"Oh my God! I really don't get why you want to play God's knight," David said, his voice muffled as he shoved another oversized piece of braised pork into his mouth. Thick sauce dripped down into his beard, but he didn't seem to care in the slightest. "Why not just open a restaurant instead? You'd probably take over half of New York's food scene!"
He had already moved into the guest room upstairs, making himself completely at home. The table in front of him looked like a battlefield, plates nearly wiped clean as he kept eating without pause.
Locke snorted, leaning back slightly with a proud look. "I learned that from a chef who was about to go bankrupt. That's real skill right there."
David froze mid-bite, staring at him. "With cooking like this, he still went bankrupt? Is the restaurant business really that brutal?"
Locke let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head. "It wasn't his cooking. The guy decided to mix 'technology' and 'hard work' into the food."
David blinked, confused for a second before his expression changed. He slowly looked down at the plate in front of him, then back up at Locke. "Wait… you mean—"
Locke rolled his eyes. "Relax. Why would I put that garbage in my own food?" he said flatly. "He did it to cut costs, but his customers figured it out. Business collapsed in a few days."
David let out a long breath, visibly relieved, before immediately going back to eating like nothing had happened.
After a moment, Locke spoke again, his tone shifting. "What about those two dirty cops? Jaden and Isaac. You get anything?"
David chewed for a few seconds before answering. "I dug into the NYPD database. The two guys you mentioned are definitely dirty. There's also a mercenary group backing them, something pretty organized." He paused briefly, wiping his mouth. "But I haven't figured out who's funding them yet. Only thing I've got is a company they might be tied to."
Locke's eyes narrowed slightly. "Which company?"
David frowned, trying to recall. "What was it… United Construction Company. Yeah, that's the one."
Locke went still for a split second.
That name.
Too familiar.
Because it belonged to the man who ruled the underworld of New York with an iron grip—Wilson Fisk.
What a coincidence.
"David," Locke said slowly, his tone sharpening, "I'm giving you a name. Wilson Fisk. Make him your top priority. If anything comes up, report it immediately."
David paused, the food in his hand forgotten. "Wilson… who?" he asked, frowning.
"You want to find out who's behind those two cops, right?" Locke said calmly. "Start from him. Trace it backward."
David stopped moving entirely, his eyes locking onto Locke with a strange intensity. "Did God tell you that again?"
Locke curled his lips slightly, clearly unimpressed. "Stop asking about my connection with God."
From that moment on, their operation escalated.
To support Locke, David deployed his full hacking capabilities. He infiltrated multiple surveillance systems across the city, tapped into police communication networks, and established real-time monitoring channels.
But Locke wasn't satisfied.
Under the cover of night, he moved through Hell's Kitchen, installing sensors and hidden cameras in locations no one would think to check. Narrow alleyways, blind corners, rooftops—every strategic point was quietly wired into their growing network.
His goal was simple.
Total coverage.
An alarm system that could monitor the entire Hell's Kitchen.
It cost tens of thousands of dollars, but to someone like David, that amount was insignificant. Money flowed easily when you knew how to pull it from the right places.
Once everything was in place, Locke moved.
The night in Hell's Kitchen looked no different than any other, but something had changed beneath the surface.
A figure dressed in black, wearing a devil mask, began to appear.
And then—
Everything started to break.
At the docks, a shipping container was unloaded quietly under the dim lights. Several armed men opened the doors, revealing a dozen women crammed inside. Their clothes were torn, their faces filled with exhaustion and fear. Among them were women from Eastern Europe, Black women, and others from across the world.
One of the masked men raised his gun. "Get out. Anyone screams, I kill them."
Before they could move, a shadow slipped in behind them.
Gunfire erupted.
"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Shell casings clattered onto the ground as bullets tore through flesh. Blood sprayed across the metal walls, and the women screamed in terror, their voices piercing the night.
When the echoes faded, the men were gone.
Only silence remained.
In the back kitchen of a bar, another group of criminals gathered around a table, dividing drugs into neat packages. Their greed quickly turned into conflict, voices rising as guns were drawn.
"I want two kilos!"
"You got the money for that?"
"Don't screw with me! You think the Blood Gang can't pay?"
Before the argument could escalate further, something moved outside the window.
