much more personal and lethal.
His gaze flicked to another screen, where a grainy surveillance feed streamed from across the street. One of the cameras he'd set up the day before captured a clear view of Kilgrave's building entrance, tracking foot traffic in and out. The last twelve hours of footage had shown a slow trickle of people entering and leaving, none of them acting suspicious, none of them wearing purple.
Until now.
Levi leaned forward. Kilgrave stepped outside.
The bastard didn't move like someone who feared consequences. Hands in his pockets, strolling casually, wearing the kind of smug nonchalance that said he knew the world danced to his tune. Walking beside him, the woman and child—his family. If you could call that a family.
Levi exhaled through his nose. That's why he's here. He's keeping them close, making sure no one questions why they don't just leave. A leash they don't even realize is there.
The realization came sharp and sudden—he didn't need to frame this as an assassination. If Kilgrave collapsed in the street, gasping and seizing from an overdose?
No questions. No investigation. Just another addict dying in Hell's Kitchen.
Levi pushed back from the desk and reached for a folder sitting next to his keyboard. Dr. Curt Connors' analysis of the stolen Maggia vials was laid out in neat, clinical language.
Three experimental serums, each more unstable than the last. He skimmed past the ones that weren't immediately useful to his own system.
PES-1 (Performance Enhancer):
Could heighten speed and strength for a limited time—worth testing under controlled conditions.
MGA-02 (Mutant Gene Activator):
Highly unstable. Potential to trigger latent abilities or disrupt genetic structure—dangerous but intriguing.
VEC-03 (Vitality Enhancer):
Temporary stamina and focus boost—could prove useful in prolonged engagements or recovery.
Then came the street-level Maggia drugs.
Levi flipped through the pages detailing various street drugs as well as some of the deadliest substances moving through New York's underworld.
Among them:
1. A fentanyl derivative—instant overdose in micrograms.
2. A paralytic designed to shut down muscle function within seconds.
3. A neurotoxin used for interrogations—induces fatal seizures if the dose is high enough.
Any one of these would do the trick. Kilgrave didn't have super-strength. He wasn't bulletproof. He wasn't immortal. He was just a man who relied on his scent and voice to hypnotize the world.
All Levi had to do was shut him up. Permanently.
Levi tapped a pen against his desk. Okay. How do I get the poison in him?
1. Spiked Drink?
Risky. What if someone else drinks it first? What if Kilgrave doesn't finish it? Unreliable.
2. Aerosolized Toxin?
Effective, but unpredictable. Wind, ventilation, environmental factors—too many variables. Can't afford a failure.
3. An old fashioned shot of lead?
That would do the job, but guns were loud, ballistics were traceable, and people survived gunshots all the time... there must be a better way to skin this cat.
His gaze flicked back to the footage, tracking Kilgrave's lazy stride. The bastard was wide open.
Darts?
- Controlled. Silent.
- Delivers a precise dose.
- No chance of collateral exposure.
- Levi can stay at a distance, beyond Kilgrave's influence.
That was it. That was the way. A dart gun.
Levi pulled up a blank notepad file and started listing what he needed. Most tranquilizer guns wouldn't cut it.
- Standard vet tranquilizer gun? Too short-ranged.
- CO2-powered pistol? Too weak to ensure dart penetration.
- Pneumatic air rifle? Better. Silent. Accurate at medium range.
He tapped a finger against the desk. But how to get one?
If he bought a dart rifle himself, it could be traced. The last thing he needed was someone wondering why an upstanding New Yorker suddenly needed to put down a rhinoceros.
He needed a middleman.
Levi smirked to himself as he reached for his phone. No texts for this—too easy to be misread later. He hit the call button and leaned back as the line rang. Felicia Hardy knew all the right people.
Felicia picked up on the third ring. "Wilder. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Levi smirked. "Hey, Kitten, I find myself in need of your expertise. Ever help a man buy himself a 'just because' gift?"
There was a pause, then a low chuckle. "Hmm, is this for the Wall Street crowd? Or is this one of those impulse purchases from watching too many late night infomercials?"
"Little of column A, little of column B."
"Intriguing." He could hear the amusement in her voice. "And what exactly are we looking for?"
"I have a bit of a unique pest problem. Something territorial and I don't think these commercial 'catch and release' traps will do the trick."
"Uh-huh... And does this 'pest' have opposable thumbs?"
"I'm no expert on pests, but I suppose it could. Either way, I'm looking for a... humane solution. No need to make a mess, just put 'em to sleep and sweep 'em up into the bin."
Felicia hummed, drawing out the moment. "I may know where to get a better mousetrap. But what's in it for me?"
