The sun hung high in the sky as cars and pedestrians flooded the streets of New York.
Some were heading to work.
Some to school.
Each carried their own agenda, their own goals for the day. And that included both villains and heroes lurking within the city.
In the more secluded parts of New York—specifically Hell's Kitchen—the atmosphere was vastly different. It was the most corrupt area in the city, a place where stories so grim and legends so unsettling were known to nearly every resident of New York.
People who lived here were either society's forgotten vagrants or those too poor to survive in any other part of the city.
On this very day, a woman dressed in black could be seen walking through the streets of this place. Her sharp eyes constantly monitored her surroundings, as if expecting a sudden ambush at any moment.
Her dark clothes and heels blended seamlessly with the oppressive atmosphere of the area. As she walked, homeless people, local food stalls, rundown clothing stores, and heavily tattooed individuals came into view. To them, a woman like her was nothing more than a walking target.
Or so they thought.
"Hey, beautiful, wait up?" a rugged voice called out from behind her.
The woman didn't slow her pace, nor did she turn her head, as if the speaker wasn't worth acknowledging.
The man who had spoken was bald-skinned, with a thick tattoo stretching from his scalp down to his left eye. A lewd grin spread across his face as he shamelessly sized up the woman in black.
When she continued to ignore him, annoyance flickered through his eyes. Then, emboldened by his surroundings, he reached out, intending to grab her hand.
"Hey lady, let's—"
His voice was cut short as a searing pain shot through his arm.
"AHHHHHH!"
His scream echoed through the street as he stared in horror at his right arm, grotesquely bent at an unnatural angle. Pain and terror contorted his face as he collapsed to the ground, writhing and screaming, not even daring to ask what had just happened.
The people who had witnessed the scene scattered immediately.
Some lowered their heads and hurried away.
Others slammed shut their windows and doors, pretending they had seen nothing.
"Hmph."
The culprit merely snorted in disgust and continued on her way, as if nothing of importance had occurred. In her mind, she had done nothing more than squash an irritating bug.
Minutes later, she arrived at her destination.
An imposing skyscraper—no, a tower—rose before her, its countless floors stretching into the sky. At the entrance, massive letters spelled out a single name in bold display, as if proclaiming the wealth and authority of its owner.
FISK.
As the woman in black took in the sight, she released a slow breath—one filled with both relief and anticipation. This place, and the mission tied to it, was of utmost importance.
"Should I walk in normally… or sneak inside?" she thought, her gaze traveling toward the top of the tower.
She knew the chances of accomplishing her goal were high, but complications could easily arise if she wasn't careful. That was why she hesitated, weighing whether to enter through the front door or bypass everything and go straight to her target's floor.
Seconds passed before she made her decision.
"Sneaking inside is better," she murmured to herself. "If I go in through the front door, he might get wary. That would only cause unnecessary complications when I'm trying to strike a deal. He's Wilson Fisk, after all."
Without further hesitation, she moved to a secluded area near the building, carefully ensuring no cameras were watching.
"Whoosh~!"
She touched her wrist, and an eerie green portal shimmered into existence beside her. Wasting no time, she stepped through it and vanished, unnoticed by anyone.
--- ✦ ---
At the very top of Fisk Tower, on its highest floor, power and menace filled the air like a tangible weight. The room was vast, luxurious, and suffocating all at once—dark marble floors, towering glass windows overlooking New York, and a long polished table positioned at the center like a throne's extension.
Seated behind it was a hulking figure clad in a pristine white suit and black tie.
Wilson Fisk.
The man's massive frame barely fit the chair he occupied, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over the table as his cold eyes scanned the files laid neatly before him. On the table before him was a desk nameplate with his name—Wilson Fisk—as if reminding the world who owned everything within these walls.
To his right stood an enchanting woman dressed in red and black. Her posture was elegant yet dangerous, her sharp eyes radiating natural arrogance, lips curled faintly as if the world itself amused her.
To his left stood a stern-looking man holding a sniper rifle with practiced ease, his stance rigid, disciplined, and ready—Bullseye.
They remained silent, waiting.
Fisk's expression grew darker with each page he turned. His thick fingers tightened, the paper crumpling slightly under the pressure as numbers stared back at him—numbers he hated.
$20,000,000.
Of supplies
Gone.
Vanished.
Taken.
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as fury simmered beneath his composed exterior.
"Damn… vigilantes," Fisk growled, the words heavy with venom.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Slowly, Fisk lifted his gaze from the files and fixed it on the stern man standing before him. His eyes bore into Bullseye like twin drills.
"Tell me," Fisk said calmly, far too calmly, "why you haven't captured even one of the vigilantes responsible for this loss."
Bullseye stiffened.
For the first time since entering the room, cracks formed in his composure. His throat bobbed as anxiety flashed across his face. He opened his mouth to respond, words tumbling in his mind as he searched desperately for an explanation that wouldn't seal his fate.
"I—I was close," he began. "I almost caught one of them this time, but Dared—"
Before he could finish, the air exploded with movement.
Fisk was suddenly on his feet.
In one swift motion, his massive hand shot forward and wrapped around Bullseye's neck, lifting him clean off the ground as if he weighed nothing. The sniper rifle clattered to the floor, echoing sharply through the room.
Bullseye's eyes widened in pure terror as his feet kicked helplessly in the air.
"How many times," Fisk asked slowly, his voice eerily controlled, "have you failed me, Benjamin?"
His grip tightened.
"Why," Fisk continued, stepping closer, their faces inches apart, "should I give you another chance?"