"Who's there?" someone barked.
They rushed outside, weapons ready.
Darkness swallowed them.
Every light in the area had gone out at once, leaving nothing but pitch-black silence.
Then—
A stream of fire cut through the night.
Bullets from a submachine gun tore into them, each shot precise and merciless. The sound of gunfire filled the air, and within seconds, bodies collapsed one after another.
When the magazine emptied, the ground was soaked in blood.
Elsewhere, in a remote warehouse, an arms deal was underway.
"Pleasure doing business," one man said with a grin. "Next time, I'll give you a ten percent discount."
"Appreciate it," the other replied, already inspecting the weapons.
"You bought a lot. Planning something big? Need help?"
"Mind your own business."
"Fair enough. Money's here, goods are yours—"
The lights went out.
"Damn it! They're trying to rob us!" someone shouted.
"Kill them!"
Gunfire exploded in every direction.
No one noticed the figure moving through the darkness, silent and controlled. Like a predator, Locke moved between them, each step deliberate as he cut them down one by one.
No wasted motion.
No hesitation.
Just execution.
In three days, Hell's Kitchen descended into chaos.
Once, it had been the innocent who feared the night.
Now—
It was the criminals who stayed hidden after dark.
At the NYPD headquarters, the atmosphere was suffocating.
George Stacy, newly promoted to chief, slammed his hand against the desk, his voice echoing through the room. "Why do we still have nothing? Three days! Do you know how many people that masked lunatic has killed? Fifty-seven! Fifty-seven in three days!"
His gaze swept across the room like a blade.
"You think that's normal? You think even soldiers in Afghanistan die at that rate? This is a disgrace to the NYPD!"
A voice spoke quietly from the back. "But… the victims were all criminals…"
"Who said that?" Stacy snapped, his eyes flashing.
Silence fell instantly.
"I don't care who they were," he continued coldly. "Criminal or not, they're supposed to be judged by the law. Not some vigilante running around playing executioner!" His expression hardened further. "The guy in red was one thing. But this? This is outright killing."
"This is contempt for the police. Contempt for the government. Contempt for the law."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping into something dangerous. "I don't care what it takes. Find him."
"Yes, sir!"
At the same time, the underworld reacted.
Gangs that had been at each other's throats for years suddenly sat at the same table, their mutual hatred set aside for a single purpose.
"If we let that devil mask keep going, how are we supposed to do business?" one man said coldly.
"Starting now, we issue a joint bounty," another added. "Anyone who provides information gets one hundred thousand. Anyone who kills him gets five million."
"And pressure the cops," someone else chimed in. "The ones we own. Politicians too. We hit him from both sides."
A man chuckled darkly. "Might as well include Daredevil in the deal. Take them both out."
"Agreed."
"Done."
Back at Emma Church, Locke finally paused.
Over the past few days, he had opened multiple reward packs, and his strength had grown significantly. Without hesitation, he brought up the system panel.
[Name: Locke.]
[Age: 22.]
[Bloodline: Human.]
[Status: Normal.]
[Power: 10.]
[Speed: 13.]
[Defense: 7.]
[Constitution: 7.]
[Spirit: 15.]
[Skills: Combat Mastery, Firearms Mastery, Trap Mastery, Swimming Proficiency, Sniper Proficiency.]
[Abilities: Night Vision, Compound Eyes.]
[Items: None.]
[Instance: Unlocked.]
[Alternate Universe: Unlocked.]
[Main Mission: The guilty must be punished.]
[Iron-level Prey: 4/17.]
[Latest Mission: Bronze Hunt.]
[Bronze Prey: 0/1.]
[Creed: Kill to gain redemption.]
In addition to the thirteen attribute points he had gained, two new skills had appeared—swimming and sniping.
That confirmed his suspicion.
Skills weren't all equal.
There were tiers.
Basic proficiency, advanced proficiency, mastery… and possibly even higher levels he hadn't unlocked yet.
As the required number of Black Iron targets increased, the efficiency of hunting low-level criminals had dropped significantly.
It was time to move up.
Bronze-level prey.
He already had someone in mind.
A senior Homeland Security agent.
Carson Wolfe.
The same man who had worked with the CIA's drug pipeline.
The same man who had shot David off that bridge.