Hell's Kitchen had turned into a full-scale war zone, and it wasn't subtle about it anymore. Police sirens screamed through the streets at all hours, patrol cars flooding every corner like a constant tide of flashing red and blue. Engines roared, tires screeched, and officers moved in coordinated waves, sweeping through neighborhoods that had once been ruled by fear and silence.
At night, the presence became even more suffocating. Anyone stepping outside would quickly notice patrol cars tucked into shadows, idling quietly, ready to pounce at the slightest disturbance. The sheer density of law enforcement had pushed Hell's Kitchen into an absurd new reality, where its public safety statistics suddenly rivaled—and even surpassed—the pristine Upper East Side.
For the first time in memory, the residents weren't afraid to walk outside after dark. That shift alone felt surreal, almost unreal. Some of them, in private moments, even felt a strange sense of gratitude toward the masked figure responsible for this upheaval.
But the surface told only half the story. Beneath the visible order, chaos brewed in the shadows.
Gunmen, assassins, and bounty hunters flooded into Hell's Kitchen, drawn by the same thing: the massive underground bounty placed on the Devil Face. They hid in alleys, on rooftops, inside abandoned buildings—anywhere they could wait without being seen. Sleep became a luxury none of them could afford, because missing a single moment might cost them the opportunity of a lifetime.
Even S.H.I.E.L.D. had joined the hunt, though their methods were far more sophisticated. High-tech surveillance drones, disguised as birds, perched across the district. Their lenses scanned constantly, feeding streams of data back to a centralized system that never blinked.
In the middle of the night, Agent Phil Coulson jerked awake from a light nap. The glow of multiple surveillance screens reflected in his eyes as he leaned forward, scanning the dense grid of live feeds.
"Anything?" he asked, his voice still rough with fatigue.
The technician beside him didn't even look away from the monitors. "No. He hasn't shown up."
Coulson's gaze shifted, his expression tightening slightly. "And Daredevil? Still on the rooftop?"
With a few quick adjustments, the technician brought up a new angle. At the center of the screen, Daredevil sat perched on the edge of the tallest building in Hell's Kitchen. His posture was eerily still, almost meditative, like a monk watching over the city.
From that vantage point, nothing moved without his awareness. Every shift in the air, every distant footstep, every heartbeat—it all flowed into his senses.
Coulson exhaled slowly. He had tried multiple times to establish contact, but Daredevil had made it impossible. The moment Coulson got within fifty meters, the vigilante would vanish without a word. No conversation, no negotiation—just silence and distance.
"Sir," the technician said after a moment, hesitation creeping into his voice, "Devil Face hasn't appeared for three days. Is it possible he's… gone?"
Coulson didn't answer immediately. His eyes lingered on the screen, calculating, weighing possibilities. "It's possible," he admitted finally. "We'll wait. If he doesn't show up, we shut it down."
At that very moment, the man they were all hunting wasn't anywhere near Hell's Kitchen.
Rex Viper had slipped quietly into an upscale neighborhood in Brooklyn, moving through the quiet streets like a ghost. The area was pristine—well-lit sidewalks, manicured lawns, expensive homes that radiated security and comfort.
His target lived here.
Carson Wolfe, a senior agent with the Department of Homeland Security.
Rex approached a villa and paused briefly at the door. With practiced ease, he pulled out a key and unlocked it without a sound, slipping inside as if he belonged there.
This wasn't luck. David had spent over a month monitoring Wolfe, hacking into his home's surveillance system and mapping out every detail of his routine. The man's keys had appeared countless times in recorded footage, and through careful analysis and replication, they had produced a perfect copy.
Inside, everything was quiet.
Upstairs, Wolfe stirred in his sleep, a sudden chill creeping through his body. His eyes fluttered open, and under the pale wash of moonlight, he saw a figure standing beside his bed.
His mind didn't even have time to process it.
A fist slammed into his face, and the world went black.
When Wolfe came to, the world had changed completely.
He was hanging by his wrists in an abandoned construction site on the outskirts of the city. His shoes and socks were gone, leaving his bare feet pressed awkwardly against a cold steel plate beneath him. His entire body ached, and the air around him felt damp and hostile.
A bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head, and the freezing shock snapped him fully awake.
He struggled instinctively, panic surging through his chest. "Okay, okay—stop struggling," a calm voice said.
Wolfe forced his eyes open and saw Rex sitting in front of him, relaxed, almost casual, as if this were a normal conversation. Beside him, another man approached slowly, wearing a puppet mask and carrying a small brazier filled with glowing coals.
The masked man crouched down and slid the brazier beneath the steel plate.
"Agent Wolfe," he said softly, his voice low and almost amused, "do you like teppanyaki? I have a feeling you won't after tonight."