"An entire afternoon basking in the radiance of my charm."
"Tempting. But I already get that for free at my local coffee spot."
"True, and I hear the owner is a real hearthrob. How about I throw in lunch. Somewhere swanky. Antonio down the street owes me a favor, I'll have him get us in without a reservation."
"Now you're speaking my language." A pause. "I'll be back in town tomorrow. I'll pick you up at 10. Wear something nice—I have a reputation to uphold"
"I love a girl with confidence. But remember, I may be cheap, but I'm not easy."
Levi chuckled as he hung up, setting the phone down. Step one was handled. Tomorrow, he'd source the weapon. After that?
The clock was ticking.
~~~ Jessica Jones ~~~
Jessica slouched on a park bench, the paper cup of coffee in her hand long since gone lukewarm. She took a sip anyway, scowling as she swallowed.
The air had the crisp bite of autumn, but the sun overhead fought to warm the pavement. The sounds of New York carried on around her—the too-loud joggers with their blaring headphones, the distant honk of impatient cabs, kids shouting at each other in the playground a few yards away.
But she wasn't here for the scenery.
Her eyes followed the people moving through the park, scanning every face, tracking every stroller.
The woman and the child. Levi had pointed them out days ago, and Jessica's gut hadn't let it go since. Something was wrong. Not just off, but wrong. And Levi—despite his usual jackassery—had been uncharacteristically serious about waving her off in his panic.
What was that about, anyway?
She still didn't know what had happened. It was just so peculiar. So unusual. She couldn't let it go. Not because she was worried about that smug asshole. No. Just because she couldn't let a mystery like this go uninvestigated. That's all it was.
It took over an hour before she spotted them. The same woman, pushing the same stroller, walking the same deliberate path through the park. No hesitations, no distractions, like she was one of those animatronic rides from Disney. Jessica sat forward, dumping the rest of her coffee into the trash beside her as she pushed against her knees and rose.
She trailed them at a casual distance, hands stuffed into the pockets of her jacket, a black scarf looped around her neck, posture lazy. They left the park, moving a bit down the street from Levi's place. Jessica followed, staying far enough back that she wouldn't catch their attention.
Then the woman stopped.
Jessica slowed, watching as the woman hesitated at a crosswalk, the stroller still and rigid in her grip. Her head tilted slightly, her body unmoving.
Then she crossed.
Jessica's eyes flicked up to follow where she was heading—straight toward a residential building. Small, nothing flashy. But the way the woman moved toward it...
Jessica clenched her jaw, debating her next move. She could wait. Watch. See if this was a pattern or just a coincidence. Now that she had an address and face, she had several approaches she could take.
Then a woman's scream split the air.
Jessica spun. Across the street, a ball bounced into the road, a blur of motion following after it—a kid, small, running full-tilt after it. Tires screeched as a black sedan hurtled toward them, her mind somehow noticed the driver's face frozen in panic.
Time seemed to slow down
Jessica didn't think.
She moved.
One second she was standing on the curb. The next, she was in the street, planting herself in front of the car, her palm slamming against the hood as the impact shuddered through her bones. The metal groaned, denting under her hand, tires squealing against the pavement as the car ground to a stop.
The kid scrambled backward, wide-eyed, his face inches away from the bumper of the car. His ball rolled lazily toward the storm drain and he stared up at her, mouth agape.
Jessica exhaled through her nose, straightening, her fingers uncurling from where they'd bit into the hood. The driver stared at her in horror, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
She tapped the dented metal with her knuckles. "Watch where you're going." Then turned back toward the building.
She froze.
A man stood there. Crisp, expensive, designer suit. Ostentatious gold watch. Not a hair out of place. Sunglasses sat perched on the bridge of his nose, obscuring his eyes.
The woman was at his side, the child tucked in close to his coat. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't frowning. He was just... watching her.
Jessica's gut tightened. She had never seen him before, but she knew. Instantly.
This man is the source of all this wrongness.
She took a breath, steadying herself, forcing herself to act natural and keep moving, to casually begin to walk away. But something—something off settled over her skin. Her brain struggled to process it, a sensation almost like pressure, like static in the air before a storm.
He tilted his head slightly, peering at her over the rim of his sunglasses. For the briefest moment, she caught it—his irises, a deep, unnatural violet.
Then his lips moved.
No sound. No whisper. Just the barest shift of his mouth, words spoken too low to hear.
Jessica didn't react. Didn't even register it. Her lips parted. A strange stillness settled over her chest. A second passed.
Then, without hesitation—
"Everything is fine."
He smiled.