Nighttime Manhattan has a detached, rugged quality, where the black shadows and white lights intertwine like a monstrous eye opening along the coastline. Everything here is nothing more than nameless specks of dust that drift before its gaze, indifferent to both birth and death, equally disregarding everything before it.
"Good evening, sir." A white-gloved hand pulls open the car door. A portly man gets into the car. The driver circles the car once and returns to the driver's seat. As the ignition starts, the scent of cigars permeates the car interior.
"That Kyle guy is upsetting the Boss; you need to send someone to deal with him soon. Also, if your worthless little punk in the family isn't planning to lose big on stocks again, then damn well tell him to dump Stuart's shares…"
The man in the back seat takes a hard drag on his cigar, the dense smoke swirling around his mouth and nose. He speaks loudly on the phone, occasionally coughing or sniffling until the car hits a puddle and shakes, prompting him to take the phone away from his ear and shout at the driver:
"What the hell is going on? Why doesn't anyone fix this lousy road?"
"Sorry, sir; this is the edge of Brooklyn Area, and the road conditions are not good. If you're not in a hurry, I can slow down…"
Just as he says this, a high beam flashes from the opposite direction, and the driver slams on the brakes, causing the man in the back seat to hit his head hard against the front seat's headrest. "Oh, crap!"
He barely has time to speak before he sees the car opposite suddenly reverse and collide again. With a "bang," the car they are in is shoved back several meters.
The airbags in the front seat deploy, rendering the driver immobile, his fate unknown. The man grits his teeth, stomps out of the car, and blood is smeared across half of his face, trickling into his mouth. He spits out bloody saliva, cursing toward the opposite side: "You damn bastard! Don't you know who I am?!"
The opposing car's high beam remains on, blinding him from seeing anything clearly. He vaguely sees a figure stepping out, and the man blusters, shouting: "Damn it, you're one of Kyle's men! He must've sent you to kill me! You've betrayed the Golden Boss; he won't let you off!!!"
"Pop!" The silenced gunshot is so faint it doesn't even echo down the street; it simply dissipates into the chaotic Brooklyn night.
The high beam turns off, and a tall figure slips the gun back into the coat pocket of a black trench coat, turns, and heads to the passenger seat of the car. The young man in the driver's seat raises an eyebrow at him, saying: "Pretty good driving, right?"
"Not bad." The other person lowers his head and pulls out a small black notebook, crossing off a name from it. Then, he glances at the name at the top—"Kingpin."
"What did you say?! Lorne is dead?!"
By the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Manhattan nightscape stands an extremely large and muscular figure. He turns, with a face full of grim lines, fury contorting his expression further, the cigar in his hand nearly crushed to powder.
"Damn it, who's got the nerve?! Maybe… no, that tight-suited kid doesn't kill. Could it be the Punisher?" The other party flips his eyelids, saying, "Find out if that Punisher guy did it!"
"Probably not him." The office door opens, and a blonde woman in a business suit walks in, the sound of her high heels echoing regularly. She says, "The Punisher is a violence maniac; when he clashes with our people, the scene becomes terribly chaotic, with dozens of cleaners unable to clear it. But this time's different; the opponent struck cleanly, a single shot to the head for instant death, looks like the work of a professional killer."
"A professional killer? Could it be those Manfredi people? That bastard Silvio has already been sent to Long Island, and he can still afford such professional killers?!"
"Never underestimate New York's largest gangster families. The Russians may be in the limelight now, but Manfredi is merely laying low, still stirring up little actions in the shadows. Hammerhead had suffered losses at their hands."
The woman folded her arms, tapping one foot on the ground as she said: "Mr. Kingpin, neither Lorne nor Red Sparrow LeFauc, who died before him, are worth worrying about; they're just minor characters."
"But they're my men!" Kingpin's facial flesh quivered, "In New York's criminal underworld, if you can't avenge your murdered subordinates, no one will follow you anymore. That tight-suited kid has already caused me lots of trouble, yet I still can't catch him. If this continues, my reputation will be utterly ruined!"
"Perhaps you should think about why someone would hire a professional killer to murder your subordinates. Judging by the timing and method of the attack, it's definitely a top-tier killer, not someone hired for a few thousand bucks. The fact that the opponent is willing to spend so much money merely to kill insignificant characters is quite suspicious, isn't it?"
Kingpin squinted slightly. He tossed away the original cigar and picked up a cut cigar from the tray, igniting it. After taking a deep drag, he slowly exhaled the smoke, his facial muscles relaxing a bit, saying: "A professional killer… looks like New York has another formidable figure. But who would spend a fortune to hire a killer just to murder my subordinates?"
"Do the two deceased individuals have anything in common?"
