~Thirty-second floor, Star Ring Tower~
Jas Wesley sat by the window, with his arms crossed. Next to him was a glass of fine red wine. The crimson liquid swirled gently in the crystal goblet...
This bespectacled, well-dressed man exuded the refined deanor of an elite.
The towering skyscraper on Eighth Avenue was regarded by many gangsters as a 'sacred place', much like the forr residence of the late Kingpin, the previous emperor of the underworld...
Rumors circulating in Hell's Kitchen painted Jas Wesley as a cunning, and scheming villain.
Those who dug deeper could hear detailed accounts; how Wesley had ticulously climbed his way to beco Kingpin's legal advisor, infiltrated the heart of the criminal empire, and, when the ti was ripe, struck decisively to overthrow the cri lord and seize power for himself.
These stories were shared as casual gossip in late-night bars and street corners. Yet, even if Wesley stood right in front of these storytellers, none would connect the man before them with the sinister mastermind of legend...
"Ramon is dead."
The news from his subordinates made Wesley frown. That diocre executive from Rand Enterprises had been his chosen puppet.
Though lacking remarkable talent, Ramon had been obedient... He was a loyal dog worth training.
His sudden rise to power at Rand Enterprises had inevitably drawn resentnt. Even if the old board mbers knew who stood behind him, their dissatisfaction would fester.
Isolating his puppet, and ensuring dependence... this was how one trained a hound. Neither overfed nor starved.
Wesley had learned much from his young boss over the years, the most crucial lesson being: Never trust loyalty blindly.
"Reduced to a charred corpse, sulfur traces at the scene… Religious fanaticism? Or has another foolhardy street hero erged in Hell's Kitchen?" Wesley drumd his fingers on the table.
Sothing felt off. Since Ramon's death two days ago, others had followed; Vladimir of the Russian mob, key mbers of the Hand. So vanished, others were found dead the next morning.
Hell's Kitchen no longer had street heroes. After the death of Iron Fist (Danny Rand), the vigilantes seed to have abandoned their crusade. Even the Punisher had left the neighborhood, hunting elsewhere.
"Who could it be?" Wesley doubted anyone would dare challenge him now.
At least, not after he had allied with the Hand. With their martial prowess and his own tactics of coercion and division, he had long since tad the gangs of Hell's Kitchen into sothing more docile than Chihuahuas.
"Perhaps I should call the boss..." It had been a while since Wesley last contacted Sean.
Once Hell's Kitchen stabilized, the young boss had stepped back. And as Umbrella's influence skyrocketed, the gap between them had widened.
The ever-perceptive Wesley hesitated...
Sean was no longer the obscure figure he once was. Now adorned with multiple accolades, his partnerships had ascended to giants like Stark Industries. Would reaching out uninvited provoke the young boss's ire?
As he pondered, the Daredevil in black had already stord Star Ring Tower.
He made no effort to conceal his approach, triggering alarms instantly. Elite ninjas sward from the lower floors like lethal machines trained to perfection.
Wielding katanas, shurikens, and chains, these assassins turned ancient weapons into instrunts of terrifying efficiency. Even a squad of fully ard special forces would struggle to survive.
The tower's lights flickered out. Shadows erged from the darkness, silent as ghosts, their blades glinting coldly.
Surrounded, the Daredevil let out a cold snort.
The Spirit of Vengeance within him roared, eager to feast on these bloodstained souls. To his enhanced senses, the ninjas' slowed heartbeats, soundless footsteps, and ghostly movents unfolded like a stop-motion film, each fra clear as day.
Twin batons, wreathed in hellfire, slid into his hands. Then he moved.
Like a phantom in the dark, his eyes blazed like the pits of Hell itself.
The elite ninjas stood no chance. Numbers ant nothing.
*CRACK!*
A baton caved in a red-masked ninja's skull, blood and brain matter splattered. Unfazed, the Daredevil seized another by the head and, with a twist, snapped his neck.
Fearless as they were, neither ninjas nor the tower's ard guards could stop the fla-eyed demon. Souls wailed as they were consud, and the Spirit of Vengeance laughed creepily through its host.
"More! It hungers for MORE!"
Hellfire surged from the Daredevil's eyes, engulfing the red mask until he resembled a true demon of the abyss.
"You. You.. YOU... ALL OF YOU ARE GUILTY!" His rasping voice carried the finality of a judge's decree.
Those who t his gaze burst into flas with their souls scorched to ash.
The hellfire, a gift from phisto, could burn any soul. Paired with the Penance Stare, it was an unstoppable weapon.
The demon lord himself couldn't wield full power in the mortal realm, not with the Sorcerers of Kamar-Taj watching. Hence, he created enforcers like this.
Yet phisto's luck was foul. Both his Ghost Riders had betrayed him, preferring cursed vengeance over servitude.
150 years ago, Carter Slade had stolen the Contract of San Venganza, a scroll holding thousands of souls. The second Rider had fled to the other side of the world, living as a drifter.
Now, hellfire waves incinerated everything in their path. Bullets from submachine guns tore through the Devil's body harmlessly... There was no blood, no wound. Empowered by the Spirit of Vengeance, modern weapons were useless.
"Jas Wesley… I FOUND YOU." His amplified senses painted the entire tower in vivid detail.
Every shadow, every whisper... nothing escaped him. With his abilities, monitoring all of Hell's Kitchen would be trivial.
On the thirty-second floor, Wesley read the text on his phone and forced himself to remain calm.
Even as reports confird no one could stop the rampaging Daredevil (Ghost Rider), he refused to panic.
His faith never wavered. Because he knew..
The boss would co...
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Read ahead on my P@treon...
[email protected]/MayaMatengele01
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