Heat began to rise from below, subtle at first, but unmistakable. Wolfe's breath hitched as fear gripped him. "Who are you?" he demanded, though his voice trembled.
The masked man leaned closer, his eyes locking onto Wolfe's. "If I told you I was a soldier," he asked quietly, "would that scare you?"
Wolfe clenched his teeth, forcing himself to hold onto what little composure he had left. "You're not a soldier. You don't have the temperament of an American soldier."
A soft chuckle escaped the mask. "Temperament?" he repeated. "You mean the kind that ends up with your chest carved open, stuffed with heroin, and shipped back to the United States so someone like you can make a fortune?"
The color drained from Wolfe's face instantly.
The masked man tilted his head slightly, almost satisfied. "See? You know exactly why you're here."
"I can pay you," Wolfe blurted out, desperation breaking through. "One million. No—ten million. Just let me go."
The steel plate grew hotter. The last traces of water evaporated with sharp hissing sounds, and Wolfe was forced to lift his feet awkwardly, straining his arms and shoulders just to avoid contact.
"Today," the masked man said flatly, "is about revenge."
Something about his posture, the slight hunch in his shoulders, triggered a memory in Wolfe's mind. Recognition hit him like a bolt of lightning.
"You…" Wolfe whispered, his eyes widening in disbelief. "That's impossible. You're dead."
The masked man reached up and slowly removed the mask, revealing David's face, twisted with raw hatred. "If you're still alive," he said hoarsely, "how could I be dead?"
Wolfe's voice shook. "That's not possible. I shot you in the heart!"
David didn't even acknowledge the statement. His anger had long since moved past explanations.
"Today," he roared, "I'm not just avenging myself. I'm avenging every soldier you defiled, every person you betrayed, every life you destroyed. You die here."
The heat intensified.
Wolfe's strength began to fail. His feet touched the steel plate, and the moment they did, a scream tore out of him, echoing across the empty construction site. The pain was unbearable, a white-hot agony that forced his body into frantic motion.
Adrenaline surged, and he managed to lift his feet again, gasping, trembling.
But he couldn't hold on forever.
"I was wrong!" he cried, voice breaking. "I'm sorry! Please—just let me go! I'll give you everything—everything I have!"
Neither Rex nor David responded.
They simply turned and walked away.
Behind them, Wolfe's screams continued, growing more desperate, more broken, until they blended into the empty night.
After putting some distance between themselves and the site, Rex glanced sideways at David. "Honestly," he said, "I kind of wanted his money."
David snorted lightly, the tension in his body easing just a fraction. "Who says we didn't get paid?"
Rex blinked. "Wait—what?"
"You think I hacked his home system just to copy a key?" David shot him a look. "One time he logged into his account, and I caught his credentials through the reflection in the glass behind him."
Rex let out a sharp laugh. "That's insane. How much?"
"Sixteen million," David replied. "He had three hidden accounts. We only got access to one during surveillance."
Rex clicked his tongue. "Should've killed him later."
David shot him a resentful glare.
They climbed into an old pickup truck, the engine rattling to life as distant screams continued to echo faintly behind them. The sound lingered for a while, fading only as they drove farther away.
About thirty minutes later, Rex checked his watch, his expression calm. "The poison should be kicking in."
Moments passed.
Then a notification appeared in his mind.
Bronze-level task: 1/3.
The return trip wasn't simple. With multiple factions hunting them, they had to take a long, winding route, carefully avoiding patrols and surveillance. David guided the path through his remote setup, his phone linked directly to the equipment hidden back at the church.
As they moved through the city, Rex caught sight of a familiar figure in the distance—Daredevil, standing alone against the skyline.
He spat out the window. "Damn bastard. I really want to put a bullet in him."
David barely looked up, his attention fixed on his phone. "Hey, I've got something. Found solid evidence on those two dirty cops. Their crimes are worse than we thought."
Rex leaned back slightly. "Anything else?"
"Yeah," David continued, tapping rapidly. "I also stumbled onto some information about their boss. Guy named Wilson. Looks like he's been acting… different lately. Keeps showing up at some art gallery."
"An art gallery?" Rex raised an eyebrow. "What's it called?"
"Vanessa."
Rex smirked, amusement flickering across his face. "What, the bald fat guy found true love or something?"
David frowned slightly, confused by the comment.
"Keep an eye on that gallery," Rex said, his tone sharpening just a bit.
"Why?"
Rex chuckled softly, leaning back as the truck rolled through the dark streets. "We just picked up a nice chunk of cash. Figured I might invest in culture."
He paused, the grin widening just enough to hint at something more.
"Who knows," he added, "maybe I'll even end up marrying a beautiful woman."
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