As a predator at the very top of the food chain, Wilson Fisk felt a faint, nagging sense of unease.
Daredevil was annoying, yes, but he was an idealist bound by a strict "no-kill" rule. He wasn't a true threat.
Fisk had never felt the need to kill him imdiately; he viewed the hero as a plaything to be broken, perhaps even soone he could eventually force into submission through enough suffering.
But this mystery man from the pier was different.
This individual hadn't just killed Fisk's n; he had wiped out the Russians, too. The sheer lawlessness and lack of hesitation conveyed in those kills gave even the Kingpin pause.
There's an old saying: the soft fear the hard, the hard fear the reckless, the reckless fear the suicidal, and the suicidal fear the insane. In Fisk's eyes, the man behind the Pier 9 massacre was a genuine madman.
An uncontrollable variable was the thing Fisk loathed and feared most. A powerful, purposeless, and ruthless lunatic was like a viper in the dark, capable of striking a lethal blow at any mont.
Thus, Fisk chose to strike first. By leveraging his public influence, he would fra this "Shadow" as a horrific, random serial killer.
He wanted to force the man out of the dark and into the light. And then? He would crush him with overwhelming force.
"Understood, Boss," Bullseye replied, bowing as he exited the room.
Only once he was in the hallway did Bullseye allow a look of genuine admiration—and excitent—to cross his face.
He wasn't just curious about this "Shadow." He felt a sense of kinship. To a true sociopath like Bullseye, the way the man had killed the night before was... artistic.
He felt he had found a fellow "slaughter artist." The prospect of killing soone who shared his "vision" brought Bullseye a surge of anticipation that topped even his usual high.
As Bullseye executed the orders, the dia machine shifted into high gear. Since Peter had left no photos or biological evidence, the journalists—under Fisk's thumb—slapped a sensationalist, tacky label on him to grab headlines: "The Pier Butcher."
Within hours, the na "Pier Butcher" was plastered across every screen in New York and the rest of the country.
Midtown High Cafeteria, Lunch Break.
The TV in the corner was tuned to the noon news, which was—predictably—dissecting the Pier 9 bloodbath. A "criminal psychologist" was talking to the cara:
"While many outlets describe this as a 'dog-eat-dog' gang war, as a professional, I can assure you the culprit is a single individual. This is evident by the missing cash and the singular nature of the trauma. Since we have no DNA, I've dubbed him the 'Pier Butcher.'
Analysis suggests he is a male, over six feet tall, weighing at least 150 pounds, with a severe anti-social personality. He enjoys the process of killing and takes pleasure in torturing the weak. He is a danger to every citizen in New York. We must apprehend him before he commits more indiscriminate acts..."
Pier Butcher? That's a terrible na, Peter thought, biting into his sandwich. This generation of dia has zero imagination. Even 'Blood-Harbor Ghost' would have more style than 'Butcher'.
Beside him, Gwen watched the report, her brow furrowed in distaste. "This guy is too cruel... no matter if those people were criminals, life shouldn't be treated with such disregard. It's literal torture."
It wasn't torture! Peter countered internally. Those guys had their heads exploded before they even knew what was happening. They got the highest quality sleep of their lives! It was practically a rcy!
Aloud, Peter said through a mouthful of sandwich, "I don't know. As long as he doesn't hurt innocent people, I don't see the problem. Doesn't the brutality serve as a deterrent to other criminals?
Before, they thought that if they didn't get caught, they were fine. Or even if they were caught, they could use money to grease the wheels and get back to their cris.
But now? With a real monster out there, they might think twice. The law has loopholes, but the 'Butcher' doesn't seem to show rcy."
Gwen blinked, stunned. She had never looked at it from that perspective. Peter's words actually made a strange kind of sense to her.
"I an... maybe you're right. But I still think he's too extre. If I ever had that kind of power, I'd never do sothing like that." Gwen's voice was firm with conviction.
Peter just nodded noncommittally. Sure, with around, you only need to worry about being a 'friendly neighborhood' hero.
Suddenly, the TV screen cut to a new image: a bald, mountain-sized man in a bespoke suit. Wilson Fisk.
The Kingpin of New York spoke with a mask of somber compassion. "I am deeply shocked and saddened by the ergence of the 'Pier Butcher'.
This barbaric violence is an affront to the order of our great city. To help bring this safety threat to justice, I am personally donating one million dollars to the NYPD for equipnt upgrades.
Furthermore, I am offering an additional one million dollar bounty for any information leading to the 'Butcher's' identity."
The cafeteria erupted. A million dollars! To a bunch of high school kids, that was a number beyond comprehension.
RATTLE-CLACK!
Suddenly, the cafeteria windows shook violently. A pane of glass shattered into pieces seemingly out of nowhere. Just then, a student burst through the doors, shouting at the top of his lungs:
"GUYS! HUGE NEWS! THE MANHATTAN BANK ON THE EAST SIDE IS BEING ROBBED!"
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