Fate has a strange way of weaving its threads.
When Elektra finally tracked down someone capable of deciphering the Hand's secret ledger, she discovered that the code's creator wasn't some underground hacker or shadowy syndicate tech—but a well-known academic.
Professor Philip Hale. A decoding expert from Empire State University, celebrated in scholarly circles for his mastery of Asian linguistics and cryptography.
Two hours after her call for help, Elektra was standing under a high-rise apartment building on the corner of Barack and Church Streets. Hale lived in a penthouse here, paid for by side deals far more lucrative than his university salary. Corporations paid him handsomely for his unique skill: transforming Asian characters—Chinese, Japanese, Korean, and even old Southeast Asian scripts—into encrypted symbols that few in the West could ever hope to crack.
The irony was, if this code were sent back to Asia, a dedicated cryptographer could probably decode it in hours. But here in New York, it was an almost impenetrable wall.
When Elektra slipped inside his apartment, the scene she found was less than academic.
Dr. Philip was entertaining company. Two young Korean "J-girls" were descending the staircase with him, laughing in clipped, awkward English.
"I know my tastes are a bit unusual," Philip said with a lecherous grin, adjusting his half-open silk robe. "But next time, I promise—just chicken slices with mushrooms, nothing else. I'll eat it all day."
The younger girl's face twisted with disgust. "We're not Japanese," she snapped, insulted by the crude innuendo.
Her older companion placed a hand on her arm. "Let it go," she murmured in Korean. "Don't start a fight with him."
But Philip wasn't oblivious. In flawless Korean, he shot back, "Yes, I'm disgusting. A disgusting bastard with money. And I promise you, I speak your language better than you do. So… be polite."
His words froze the room. The two women exchanged a look of anger and humiliation, but when Philip tossed a thick roll of hundred-dollar bills at them and barked, "Get out," they obeyed.
The door slammed behind them. Philip sighed, pouring himself a glass of champagne. The smirk on his face said everything: power and money made him untouchable—or so he thought.
He barely raised the glass when a sultry, mocking voice floated in from the balcony.
"Hello, honey. Did you miss me?"
Philip spun, his eyes narrowing at the figure lounging casually on the small sofa outside. A woman, clad in dark red leather, her face hidden behind a sleek mask.
Elektra.
His hand slid instinctively toward the back of the wine cabinet, where a pistol lay waiting.
But another voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said Daniel, his tone icy and calm.
Philip whipped around, his fingers brushing the gun grip—only to feel an invisible force hit him like a freight train. His body flew across the room, slamming into the balcony door with a crash before landing hard at Elektra's feet.
"Quick as always," Elektra muttered, her eyes narrowing as Daniel strode inside. "I barely made it here. Don't tell me you've been tailing me this whole time?"
"Tail you?" Daniel gave her a flat look. "If I wanted to watch you, Elektra, you wouldn't even realize it. Whether I see your every move depends entirely on my mood."
The cold certainty in his voice made her heart sink. He wasn't bluffing.
Turning her attention to Philip, she pressed her heel against his stomach, grinding just enough to leave a mark.
"You used to work for the Japanese, didn't you?" she asked lightly, almost teasingly, but with a deadly edge. "Remember those files you encrypted for them?"
"I—I don't know what you're talking about!" Philip stammered, trying to wriggle away from her heel.
"Oh, you know." Elektra tapped his nose with one of her ten-rings—a gleaming, razor-edged weapon. "This apartment, these expensive little indulgences… Professors don't make this kind of money unless they're selling something far dirtier than knowledge."
Her blade hovered dangerously close to his eye. The professor froze, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Translate it," Elektra said softly, "or I'll make you wish you had."
Philip laughed nervously, though his voice cracked. "You don't get it. If I talk… they'll kill me."
"If you don't talk," Erica's blade drifted lower, tracing a line down his throat, "then I'll do it now."
His eyes flicked to Daniel, desperate for a lifeline, but he only raised a single hand.
A sudden invisible force ripped Philip from the floor. He slammed into the balcony glass with a thunderous crack—spiderweb fractures spreading across the tempered surface. The professor screamed as pain ripped through his ribs.
"This is the 23rd floor," Daniel said evenly, his voice carrying no emotion. "One push, and you're nothing but meat on the pavement."
Philip's breath hitched. And then—suddenly—he felt himself falling.
The world tilted. The wind roared in his ears. His body plummeted past rows of windows, faces of startled people blurring past. The street below rushed closer, closer—
"NO! PLEASE! I'LL DO IT! I'LL HELP YOU!"
With a flick of Daniel's hand, the illusion ended. Philip crumpled on the balcony floor, gasping like a drowning man.
Elektra finally exhaled, her tension easing. She hadn't expected Daniel's methods, but they worked. Philip was broken. He would talk now.