Explosive news about billionaire Tony Stark and Stark Industries finally gets pushed off the front page by an even more sensational report.
The reprieve is temporary.
News about the kidnapping of eleven children by a New York gang sweeps across the country through newspapers, television, and online media. It shocks countless people.
The daily reports of murder, robbery, drug trafficking, and gang violence aren't enough to pierce the numbed nerves of most ordinary citizens. They've grown accustomed to such horrors.
But children? Children are one of their few remaining boundaries. After all, children represent the future and hope of countless families.
Within hours, the phones at the New York Police Department and various district stations are overwhelmed by furious callers.
After a morning of fermentation and escalation, even the central nervous system of the entire nation, the White House itself, is forced to step forward and hold a press conference. They attempt to appease the massive number of ordinary citizens who have taken to the streets in protest.
One o'clock in the afternoon.
Countless men, women, young and old march with their families, shouting protest slogans as they brave the gradually diminishing rain. Like wandering zombies driven by single-minded purpose, they completely surround the police headquarters on Park Row Street.
The angry, fast-moving demonstrators don't spare City Hall across the street either. They encircle it as well, blocking all entrances and exits. No one is allowed in or out.
Meanwhile, inside police headquarters, in the chief's office, the white mayor with fluffy brown hair is absolutely furious.
He gesticulates wildly, roaring in rage. His voice is so loud that even police officers passing in the corridor outside can hear every word clearly.
"I allocate enormous budgets to you every year despite strong opposition from other departments! And this, THIS is how you repay my kindness? As police chief?"
"John! Eight billion! Your police budget is eight billion every year! And it keeps rising!"
The mayor of New York, usually impeccably dressed in tailored suits, now has a flushed face. Like some redneck from rural Kansas, spit flies from the corners of his mouth as he shouts.
"Do you hear me? The White House called! Even the WHITE HOUSE! Mr. President asked me what the hell is happening in New York!"
"I didn't know! I don't know anything at all!"
"It was the President himself who told me that the gangs in New York City have grown so powerful they're kidnapping children everywhere!"
"John! What the hell have you been doing all these years? What achievements have you made as Commissioner of the New York Police Department? Are you sleepwalking through your job?"
His voice cracks with frustration. "The most important thing is... my re-election as mayor next year is completely ruined! RUINED! Do you understand?"
The mayor trembles with rage. His inexhaustible anger surges like the tide of the Hudson River, wave after wave crashing toward the ugly-faced black police chief.
Chief John, unable to get a word in edgewise, simply stands behind his desk and endures the verbal assault.
"God, I'm so tired..."
Finally, the mayor, seemingly exhausted, stops his tirade. He reaches up and tugs at his expensive luxury tie. Staring with bloodshot eyes, he says coldly, "Now I'll listen to your explanation. But John, please be brief. A large number of people outside are still waiting for me to come out and calm them down."
The expressionless Chief John remains silent for a moment. Then he speaks suddenly.
"I have nothing to defend myself with. Such a terrible child kidnapping case has occurred in New York City. The main responsibility lies with the New York Police Department and with me as police chief. I can't shirk that responsibility at all."
He pauses. "However, I want to reiterate some points."
"The expansion of gangs and the increase in the crime index aren't problems that can be solved simply by police working harder. This might be an economic problem. Or perhaps a racial and cultural problem. Or even an institutional problem worthy of discussion by the White House itself."
The black chief's tone shifts. "But this is not a simple multiple-choice question like cops catching thieves!"
"John! Fuck you—"
The mayor's face suddenly turns crimson. He curses reflexively.
But then, the mayor with fluffy brown hair seems to regain his arrogant composure, as if he's back in control of the chessboard. His expression turns icy.
"For the sake of our years working together, John, prepare your resignation letter. I'll give you a decent pension and superficial respect. But John... you truly disappoint me."
With those final words, the indifferent mayor turns on his heel. He walks out of the office without looking back.
Meanwhile, the black chief, whose expression has remained stoic throughout, suddenly reaches out to grip the edge of his desk. He slowly sinks back into the chair that still belongs to him, if only temporarily.
He falls into silence.
As chief of the New York Police Department, John knows many things. More than the mayor of New York, certainly.
He knows why people kill and rob. He understands why they murder and sell drugs. He's even accidentally discovered that the kidnapping of children by gangs in New York has never truly been shocking news on a national scale.
Kidnapping children is simply a mature, stable industry chain operated by criminals. Even participating in just one link of this chain yields considerable profit.
Officer John tried to solve similar problems from a legal perspective. But by the time Officer John became Chief John, the entire industry chain hadn't disappeared. It had only grown more prosperous.
Every year, hundreds of children go missing in New York City alone. If you count the entire country, even the whole continent, it becomes an astronomical number...
Thinking of this, the black chief suddenly closes his eyes in pain.
There's nothing he can do about it. Nothing at all.
Knock, knock, knock.
A sharp rapping on the door interrupts the chief's depressed thoughts. He takes a deep breath and calls out, "Come in."
A moment later, a middle-aged police officer hurries through the door. He carries a thick stack of case reports under his arm.
"Chief, the basic information on the murder case and child abduction case has been compiled."
The middle-aged officer steps forward and spreads the case report before the black chief.
"How are the kids?" the chief asks, glancing down at the documents.
"Uh, they're in pretty good condition. None of them were injured. They should be eating chocolate cake right about now, actually."
The middle-aged officer forces a smile. "However, because the children are needed to provide testimony and help establish evidence in the murder and kidnapping cases, the FBI has prohibited their parents from taking them home..."
"Go tell the FBI to get the hell out of here!"
The black chief frowns, his eyes still scanning the case report. "As long as there's no order from above, the investigative authority for these cases belongs solely to the New York Police Department!"
Before he finishes speaking, the chief suddenly drops the heavy case report. He raises his head sharply.
"'Uncle Red Bandana? 'Man with Green Face'? 'Brother Chocolate Cake'? Is this the testimony provided by the children?"
His voice rises with irritation. "Where's the age? Appearance? Race? You've been busy all this time and haven't even investigated the basic information about the suspect?"
"We investigated! And there are detailed explanations in the report!"
The middle-aged officer hurries forward, flipping through the pages. He points to one section and explains quickly, "Through brief exchanges with the children and an on-site investigation by forensic experts, our psychological team synthesized several characteristics that fit the suspect's profile."
He reads aloud. "Age between twenty and forty years old. White. Military training background, possibly mercenary or retired soldier. Skilled in cold weapon combat and possessing a strong sense of counter-reconnaissance. There are basically no traces left at the crime scene. No useful clues..."
"Hiss... Frank Castle?"
The black chief's eyes suddenly widen. He draws in a sharp breath.
"Well, probably not him..."
The middle-aged officer smiles bitterly in sympathy. "According to information disclosed by the FBI, Frank has been operating at the border recently. He's exchanged fire with multiple Mexican gangs. Apparently, the fighting there is quite brutal..."
"What about the 'Devil of Hell's Kitchen'?" The black chief makes another guess, then immediately shakes his head, rejecting it himself. "The Devil usually only operates in Hell's Kitchen, and his methods aren't that cruel. Most importantly, he doesn't kill people!"
Instantly, the black chief and the middle-aged officer lock eyes in tacit understanding.
The looks they exchange are filled with shock.
"Perhaps there's a new player in New York City..."
"A ruthless one."