Chapter 133: Death Livestream and the Lord of Hell's Kitchen
Night had fallen over New York City, and the streets had gone quiet.
But on this particular quiet night, countless residents of the Big Apple were staying home, eyes glued to their computer screens and televisions, waiting for what came next.
The streets that usually buzzed with foot traffic were empty and still, as if the whole city was holding its breath.
In a bar in Manhattan, a server looked out at the packed house with a puzzled expression.
He glanced around and asked his boss, "Is today a holiday or something? Why's it so crowded?" In his experience, bars only got this packed for big games — playoffs, the Super Bowl. But he couldn't think of anything on the schedule tonight.
The boss shot him an irritated look. "What are you implying — that my bar's dead on a normal night? Get back to work!"
Then he turned to face his customers, grinning with satisfaction.
"Today's the day the Justice Envoy puts those Hell's Kitchen rats on trial," he announced loudly. "Of course people want to watch together. This is history!"
A chorus of agreement went up around the bar.
"Damn right — something this good, you watch it with your boys!" A massive guy in the back pumped his fist, a tiger tattoo flexing across his forearm.
"I want to see those Hell's Kitchen bastards get everything they deserve," another patron chimed in, practically buzzing with anticipation.
The server figured these people must have some personal grudge. "You guys have history with Hell's Kitchen or something?"
The tattooed guy blinked, then burst out laughing. "History? I don't know a single person from Hell's Kitchen. Never been there. But everyone knows the people who come out of that place are criminals. That's just common sense."
The server stood there for a moment, thrown off. These people had never met anyone from Hell's Kitchen. But they couldn't wait to watch them die.
Before he could say anything else, the boss was back. "Stop standing around and get to work, unless you want that docked from your paycheck!"
As the night deepened, the energy in the bar kept climbing. Patrons swapped theories about the Justice Envoy, debated which execution method would be most satisfying, talked over each other like they had front-row seats to something historic. The boss rolled out a round of special cocktails and bar snacks to keep the party going.
Then, right at eight o'clock, the livestream cut in.
Nine video feeds appeared simultaneously. In each one stood a figure in a suit and mask, motionless, waiting.
"Good evening, everyone, and welcome." All nine spoke in unison, their voices overlapping into something cold and ceremonial. "We are the Justice Envoy. Tonight, we invite you to witness something unprecedented."
The chat erupted. Comments scrolled too fast to read. Gift animations strobed across the screen.
The Justice Envoy continued, smiling behind their masks. "To thank you all for your enthusiasm — tonight, we've prepared nine different methods of execution."
The feed cut to nine locations. One person was bound at the edge of a rooftop, a single shove from the end. Another was stuffed into a burlap sack alongside a cinder block, dangling over open water. The others faced suffocation, immolation, poison, gunshot, electrocution, freezing, and decapitation — nine victims, nine deaths, presented like options on a menu.
The audience couldn't look away.
This is insane — I've never seen anything like this.
The Justice Envoy is iconic. Full support.
Wait, is this actually legal? Even if they're criminals, you can't just—
If you feel bad for them, go rescue them yourself, genius.
These people had it coming. Period.
The Justice Envoy scanned the chat feed and gave a satisfied nod.
"We'll be opening the vote now. Whichever method gets the most support will be carried out first."
The engagement numbers spiked instantly. Viewers hammered their votes in, suddenly invested in the outcome.
The results came in quickly.
"Our first execution will be: high-altitude fall." The Justice Envoy made the announcement with the brisk confidence of a game show host. "Don't worry if your preferred method didn't win — voting opens again after the first round."
Why high-altitude fall? That's just falling off a building. What's so special about that?
I voted for fire! I want to hear them scream!
Why isn't anyone from the feds doing anything? This is literally murder on a public livestream.
The feds staying quiet means the government is fine with this.
Isn't anyone scared the Lord of Hell's Kitchen is gonna come for them?
Let him come, then! The "Lord of Hell's Kitchen" is a joke. Always has been.
The feed shifted to the rooftop.
A Justice Envoy operative moved toward the bound resident at the edge of the drop. The camera was close enough to show everything — the duct tape across his mouth, the raw terror in his eyes, the desperate wordless plea on his face.
Don't. Please. I'll do anything. Please.
He didn't understand what he'd done wrong. He'd left Hell's Kitchen. That was it. That was apparently enough.
The chat saw his expression and went feral.
Push him. Do it already.
Hell's Kitchen puts out nothing but monsters. This is justice.
Maybe he's innocent though. This seems—
There are no innocent people from Hell's Kitchen. If you can't handle it, close the tab. Stop acting noble.
The operative raised his hands.
And then — the feed glitched.
The man didn't fall. A flash of red light wrapped around him, and he landed on the rooftop below in one piece, alive and unhurt.
Dead silence in the bar.
What the — what just happened? Where's the Justice Envoy? What is that?
Why isn't he dead??
The operatives were gone. In their place, the camera caught a figure in blue-and-white armor, a black cape moving in the wind.
Kamen Rider Eternal. Ethan, transformed.
He looked directly into the camera.
"You want to know who I am?" His voice was calm. Almost bored. "I'm the one you've all been talking about."
He let the silence stretch for a beat.
"I'm the Lord of Hell's Kitchen."
The bar went dead quiet.
Then everyone started talking at once.
No way.
The Lord of Hell's Kitchen — HERE?
Why are you still alive?! The feds were supposed to—
Ethan didn't answer any of it.
He just stood there, in front of every camera still rolling, and waited.
☆☆☆
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