"In common?" Kingpin pondered for a moment, then suddenly gestured to his subordinate, "Go get me the map."
The subordinate nodded and briskly walked to the office beside, returning with a map of New York. Various colored markers outlined route upon route on it. Kingpin stared at the map, tracing one line with his finger.
"This is Lorne's drug route, crossing the bridge from here, through Brooklyn, then to Manhattan. The police along this route have basically been bribed by him, with never a problem. Red Sparrow, on the other hand, follows this line, also through Brooklyn, though he's slyer, using Manhattan's sewage. And where their drug routes intersect…"
Kingpin lightly taps a spot on the map with his finger, precisely at the edge of Brooklyn Area. "Where is this place?"
Another subordinate walked over and glanced, then said, "This is Jigsaw's territory, his gang operates around here."
Kingpin's eyes shifted, he said, "Could it be that he doesn't like my men coming and going freely in his territory?"
"Probably not." The woman said, "If that were the case, he'd choose gang warfare, not only to teach Lorne's crew a lesson but also to seize drugs easily. That would be the most profitable way. Spending big money to hire a killer would only cost them their pants."
"But this is still related to him." Kingpin's expression became indifferent, he said, "I recall it was him who killed the Punisher's whole family. Has he bothered them recently?"
He glanced at his subordinate, who shook his head.
"Then give the Punisher a clue, let him stir up trouble on their turf. If it's really Jigsaw's doing, he will slip up sooner or later."
"Let's talk about the Manfredi family now." Kingpin lightly tapped the ground with his cane, saying, "What have they been doing over in Long Island lately?"
"No news, but it's said they've recently invested in a project named Norton Experimental Science."
"What's their business?"
"It's rumored to be developing new weapons, but is more likely a scam. Because the company behind this project has undergone bankruptcy and restructuring three times, its credibility in the industry is extremely low. Generally, big enterprises willing to invest in scientific projects wouldn't choose them; it's the Manfredi family's first entry into the field."
"How much did they invest?"
"The first round of financing was 20 million US Dollars."
Kingpin paused, "Didn't they conduct a background check before investing? Daring to bet so heavily on a field they don't know well?"
"Not surprising. Ever since we established ourselves in Manhattan, their power has been nearly completely expelled. And as New York's once most glorious gangster family, they won't rest easy, they'll certainly find a way to return. Some type of new weapon might be their opportunity for a comeback."
Kingpin sneered, "Now isn't the Prohibition era anymore, those Italian gangster families are long outdated. Modern gangster enterprises are the only way out. Their dream of a comeback with some new weapon is a fairy tale."
"As you say, but if they hadn't seen hope, they wouldn't invest so much money. 20 million US Dollars is no small amount, possibly all the funds they can muster now."
"Go check out what's happening with Norton Experimental Science for me." Kingpin frowned, "Also, who from the Manfredi family led this investment."
"It's likely Silver鬃, that's Silvio Manfredi." The woman lifted her hair and said, "He's always brooded over you driving him out of Manhattan. Such a large-scale investment this time is for one day regaining ground from you."
"That day will never come." Kingpin said with pressed lips, "If this money truly went in, Manfredi can't have money left for hiring assassins. Could it really be Jigsaw?"
Kingpin stared at the map, the intersection he pointed out earlier extended into another line. He said, "If he's targeting for this kill, then Kyle won't escape, he will be the next to die. This damn traitor won't live long."
He turned to look out the window at Manhattan's night view, the street lights on either side glowing with a dismal white light. Under such lighting, blood loses its original color, becoming closer to colorless white, like flowing mercury.
Liquid with a ghastly pale glow seeped out from the bar's back door and into a rust-stained sewer entrance. More blood flowed into a creek, the sewer's mouth started to bubble white foam. Tactical boots splashed with muddy water, accompanying a corpse being dragged out, the blood flowed even more fiercely.
A tall man wore a sleeveless top completely exposing his arms, carrying a compound bow on his back, holding a long spear in his hand. Scars criss-crossing his body narrated a weathered past under the moonlight. He dragged the corpse step-by-step, his footsteps firm, his movements swift.
When he heard even the slightest noise coming from the side, he quickly raised his gun. A figure clad in a black long coat, half hidden in darkness, with a lowered brim obscuring his face, but from the physique appeared quite young.
He flashed by, then quickly left. The strong man dragging the corpse threw it away, chasing in that direction, only to find this seemingly thin young man moving rapidly, even in an obstructive coat, running through the alley with wind-like speed. The pursuer nearly lost him several times.
Finally, he stopped in a pitch-black alley. He removed his hat and turned around, revealing a young but sharp-featured face, and eyes nearly completely shadowed by the eyebrow arch.
"Hello, Punisher."