The sun rose over New York City, but for Alexander Reid, the warmth of daylight brought little comfort. He stood on his penthouse balcony, the skyline stretching out before him like a kingdom built on lies and corruption. The events of the past days replayed in his mind—the warehouses in flames, the assassins he had left broken in alleys, and the bold message he scrawled on Fisk's safehouse wall: "I AM COMING."
The war had begun. There was no turning back now.
He knew Fisk would not sit idle. The Kingpin did not tolerate defiance. Retaliation was inevitable—brutal, swift, and unforgiving. Alexander took a slow breath, the crisp morning air filling his lungs. His muscles were still sore from his recent battles, but beneath the ache was strength—a growing power that surged with every level he gained.
The criminal underworld was already buzzing with whispers. He had heard them while moving through the streets the night before. His name, still unknown to the public, was spreading like a curse among Fisk's men. Some called him a ghost, others a demon. He was becoming a myth in the underworld—but to Fisk, he was a problem that needed to be erased.
Alexander prepared. He reinforced the defenses in his penthouse. Reinforced steel panels were installed over his windows, concealed beneath sleek drapes. Hidden weapons—knives, firearms, and makeshift explosives—were stashed in every room. He memorized his escape routes, rehearsing each exit until his movements became second nature. His home was no longer a sanctuary; it was a fortress.
His training intensified. He pushed his body harder, his fists slamming into the heavy bag until his knuckles bled. Every strike was a promise—to himself, to Fisk, to anyone who dared come for him. Pain was his teacher, and he embraced it. Sweat mixed with blood as he honed his craft, his mind as sharp as his body.
By noon, he sensed it—the subtle shift in the air. Movement in the shadows. Cars idling a little too long near his building. Pedestrians who looked out of place, their eyes lingering on him before quickly looking away. Fisk's men were watching.
He felt their gaze like a predator sensing prey. They were testing him, studying his habits, waiting for the right moment. But Alexander was not prey. He was the hunter.
That evening, they made their move.
Three men. Armed, professional, efficient. They breached his building's lobby, taking out the security guard with brutal efficiency. Alexander watched it unfold through the small camera feed he had installed in the hallway. The guard—a kind man named Luis, who always greeted him with a smile—was left bleeding on the floor, groaning in pain. Rage simmered beneath Alexander's calm exterior.
He welcomed them.
When they reached his door, Alexander struck.
The first man was tall and broad-shouldered, his grip firm on his silenced pistol. Alexander moved swiftly, grabbing the man's wrist and twisting it with bone-snapping force. The gun clattered to the floor. Alexander followed up with a knee to the ribs, then drove his elbow into the man's temple. He collapsed in a heap.
The second raised his weapon, but Alexander was already inside his guard. He grabbed the man's arm, twisting it until the bone snapped with a sickening crack. The man's scream was cut short as Alexander drove his fist into his jaw, knocking him out cold.
The third tried to retreat, panic flashing in his eyes. Alexander closed the distance in seconds, slamming him against the wall with such force that the drywall cracked. The man gasped for air, but Alexander delivered a swift punch to his gut, followed by an uppercut that sent him to the floor.
[Enemies Defeated: 3] [Experience Gained: 60]
Alexander stood over their bodies, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. Blood dripped from his knuckles onto the pristine floor. His heart raced, but his mind was calm. This was only the beginning. Fisk had made his first move. Alexander had answered.
He checked Luis in the lobby. The guard was injured but alive. Alexander called for medical assistance, ensuring Luis would receive help before returning to his apartment.
He dragged the bodies into a corner, securing them with zip ties. He left their weapons in a pile, a reminder of their failure. Before leaving, he scrawled another message on the wall above them with a black marker:
"NOT ENOUGH."
The letters were bold, defiant. When Fisk's men came to retrieve their broken soldiers, they would see it. They would know that Alexander was not afraid.
He stepped back, surveying his work. The message was clear.
The shadows belonged to him now.
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