When times were good, Kingpin could boast loudly, expanding his company and laundering 50 million USD a year.
When times were bad, he would turn his attention to something as small as the hundred-thousand-dollar monthly property fees, embezzling with ruthless efficiency.
Even with that level of restraint, someone still dared to question how he handled property fees!
If they dared ask about property fees today, tomorrow they'd be demanding better service and quality. These weren't ordinary tenants anymore—this called for a heavy-handed response.
Sean O'Malley was his chosen enforcer, the boss of the Irish mob—
and also the manager of United Construction Property Company.
Times had changed. In the past, he didn't even need to show up in an office.
Back then, mobs like his only had to stroll the streets to see hungry, desperate homeless people and laid-off workers everywhere.
Why were mob bosses bosses? Beyond being ruthless, they had eyes sharp enough to see through these people's misery, their hesitation, and their struggles on the edge of crime.
All it took was setting up a no-questions-asked fence, and those desperate souls would break into shops, stealing to survive another day.
Once they crossed that line, the balance between law-abiding and law-breaking tipped for the sake of survival.
With just a few crumpled Franklins, these people would rally at their patron's side, storm city hall, betray their neighbors—
even kill strangers.
But now? If he handed someone a wad of wrinkled bills on the street, their phone would ring instantly, and the nearest beat cop would set down his coffee and glare.
Terrifying.
He had strength but nowhere to use it. Painful—he couldn't actually settle down with honest work or go back to school, could he?
Fortunately, today he had an outlet.
O'Malley, with three hulking thugs, strode into one of United Construction's new high-rises, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, not even putting it out in the elevator.
Suits couldn't hide the violent aura of his men. Just as O'Malley could spot potential degenerates at a glance, ordinary residents here could tell right away these weren't good people.
United's construction skills weren't bad—the buildings matched New York's cosmopolitan standards.
But the world is full of things that shine outside while rotting within.
Ding—
The elevator doors opened on a high floor. The four men marched down the hall and pounded on a door.
"Who's there?"
"We're from the property company. Are you Mr. Stone? We're here to explain the use of your property fees and maintenance fund."
Huashi Stone peered through the peephole, wary. "I asked you to publish the accounts, not come to my door."
O'Malley knew he had the right guy.
He signaled his men, and one set a box on the floor—
a signal jammer.
Leo had upgraded public security systems, so the gangs had to learn more advanced tricks.
But their learning couldn't keep up with Blume Corporation's software and infrastructure updates.
In fact, the ctOS system would auto-report crimes, and if police resources were short, it could rally neighbors using nearby data to assess security risks.
The gangs were clueless about this—but one thing was sure: the old days of murdering families unnoticed while the building slept were over.
Still, a few minutes' delay was possible, and that was all they needed.
Another thug whipped out a lock-picking tool from his case and jammed it into the door.
Inside, Huashi Stone's face went pale—
seeing four hulks outside his door forcing the lock would terrify any law-abiding citizen!
He grabbed his phone to call the police—but no signal!
"Huashi?" his mother called from the kitchen. "Who is it?"
"Mom! It's them!"
The middle-aged woman rushed out, hands still wet.
But she had no way to help. The deadliest thing in the house was a kitchen knife—and what good was that?
Besides, they were law-abiding people.
Mother and son panicked in the living room, looking around helplessly—
their phones were dead, their only way out was blocked!
Bang!
The door flew open. The four thugs filled the doorway, grinning.
"Want us to explain property fees to you?"
From the back, O'Malley whispered to his men: "Her weak spot is her kid—
no, his weak spot is his mom. Whatever, just hold them down. Get him under control."
The thug in front nodded, grinning: "Relax. The cops aren't coming. Even if they do, they won't see anything wrong."
There are countless ways to humiliate, pressure, and break someone's spirit.
It's not easy to get injuries legally certified. Forcing someone to lick shoes, eat filth—even if the cops found out, it wouldn't count as real harm.
At most, a fine and an apology.
Only when mother and son saw the brutes blocking their doorway did they truly grasp why "castle laws" were so extreme:
when your door is barred, your communications cut, your cozy home instantly becomes a private hell.
And in such tiny pigeonhole apartments, even New York's Spider-Man couldn't always watch over you.
Not even superheroes could.
Boom.
Just as the lead thug stepped across the threshold, the floor trembled.
His companion frowned. "Gained weight lately?"
"No." He looked confused. "Why?"
"Then why—"
Boom.
The floor shook again, like something heavy stomping closer.
If you listened carefully, you could hear the elevator chime.
O'Malley smacked his man. "Get on with it! You brain-dead?!"
"We—"
Before they could finish, the tremors grew, steady and heavy—
like an earthquake, or something massive walking the halls!
From the doorway, O'Malley clearly felt it coming from the elevator. He turned—
and was blinded by a searing spotlight!
Through the glare, he glimpsed a steel-clad knight—
a hulking figure nearly two meters tall charging forward!
The extra 50 kg of exoskeleton weight turned its wearer into a true heavyweight, each step shaking the ground.
"NYPD! Hands up! Where we can see them!"
Blinded by the floodlight, O'Malley instinctively reached for a gun—but he remembered he hadn't brought one. He froze.
Besides, they hadn't started roughing anyone up yet. At worst, the cops could nail them for intimidation. If he played it cool, he'd walk with just a slap on the wrist.
But his men weren't as calm.
They'd been busted plenty before. Their massive frames didn't erase instinct.
And the bigger the body, the shorter the fuse—
a towering cop, blinding them with a spotlight, gun drawn—how could they hold back?
Dark skin made one thug nearly invisible in the night; his powerful frame was his ticket to freedom—
"Fuck you, pig, I'll—"
Bang!
Confirming he was unarmed, Captain George Stacy moved like lightning.
Exoskeleton and body, nearly 170 kg of mass, slammed into the thug's chest.
The brute's breath was crushed out instantly.
"I… can't breathe…"