The scene before him left Wesley completely stunned.
After what felt like an eternity, he finally muttered, "What... the hell?"
"Wesley, I'm sorry."
Annie knelt on the bed, clutching her mouth and nose as she sobbed uncontrollably. "I was wrong! I swear this was the last time it'll never happen again! Please, forgive me!"
Wesley's expression was unreadable. His gaze locked onto Annie, filled with confusion, doubt, fury and a chilling intent to kill.
Slowly clenching his fists, Wesley spoke in a calm yet ominous tone: "Jason, there's a bar downstairs. You'll find a 20-year-old Macallan there it's your kind of whiskey. Try it. You won't be disappointed."
His voice carried no emotion, like the eerie stillness before a storm.
"Alright," Jason shrugged, slipping his Glock into his waistband before heading downstairs.
The bar was lined with expensive liquor dozens of rare bottles, each worth at least a thousand dollars. Jason flicked on a dim incandescent light, scanning the shelves.
"Whiskey, whiskey… there you are."
He grabbed a bottle, uncorked it, and poured himself a drink. Just as he brought the glass to his lips, a bloodcurdling scream erupted from upstairs.
Jason paused momentarily, then took a sip, completely unfazed.
He smirked to himself. Wesley hadn't killed anyone in years. His technique would be rusty.
As he swirled the whiskey in his glass, Annie's screams persisted before finally fading into silence. Moments later, Wesley descended the stairs his expression hollow, his movements stiff.
Jason poured him a glass without a word.
"It's good," Jason remarked, pushing the drink toward Wesley. "You should try it."
Wesley snatched the bottle instead, filling his own glass to the brim. He tilted his head back and downed it in one go.
Thud!
The glass hit the counter as Wesley clenched his fists, breathing heavily, his head lowered.
Jason knew better than to speak. Some things couldn't be fixed by words.
He simply refilled Wesley's glass and sipped his own, waiting.
Thirty minutes and an entire bottle later, Wesley finally muttered, "Jason, I'm sorry you had to witness that."
Jason smirked. "No need to apologize. Honestly, I enjoyed the show."
"Go to hell, asshole." Wesley let out a bitter laugh. "If you ever die, I'll pay someone to sew your damn mouth shut with your own"
"What a waste." Jason interrupted with a chuckle. "If it were me, I'd pickle it in whiskey."
"Jesus, you're disgusting." Wesley shook his head, though the crude joke seemed to lighten his mood.
The two men clinked glasses, downing the last drops of Macallan.
Then, Wesley's expression turned serious. "What the hell did you do, Jason? I've never seen Fisk this furious before."
Jason studied the glass in his hand before answering nonchalantly, "Slept with Vanessa."
Wesley froze.
"What?" His voice cracked. "That's what you call a little thing? Are you insane? I told you years ago that your reckless ass was going to get you killed!"
Jason waved him off. "Relax. I just need to know how did Fisk find out?"
Wesley hesitated before shaking his head. "He didn't tell me much, not even about Vanessa. Just that you betrayed the Syndicate and ordered a bounty on your head."
Jason smirked. He'd anticipated as much hence why he'd changed phones and disguised himself before coming here.
"What's the price?"
"One million if you're dead. Three million if you're alive."
"Generous." Jason chuckled. "Think I could turn myself in?"
"I'd be more than happy to collect."
Wesley stood up, straightening his suit. "I have a mess to clean upstairs. You should leave consider tonight never happened."
"Wesley."
Jason's voice was calm as he set his glass down and drew his Glock, leveling it at Wesley.
"You're not leaving until I get an answer. Or… you can try reaching for that Beretta 92 you keep tucked behind your back."
Wesley stiffened, his hand hovering just shy of the gun.
Under the dim bar light, two men former allies—stared each other down, fingers twitching near their weapons.
A long silence stretched between them before Wesley finally sighed and relaxed his posture.
"Jason… I don't know anything. Fisk didn't tell me the details."
Jason scoffed. "You and I have worked together for years. We know each other better than we know ourselves. Don't insult me with lies."
Wesley remained silent.
"Fine, I'll spell it out." Jason leaned forward. "Fisk despises loose ends. He hates Vladimir's Russian crew. He'd never personally contact him."
"So tell me, who tipped Vladimir off? Who told him exactly where to find me?"
Wesley's expression shifted slightly his poker face cracked for the first time.
"I'm sorry, Jason, I"
"Don't apologize," Jason cut him off. "I know you were just following orders."
Wesley exhaled sharply, rubbing his face. "Fisk called me yesterday. That's when I found out about you and Vanessa. God, I lost my mind when I heard."
Jason smirked. "Overreacting, aren't we?"
"Overreacting?" Wesley snapped. "Because of your goddamn dick, Hell's Kitchen and all of New York's underworld is on the verge of all-out war! Do you even grasp how many bodies are going to drop because of this?"
Jason shook his head in amusement. Wesley was truly Fisk's right-hand man he parroted the Kingpin's vision perfectly.
Fisk always had grand aspirations. He wasn't just a crime lord he saw himself as a savior. He wanted to "reform" New York, to shape it into something better under his control.
Once, over drinks, Fisk had spoken about his dream a perfect city, where violence and crime were eradicated through absolute dominance. Jason had smiled, nodded, and secretly laughed at the absurdity of it all.
Now, Jason met Wesley's gaze and spoke with quiet finality:
"Wesley, do you really buy into Fisk's bullshit? Evil is evil, good is good. Dressing it up with fancy words won't change that. As long as we exist, New York will never be at peace."
Wesley scoffed. "And yet, under Fisk, Hell's Kitchen has the lowest crime rate in decades. That doesn't mean nothing."
Jason smirked, spinning the empty glass between his fingers. "It means nothing."
Wesley's jaw tightened.
Jason leaned forward, lowering his voice. "The crime rate is low because Fisk kills anyone who steps out of line. It's not peace it's just controlled violence."
A tense silence followed.
Wesley finally looked away, gripping his glass so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Jason chuckled. "Drink up, Wesley. You're gonna need it."
And with that, he poured them both another round.
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