"Frank, I should've killed you too back then."
Rollins was slumped in the corner of the destroyed safehouse, bloodied and bruised.
Frank stormed in, his voice low and cold:
"Why did you kill my family?"
Rollins shrugged like it was just business.
"Nothing personal. You were just unlucky."
Frank looked like he wanted to keep talking, but time wasn't on their side.
Rory stepped forward.
Rollins squinted at the unfamiliar face.
"And you are, "
WHAM.
Before his brain could register the movement, Rory's foot met his chest, sending him crashing into the wall.
SPLAT.
A mouthful of blood splattered down his thousand-dollar shirt and suit.
Rory walked up slowly, cracking his knuckles.
"Blew up my door, huh?"
WHACK.
"Hired hitmen to take me out?"
CRACK.
"Feeling powerful, weren't you?"
THUD.
The gunstock smashed into Rollins' face again and again until he was unrecognizable.
His nose flattened, lips split open, teeth scattered across the floor, jaw dislocated, he looked like a victim from a horror film.
"I don't even know who you are," he gasped.
"Well, let me introduce myself."
Frank stepped forward.
Together, he and Rory reloaded.
Two full mags.
Sixty rounds.
All into Rollins.
By the end, there wasn't enough left of him for a body bag.
Even a mortician would've called it quits.
At S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ…
"Director Carter," said Maria Hill, entering the office. "New intel just came in. Rollins and Bennett were closely tied. Thirty minutes ago, Rollins was killed in his countryside safehouse, 21 dead, no survivors."
Peggy Carter's expression didn't change.
"Was it Rory?"
"Bennett's corpse was found nearby. Multiple footprints indicate at least two attackers. One matches the profile of Frank Castle."
"Rory and Frank are working together," Carter muttered, tapping her pen. "Send in Clint. Tell him to dig into their relationship, and find out why Rory's gone rogue."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And one more thing, tell Clint: if he locates Rory, do not engage. Report to me immediately."
Enter Clint Barton: Codename Hawkeye
Marksman. Strategist. Karmic disaster in a leather vest.
Clint began his investigation at the crime scenes of Rollins and Bennett, then traced it back to Rory's known hideout, an apartment not even rented under Rory's name.
The lease was under a front company.
That company? Linked to a construction firm.
Coincidentally, the same construction firm owned the building in Hell's Kitchen where a recent gunfight took place.
That night, Clint broke into the company's offices, hoping to dig up more leads.
He pried open a drawer, papers, contracts, purchase logs. He started flipping through, eyes scanning.
Then, he froze.
Someone was standing behind him.
"Stealing isn't a very noble habit, mister."
Clint spun.
Standing there was a man in a tight red suit with a double D emblem on his chest.
Face masked.
Silent.
Watchful.
"You don't even show your face. What kind of good guy are you?" Clint replied.
He snatched a pen from the desk and flung it.
Whizz.
Fast, but the red-suit man easily dodged.
It buried itself in the wall behind him.
In an instant, the two were brawling.
Bang! Crash! Slam!
The office was wrecked.
They traded blows, punch for kick, jab for sweep, neither gaining the upper hand.
Breathing hard, they backed off at the same time.
"You're obstructing an investigation," Clint growled. "That's a federal offense."
"And how was I supposed to know you weren't the one destroying evidence?"
Clint pulled out a S.H.I.E.L.D. ID and tossed it.
The man caught it midair.
He ran his fingers over the raised emblem. He couldn't see it, he was blind, but he felt enough to understand.
"Sorry," the man said. "Thought you were one of them."
"So who the hell are you?"
The red figure paused, then answered:
"You can call me Daredevil. I'm investigating a murder case, this company's involved."
More than just involved, as it turned out.
"This whole firm is run by a mob syndicate," Daredevil continued. "Their boss is Wilson Fisk, goes by 'Kingpin'. He controls about 70% of New York's gray-market economy."
Clint's brow furrowed.
"Weapons, too?"
"Of course. He took over the Russian gangs recently. The black market's practically his playground now."
Everything clicked.
Fisk had funded Rory's lab, arranged his apartment, even supplied him with weapons.
Could Fisk be the puppet master behind Rory?
Meanwhile, at Kingpin's Lair…
Wilson Fisk was in a rare foul mood.
The man prided himself on being a refined gentleman.
Composed. Controlled.
But today? He lost it.
One of his underlings had botched a simple job, and Fisk crushed his skull with his bare hands.
Wesley, his ever-loyal aide, actually looked afraid.
Something had changed in Fisk.
Something primal.
Only one thing could calm the beast: Vanessa.
"Boss, you should change. Vanessa's still waiting, you don't want her to smell blood on you, do you?"
At the mention of her name, Fisk composed himself.
He wiped his hands.
Dropped the blood-soaked cloth onto the corpse.
"Clean this up. And find me that masked freak. Daredevil. I'm going to twist his neck with my own hands."
"Yes, sir."
The Kingpin was becoming a tyrant.
He had no idea… he was already being watched.
Dinner with a Side of Suspicion
Fisk showered, dressed, and met Vanessa for dinner at an upscale restaurant.
Vanessa was his calm, his peace.
One night together, and he returned to his polished, polite self.
But as they exited the restaurant, something shifted.
Fisk stopped cold, turning to stare up at a distant rooftop.
Pitch black.
Nothing visible.
But he felt it.
Eyes on him.
"Wilson?" Vanessa called softly from the car. "What's wrong?"
He forced a smile.
"Nothing, darling. Just… something I need to take care of."
He opened the car door for her.
"The driver will take you home. If time allows, I'd love to join you later for a drink."
What Vanessa didn't know, what Wilson himself hadn't planned, was that tonight, someone had already started hunting him.
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