Home is a private space.
When people return home, they feel genuine relaxation, surrounded by a sense of safety.
But if you've ever experienced a home invasion, that feeling is shattered. From then on, it's hard to ever find that same peace and comfort at home.
In fact, you may never feel it again, and may even develop psychological disorders.
If someone is trapped in their home and attacked or humiliated for more than half an hour, the probability of developing PTSD rises exponentially, and it may also trigger a chain reaction, causing deep damage to the victim's personality and mind.
Violence has never been the only means gangs use to coerce ordinary people. Psychological attacks and control are also skills that these born villains seem to master instinctively.
Methods of personal humiliation include, but are not limited to, shoe-licking, being forced to consume unspeakable things, and other degrading acts. Since such abuse leaves no direct physical evidence, and since it usually happens in enclosed spaces where no videos or records are left behind, gathering evidence is extremely difficult.
Even if proven, the perpetrators often don't face major charges—at most, just a few days in jail.
But the psychological harm lingers. The gang is an organization—one man can go to prison and later come out, but mental control can last far longer.
Breaking someone's spine escalates a case into a criminal charge, but driving someone insane through psychological torment often results in only a few years in prison—or even just a verbal warning.
Even in the worst-case scenario—if the victim pulled a gun or knife and killed one of the thugs—that's just the loss of one underling.
A lawyer can still drag the victim into endless legal trouble for months, applying unbearable psychological pressure, forcing them to leave. That too serves the gang's purpose: maintaining control over the underworld order. Driving away troublemakers is a fine solution.
But all gangs share one habit—one that Leo sees as nothing more than naïve fantasy:
Where do you get the confidence to think I wouldn't wipe out your entire organization over two ordinary people?
High-level games of politics and interest-trading don't exist for Leo. The very structure and logic of society's operations are changing through his groundwork, evolving into a form that Kingpin can no longer comprehend—
Back in Kingpin's heyday, politicians and businessmen needed him to control the lower strata of society.
But now, taking down Kingpin isn't just about personal revenge. It's also the last push of public authority into the private dominion of the underworld.
The Union Building had 32 floors, each filled with employees—
These were on the company payroll, serving as the public face of a firm whose half of revenue came from laundering money, dressing it up as a wealthy real estate empire.
These legitimate citizens' careers, built through years of study and hardship, were just the façade of a former gang boss. The gang boss paid their wages, sustaining their already difficult lives.
Police cars led the way. Anthony's car followed Captain Stacy's, while curious citizens looked on, watching the long line of police-filled vehicles speed through the streets.
All the cars were electric. Without sirens, they made almost no sound.
Thanks to ctOS coordination, the roads and sidewalks were already cleared before the raid began. The police convoy met no obstacles, not even giving gang lookouts a chance to raise the alarm.
By the time the gang sensed trouble, the first officer was already inside the building.
The employees looked bewildered. Everyone had wished this company—still paying last month's wages a month late—would collapse, but why were so many police here?
The police stormed in, securing stairwells and elevators. Several officers in exoskeletons led the charge into the executive offices—
"NYPD! Hands on your head! Get down!"
"What are you doing!"
"This is the Union Construction Company! I'll call the police!"
"Fuck!"
Doors burst open like firecrackers, angry shouts filled the building, but chaos never really spread. The rank-and-file employees quickly realized the police didn't care about them, as long as they stayed put, dazed and out of the way.
In the confusion, a bald man rushed out of a room, only to be dropped by a taser and dragged back.
Someone whispered, "That's the marketing manager."
Bang!
Another crash—the door to the meeting room flew open as an executive, mid-speech, was kicked out and hit the ground, still yelling about illegal entry.
Too bad for him, though—the raid, while rough, was fully legal.
It was bold: if O'Malley's testimony about the underworld emperor "Kingpin" proved true, then Wilson Fisk would bear massive responsibility for the past decade of New York's rampant crime.
And the thugs' confessed crimes were horrifying. This case—illegal entry and detention—was the very thing ordinary people feared most, and easy to empathize with.
Cops are ordinary people too, when out of uniform. No one can guard their family forever.
Kingpin's people thrived on exploiting vulnerabilities, holding hostages of the heart. Once he had enough of those, things got complicated—nobody wants to live in constant fear.
Fear is a classic gang tactic, but once people know that's all you have, you'd better make damn sure you've instilled real terror.
The officers were motivated, the supervisors had no loyalty to Kingpin, and everyone saw a chance to make easy performance records. Efficiency soared.
"What the hell is going on?!"
Kingpin crushed the phone in his hand in fury.
From the very start of the raid, Peter's technical plan had been deployed—every internal surveillance line in the tower was cut.
Exosuit-clad officers had already stuck to the walls, reaching the server room before the breach, securing all the data.
Now the phone gave nothing but a busy signal.
Computers and cameras across the office went dark. His proud Union Building had turned into an unfamiliar pigeon coop.
NYPD was methodically moving floor by floor, arresting executives. All Kingpin knew was that he'd lost control.
And losing control meant everything familiar turned to unknowns—just like the ordinary people he had once terrorized.
Only, they valued family, a warm haven. He valued power.
He used fear to force others to maintain his empire, only to find that once the other side truly acted, and the convenient tech disappeared, he was just a strong man—nothing more.
Now he stood in paralyzing doubt:
What was the NYPD's real goal? Who had they arrested? How much trouble could this cause him? How should he command his men?
And the greatest question: What mistake had he made that caused the NYPD to strike all at once?
He didn't have time to think. The urgent task was to contact his adviser, Wesley, activate his backup plans, and escape early.
But as he moved, he noticed the elevators were still running.
Kingpin stripped off his jacket, eyes cold:
Police? Or some superhero?
Whoever it was, he wouldn't surrender without a fight.
If he could just get out of the building, he could reach one of his prepared safehouses in the city, escape New York, and rise again somewhere else.
He had built this empire from nothing once. He could do it again.
Ding—
The elevator doors slid open.
Two elevators. Four officers in exosuits.
Even Captain Stacy, who had seen countless brutes, was struck by Kingpin's massive build. In the past, with only regular men, controlling a 200-kilogram hulk like him was nearly impossible. But—
Times had changed.