Daisy had been wearing gloves the whole time. No fingerprints at the crime scene, no traceable evidence, and with New York's police department running on molasses and missed paperwork, there was little chance of a smoke trail leading back to her.
Back in her apartment, she once again refused the overly zealous maid's offer to scrub the floors like it was a crime scene—because, well, it technically was—and stepped into the shower to wash off the ickiness of her first murder.
The tree wanted peace, but the wind had other plans. Daisy hadn't planned on getting involved in any nonsense, but trouble had clearly subscribed to her address.
Freshly clean and wrapped in a bathrobe, she flopped down and booted up her laptop. Time to Google her way to vengeance. The address Tattoo Guy spilled turned out to be in a blind spot—literally. No cameras, no commotion, just suspiciously quiet vibes.
Madame Gao. That ancient crypt keeper with the spine of a breadstick and the muscle power of a wrecking ball. Daisy's quick online search reminded her: Madame Gao was one of the infamous Five Fingers—kung fu aristocracy expelled from Kunlun, packing 400 years of grudge and moves that could lift boulders using "Chi" like it was Wi-Fi.
Daisy didn't want beef with someone who probably sparred with Genghis Khan for cardio. But they'd already crossed paths. All of Gao's goons were either dead or bleeding in dumpsters thanks to Daisy, and that old mummy would definitely take it personally.
Unlike cops, Gao didn't care about evidence—just results. And Daisy was already on the scoreboard.
So she decided to preempt the old hag. Even if she couldn't kill her, she'd at least evict her from New York's villain roster.
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[ Few Days Later ]
For days, Daisy used a telescope to keep tabs from afar like a suburban gossip mom with a vendetta. The place? A so-called "washing powder" factory. Totally legit... if your detergent included smuggling and slave labor.
There was only one tiny door, flanked by two burly guards with tiny guns compensating for something. Every midnight, a blind man would shuffle out, cane tapping like a metronome of misery, delivering goods. Daisy's blood boiled every time.
She didn't rush in. This wasn't a Punisher movie. She wasn't trying to be a lone vigilante.
She'd been a regular citizen in her past life. She didn't want to be a hero. She just wanted peace—and maybe a decent brunch.
So Daisy turned to the power of the police. Problem? NYPD was like a donut: full of holes and mostly sugar.
She skipped hacking this time and used the police station's official site, clicking through like a nosy LinkedIn stalker. George Stacey, Gwen's dad, chief of police—good guy, but busier than a cat meme. She couldn't just walk in and ask for a meeting.
The last good cop she remembered had already retired—shame.
Eventually, she zeroed in on one Brett Mahoney. From Hell's Kitchen, and the only officer she knew who wasn't up to his badge in bribes. Also, Daredevil's buddy. That counted.
They'd met before, in passing. Small town vibes in a big city.
Daisy spotted him walking her way. Time to turn up the charm frequency.
She adjusted her internal frequency slightly, switching on the "helpless but adorable civilian" setting. She scurried over like she just escaped a bad Tinder date.
"Hey, Mr. Officer!" she called, breathlessly.
Mahoney squinted. "I know you. Something up?" He squinted harder. "You're … Daisy, right?"
Daisy leaned in, whispering like she was sharing classified tea. "Yeah. I found a factory where they're using disabled people to make and sell… stuff. Big operation."
At first, Mahoney was ready to call nonsense. But that frequency tuning was working its magic. Her sincerity practically slapped him.
He wiped his brow. "I'm just a patrolman. If your info's solid, we gotta report it. Want me to take you to the station?"
Oh, sweet summer officer. Daisy resisted the urge to facepalm.
"Yeah, let's go walk into the lion's den and announce our plan. That sounds super safe," she muttered under her breath.
Aloud, she said, "I don't have a gun. I can't fight. Just walk with me tonight and see for yourself. You'll know I'm not making it up."
Mahoney thought it over. Made sense. If she was right, he'd get a medal. If she was wrong, she was just a crazy girl with a telescope. Either way, he came out looking good.
Midnight. Daisy and Mahoney crouched in a small building 200 meters from the factory.
"That's the place? Doesn't look like much," Mahoney said.
Daisy smirked. IQ mode: activated. "Notice how it's a meter taller than other buildings? I checked the utility bills—electricity and water usage are off the charts. There's definitely a huge underground space. Could hide a hundred people."
As if on cue, the small door creaked open. A blind man staggered out, cane tapping like he was playing Morse code with the sidewalk. Big bag slung over his shoulder.
Mahoney leaned forward. "That guy's really blind… I've seen Daredevil. I can tell."
Daisy's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Ever wonder why they're using blind people? Can't ID what they see. No enhanced charges. And most weren't even blind to begin with."
Mahoney watched, horrified. A few big guys guarding a door? Sure. But blind couriers with suspicious bags? This wasn't a front—it was a front-row seat to something shady.
Daisy handed him a crude diagram she doodled on a napkin. "They get picked up at the second intersection. No clue where they go after."
The evidence wasn't much, but it painted a very illegal picture. And it all screamed: massive operation.
Mahoney stared at her. She gave him a look of pure righteousness.
"If this is true," he muttered, "it's way above my pay grade."
"Worried someone'll leak the report?" Daisy asked.
He nodded grimly. Even good cops could smell the rot in the force. Whistleblowers had a tendency to disappear—or end up in HR.
Daisy patted his shoulder. "Don't worry, officer. I'll keep you alive."
Mahoney sighed. "Why do I get the feeling I'm already in too deep?"
"Because you are."
And somewhere, deep in the shadows, Madame Gao probably sneezed like someone just declared war.