Frank's situation was over and done with — at least as far as Daisy was concerned.
She had no idea that from the moment she'd "washed his car" all the way through her final visit, Frank had been watching her in silence. Her age, her face, her height, the way she carried herself — he'd catalogued every detail with quiet precision.
Once she disappeared around the corner, Frank dialed a number.
The voice on the other end was deep and steady. "Old friend, I heard what happened. I'm sorry — there wasn't a single warning sign. Just say the word and I'll do whatever you need."
Frank's expression didn't change. A long silence passed before he rasped, "Stay out of it."
His words carried several layers at once — he was refusing the man's help and making clear he wanted no official involvement.
The voice understood. "Alright. I promise."
Both men fell quiet. Just as the other was about to hang up, Frank spoke again. "Nick. I just saw a woman who meets your criteria for a second-in-command."
"I've already found my candidates." The reply was firm, immediate.
"I'm giving you the information. Whether you use it is your call." Frank rattled off a string of identifying details in quick succession, then hung up. He stared at the clouds drifting overhead, thoughts turning to his family, a hollow ache settling in his chest.
Daisy had no idea her information was now sitting on someone's desk. Broke and directionless, she trudged back to school — there was nowhere else to go.
She lasted ten minutes before walking right back out.
She and the girls at that school were simply incompatible on a fundamental level. The previous owner of this body had managed to keep a lid on things. But Daisy had powers now. She'd fought her way through a Russian mob and come out the other side — a few college girls were nothing.
Daisy's everyday look was cropped pants, low ankle socks, canvas sneakers, with just a strip of ankle showing — it made her legs look longer and gave her a leaner silhouette. Ten years from now, everyone on the street would dress this way. To her, it was completely normal.
To the girls at school, she looked like she'd stumbled in from another dimension. They were still in the era of baggy jeans, hip-hop aesthetics, crew socks, and chunky platform shoes.
One of them decided that Daisy's outfit violated the school dress code and moved to explain the rules to her.
Daisy's open palm connected with her cheek with a sharp crack. Then, relying entirely on her enhanced physical ability, she put people on the ground with three punches and two kicks — and walked out the front door, bag on her shoulder.
She drifted down the sidewalk, flipped through her wallet again. Was she actually going to have to find a job?
Standing in the middle of busy Manhattan, watching the city flow around her, she had no idea where to go.
She started heading toward the convenience store where her friend worked. Daisy had zero guilt about it — she fully intended to let her best friend buy her lunch.
She'd barely rounded a street corner when four women came sprinting out of a Japanese restaurant like the building was on fire. Behind them, a larger group of men poured out in pursuit, brandishing bats and clubs.
Daisy could only catch a few words — baka and a few others — the rest of the Japanese might as well have been ancient script.
And by pure bad luck, she was standing directly in their path.
The lead woman running toward her gestured frantically, urging her to get out of the way.
The men chasing them screamed something in Japanese.
The Hand? That was her first instinct — but it didn't feel right. These men didn't move like trained fighters. Their footwork was loose, their breathing ragged, the kind of hollowed-out look that came from too much drinking and too little discipline.
The lead woman was disheveled, her face still pretty despite it all, a red handprint visible on her cheek and dried blood at the corner of her mouth — and she was still running, still fighting to get free. The others weren't in much better shape.
"Baka!" A man with a crew cut grabbed the last woman by the hair, wrenched her violently to the ground, and raised a baseball bat.
That was Daisy's cue. She launched herself forward, drove her foot into the man's midsection and sent him flying. She scooped up the bat he dropped. She had no formal combat training — but with an enhanced body, taking down a handful of thugs didn't require any.
She worked through them with bat and kicks. They weren't even close to a match. Bodies lay scattered across the ground in all directions.
"Move! Go!" More men were flooding out the door, and Daisy heard the distinctive sound of a round being chambered. She waved the women toward her and ran.
As a Hell's Kitchen native, she knew every alley and shortcut in the neighborhood. She led the group through a maze of turns and backstreets until the sounds of pursuit faded, then finally slowed.
"We're clear for now." Daisy wasn't even winded — her endurance could sustain a dead sprint through the underground tunnels for an entire day. For the Japanese women, though, this had clearly been the most intense physical exertion of their lives.
They clung to each other, still half-convinced they hadn't actually escaped.
The woman who'd been leading the group stared at Daisy with something that looked a lot like reverence. She bowed with each halting sentence, piecing together her thanks in broken English.
Daisy nodded back, and through a combination of words and gestures, gradually got the full story.
Their captors' talent for ruthlessness apparently didn't stop at national borders. These women were university students who had come to America chasing their dreams — and had been trafficked into a situation they couldn't get out of. When they realized what was happening, they made a run for it. They'd barely made it through the door before the men were already behind them. If Daisy hadn't been standing at that corner, they would have been dragged back inside, and whatever came after the beating would have been worse.
"So your name is Maki?" Daisy asked the lead woman. "Maki Matsumoto?"
"Yes. My old name isn't something I care to speak of anymore. I go by this name now. I'm grateful for your help." Maki Matsumoto bowed again.
"What's your field of study? Have you graduated?"
"Law."
A small flicker of recognition. That's interesting.
Maki Matsumoto. Lawyer. A dangerous woman. All three fit the profile. In the original timeline — without Daisy's interference today — Maki would have eventually witnessed Bullseye's brutal killing spree while working for Wilson Fisk, and it would have broken something loose in her. She'd have become obsessed with Bullseye, calling herself Lady Bullseye. Not quite at Typhoid Mary's level, but still a significant player.
Whether she could still become that cold-blooded without that pivotal trauma was an open question now.
Daisy walked the group to the Japanese Consulate. What they did afterward — go home, stay, whatever — was their business.
The other three women bowed their thanks and pressed their addresses into her hands, each one insisting she look them up if she ever came to Japan.
Only Maki Matsumoto remained where she was. She bowed deeply, her posture completely still.
"Something you need?" Daisy asked. Privately, she was terrified the woman was about to ask to borrow money.
"Miss Johnson." Maki's voice carried clearly. "I wish to remain here and serve you as a retainer."
Daisy nearly choked. The other women and the consulate staff wore the expressions of people watching something they had fully expected to happen. A retainer. In this day and age.
She waved both hands in front of her. "I'm just a regular person. There's nothing worth pledging yourself to. Please follow the consul's arrangements and go home — your family must be worried sick."
Maki bowed again. "I am the disgrace of my family. I had eyes and saw nothing. I'm nothing but a fool who wasted years chasing a dream. Please — take me in."
A ninety-degree bow. And she didn't straighten up.