Bullseye clawed at Fisk's arm, gasping for air as his face twisted in horror. Any attempt to beg dissolved into strangled sounds as his vision blurred and his strength faded.
The woman in red watched silently, her expression unreadable—neither intervening nor looking away.
Bullseye's movements slowed. Darkness crept into his eyes.
Then—
Fisk's brow furrowed.
Something was wrong.
An unknown presence had appeared in his office.
Though Wilson Fisk was a normal human, he was no ordinary one. His strength, instincts, and senses were honed to the peak of human capability, so it was easy for him to sense any presence meters around him. And now,
Someone had entered the room.
Without warning or permission
Fisk's eyes shifted slightly, his attention snapping away from Bullseye as the realization hit him.
"Tch."
He released his grip.
Bullseye collapsed to the floor, coughing violently as he sucked in air, like a drowning man dragged back to shore. His body trembled as he scrambled away, while the woman in red cast him a fleeting look—something close to pity, or perhaps amusement.
Fisk straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders as if the interruption irritated him far more than the failure before him.
His gaze turned forward.
The air in front of him felt distorted, unnatural, as if reality itself had been disturbed. His massive frame squared, eyes sharp and alert as he faced the unseen newcomer.
His voice echoed through the room, low and commanding.
"Who are you?"
Then the woman in black, who had appeared unannounced in the room, finally spoke.
"Hello, Wilson. I'm Elsa."
Her voice was smooth and sultry, each word carrying an unnatural weight. It slid through the room like a cold blade, sending a chill down Fisk's spine—and far deeper into Bullseye and Mary, who both stiffened instinctively. The air itself seemed heavier now, as if her presence had altered the balance of the space.
Fisk had brushed past death more times than he could count. He had stared down crime lords, assassins, enhanced beings, and monsters lurking in human skin. Yet the woman before him was different. He could feel it.
An unseen, overwhelming aura radiated from her—quiet, controlled, but undeniably powerful. It didn't crush him outright. It didn't need to. It just reminded everyone in the room that she was dangerous beyond measure.
Still, Wilson Fisk was not a man who ruled through panic.
Slowly, deliberately, he straightened his posture and composed himself. His voice, when he spoke, was calm—almost polite.
"To what do I owe this… visit?" he asked.
Elsa watched him closely. For a brief moment, something flickered behind her eyes.
"Intimidation worked," she thought, pleased internally.
Outwardly, however, her expression remained cold and unreadable.
"I came to strike a deal with you," Elsa said plainly.
Fisk's brow furrowed slightly.
A deal.
That single word unsettled him more than threats ever could. Someone with her level of power had no reason to bargain with a man like him. She could have taken whatever she wanted and left him broken on the floor.
And yet… here she was.
"A deal?" Fisk repeated. "Someone of your caliber hardly needs my help."
Elsa noticed the gears turning in his mind—the confusion, the caution, the unspoken question of why him. She stepped forward just enough for her presence to press harder against the room.
"I know about your problem," she said calmly. "The vigilantes."
The room froze.
Bullseye's breathing hitched. Mary's eyes narrowed sharply.
Fisk's expression remained steady, but inside, a storm erupted.
Only three people in this room knew the extent of that issue. Only three. And yet she spoke of it so casually, as if she had been watching from the shadows the entire time.
"You've suffered significant losses," Elsa continued. " I can end that problem for you."
For the first time, something close to emotion crossed Fisk's face.
Hope… and fear.
Hope, because someone powerful enough to say those words could resolve his issue faster than any hired gun or mercenary ever could.
Fear, because this woman clearly knew far more than she should.
Fisk folded his hands together atop the table, studying her carefully.
"And what," he asked slowly, "would be the other part of this deal?"
Elsa smiled faintly.
She explained what she wanted.
Her words were measured, precise, leaving no room for misunderstanding.
As she spoke, Fisk's brows gradually drew together. His jaw tightened. When she finished, he remained silent for several seconds, deep in thought.
Elsa noticed immediately.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
Fisk exhaled through his nose.
"What you're asking," he said carefully, "requires manpower. Resources I no longer possess in abundance."
His empire had taken too many hits. Between the vigilantes and internal disruptions, his reach was not what it once was.
Elsa let out a soft chuckle.
"That won't be a problem," she said dismissively. "I have more than enough subordinates to compensate."
Fisk blinked once.
Then, slowly, he leaned back.
A breath he hadn't realized he was holding finally escaped him.
"I see," he said. "That… changes things."
What followed was a tense but calculated exchange—terms clarified, boundaries drawn, expectations set. Neither side raised its voice. Neither side attempted dominance outright. It was a conversation between predators, each aware of the danger the other represented.
In the end, Fisk extended his hand.
Elsa glanced at it briefly, then shook it.
"Then we have a deal," she said.
Without another word, she stepped back. Her fingers brushed her wrist, and the same eerie green portal tore open in the air behind her. Dark, unnatural light spilled into the room as she turned.
"Don't disappoint me, Wilson," Elsa said calmly.
Then she stepped through—and vanished.
The portal snapped shut, leaving nothing behind.
Silence fell over the room.
Heavy. Suffocating.
Minutes passed.
Finally, Fisk exhaled deeply and sank back into his chair. He waved a hand dismissively.
"Leave me," he said. "I need peace."
Neither argued.
Bullseye rose shakily to his feet, still recovering, while Mary gave Fisk a final glance before escorting him out. The doors closed behind them with a quiet click.
Alone at last, Wilson Fisk leaned back fully.
Only then did the tension drain from his body.
Beads of sweat rolled down his face as he stared at the ceiling.
"That was scary," he muttered.