Vanessa is dead.
Jason's brow twitched into a deep furrow, shaped like the jagged scar running across Slade Wilson's face.
He wasn't the sentimental type. He didn't feel grief, regret, or loss—not even for Vanessa Fisk, the woman with whom he had shared far more than just whispered conversations.
He was just… surprised.
Kingpin actually did it.
Wilson Fisk, the man who had once worshipped Vanessa like a devoted disciple, had turned around and executed her in the most brutal way possible.
In the past, Fisk had been gentle, eloquent, almost aristocratic in his mannerisms, his words laced with Shakespearean charm, as if he were more a king in exile than a crime lord ruling over Hell's Kitchen.
Jason had always found it amusing.
The Kingpin, feared by every gangster from the Maggia to the Yakuza, the man who had broken Bullseye's spine with his bare hands, had been nothing more than a lovesick puppy around Vanessa.
And yet, the same "loyal dog" had turned rabid—butchered his own queen.
Jason exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping against the pistol in his lap. He understood Fisk's decision.
Cuckolding the Kingpin had been exhilarating—thrilling, even.
But if the situation had been reversed?
Jason smirked.
Yeah. He would've slaughtered everyone involved too.
Even the most stoic, calculated men turn into raging monsters when they're humiliated like that.
For Fisk, Vanessa's betrayal wasn't just an emotional wound—it was a scar on his legacy, a public stain on his empire.
Her death had been inevitable.
Jason leaned back, smirking at the thought of Fisk's anger.
How does that saying go?
Happiness is built on the suffering of others.
---
Jason spent the day in the abandoned WayneTech warehouse, killing time on his StarkPhone XR, scrolling through the news, waiting for nightfall.
By dusk, it was time to move.
He stripped off his Nike-branded sportswear—shoplifted from an abandoned store during last month's riots—and swapped it for an old cotton jacket and ripped jeans.
Running his fingers through the dust-covered desk, he smeared the grime across his face, neck, and arms, ensuring he looked the part.
His transformation was complete.
From a sharp-dressed assassin to just another homeless vagrant wandering the dark alleys of Manhattan.
Jason pocketed his suppressed Glock 20 and stepped outside.
Above, the Gotham-black sky stretched endlessly over New York's skyline, while the city's neon veins pulsed with life.
He stretched, yawned, and made his way toward Mid-South Manhattan.
---
Wilson Fisk didn't rule New York's underworld alone.
His raw, superhuman strength made him a living wall of muscle, but even a man who could snap Daredevil's ribs with a single punch needed smart generals by his side.
Jason had been one of them.
A street kid with no name, no future—just a pair of fists and a gun.
He'd clawed his way up Fisk's empire the hard way. Broke bones. Stole territory. Killed anyone who stood in the way.
From a nobody in Hell's Kitchen to the Kingpin's right-hand man.
An inspiration to young, reckless gangsters.
They saw him as proof that if they fought hard enough, if they spilled enough blood, they too could rise to the top.
Fools.
Conquering turf was easy. Keeping it? That was the real challenge.
Jason didn't do strategy.
Neither did Fisk.
That's why Fisk surrounded himself with thinkers, manipulators—the kind of men who could rule from the shadows, where brute force wasn't enough.
And among those minds, the one Fisk trusted most was James Wesley.
That's who Jason was here to see tonight.
---
After walking several miles, Jason arrived at one of the most exclusive residential areas in Manhattan.
A place where only the rich, corrupt, or untouchable could afford to live.
Each American-style villa was spaced precisely 30 meters apart, ensuring privacy that even SHIELD would have trouble breaching.
Tall trees lined the roads, their dark silhouettes blending into the shadows. The streets were pristine, untouched by crime—because criminals who trespassed here didn't live long enough to regret it.
Wesley's house stood among them.
A sleek, minimalist villa with a perfectly manicured 600-square-meter garden.
Jason had been here before.
Wesley had even offered him a place, suggesting that Jason abandon his high-rise apartment for a more peaceful life among the elite.
Jason had refused.
He preferred the city. The noise. The chaos. The pulse of the streets.
This?
This was a graveyard for the living.
---
10 PM.
Midtown Manhattan was alive—bars overflowing, music blasting, sirens wailing.
But here?
Silence.
Most of the homes were pitch black, their owners asleep long before the real monsters of the city came out to play.
Jason smirked.
"Going to bed at ten? Might as well be dead."
Wesley's house was quiet.
The first floor was dark, but the master bedroom on the second floor still glowed softly.
Jason knew Wesley well.
The man had never been a sound sleeper.
Pulling out his Glock, Jason screwed on a suppressor, aimed at the security camera mounted near the villa's entrance—
Pfft!
Glass shattered. The lens cracked.
[Ding! Destroyed private property. +5 Villain Points. Current Progress: 465/3000.]
Jason moved swiftly, circling around to the back door.
He tested the living room window. Locked.
The kitchen window?
Click.
Unlocked.
Sliding inside, Jason landed silently, his movements as smooth as a League of Assassins operative.
By the moonlight, he swept the first floor.
Empty.
Pistol raised, he crept up the stairs, pressing against the wall.
Light spilled through the partially open master bedroom door.
Inside?
Voices.
Jason moved closer.
Then…
His expression shifted.
Inside the room, the sounds weren't voices.
They were moans.
Jason blinked.
"…You've gotta be kidding me."
---
Of all the scenarios he had imagined, this wasn't one of them.
He had planned for an ambush.
He had prepared for a trap.
Hell, he had even considered the possibility that Wesley had already skipped town.
But this?
He had walked in on Wesley mid-orgasm.
Jason froze.
Should he go in now?
If he barged in now, he'd ruin Wesley's night.
And despite everything, Jason actually liked Wesley.
They had history.
And if this had nothing to do with Wesley, Jason had no intention of killing him.
So, after a long sigh, Jason did something truly heroic.
He sat down on the upstairs sofa and waited.
"Damn. I'm such a good guy."
Jason chuckled to himself.
Inside, the sounds grew more intense.
Jason scowled.
His mind began filling in details he really didn't want to picture.
His battle-honed imagination conjured up images of soft curves, flushed skin, gasping lips—
Jason gritted his teeth.
Focus.
Do.
The.
Job.
---
Five minutes later…
A deep groan.
Then silence.
Jason exhaled.
"Finally."
Standing, he raised his Glock, kicked open the bedroom door, and smirked—
"Wesley, big surprise! You—"
Jason froze.
His smirk vanished.
The man in bed wasn't Wesley.
"…Who the hell are you?"