"Iron Legs! So you're the one they call Iron Legs now!"
Inside the VIP box, the rapid crack of gunfire mingled with Hammerhead's agonized, guttural screams.
Daniel only holstered his gleaming Golden Desert Eagle once the slide locked back empty, still feeling a little unsatisfied.
He had a terrible memory for grudges, so he preferred to settle them immediately.
That smug, mocking grin Hammerhead had flashed earlier? Unacceptable. An NPC daring to look down on the Fourth Great Calamity (players) was basically begging for deletion.
Hammerhead's legs were now shredded sieves of meat and bone. Blood had already soaked through his pants, pooling dark and thick beneath him on the carpet.
The pain had been beyond human endurance.
Hammerhead lay crumpled on the floor, eyes glassy, repeating the same broken mantra like a scratched record: "Iron Head… I have Iron Head… not Iron Legs… Iron Head…"
Wesley, who had spent the entire shootout flattened beneath the sofa, swallowed hard, his throat dry as sand.
Too savage.
He'd seen plenty in his years working for Kingpin (shootings, stabbings, bodies dissolved in barrels), but nothing like this.
One man had walked in and erased the entire Maggia crew like it was nothing, then toyed with a notorious mob boss the way a cat toys with a half-dead mouse.
This wasn't a fight. It was extermination.
Wesley, lifelong atheist, suddenly found religion and prayed frantically to every god he could name that the devil in the tailored suit wouldn't notice him.
Maybe someone up there was listening.
Daniel never even glanced his way. He simply grabbed Hammerhead by the ankle and dragged the unconscious gangster out like a sack of garbage.
Only when the footsteps faded did Wesley's heart remember how to beat.
He crawled out on shaking hands and knees, careful not to look at the carnage, and dialed the number with blood-slick fingers.
"What is it?" The deep, authoritative voice belonged to Wilson Fisk.
Wesley inhaled sharply. "Boss… the Maggia's finished. Hammerhead's been taken."
A brief pause. "The Demons? The Russians?"
"No. One guy. Never seen him before. He killed everyone by himself. Hammerhead didn't stand a chance. He… he said he's NYPD."
On the other end, Fisk was silent long enough for Wesley to hear his own pulse.
Since when did the NYPD breed monsters like that?
Meanwhile, in a narrow alley behind the club, Daniel dragged the limp, half-dead Hammerhead over the asphalt.
The little fish who'd escaped notice back in the box wasn't worth chasing; Wesley wasn't a red-name target, no reward for killing him.
"System, why can't I fast-travel with a body?"
(Dragging a grown man across half of Hell's Kitchen is seriously annoying.)
[Fast travel disabled when carrying living entities or objects exceeding 10 kg.]
Daniel glanced down at Hammerhead. "Guess I'll just carve off a ten-kilo chunk and leave the rest."
[…Please don't.]
Before the system could finish its plea, a sharp whistle sliced through the air.
A crimson billet baton streaked down from above like a viper, aimed straight at Daniel's wrist.
BANG!
The Golden Desert Eagle roared first. The bullet met the baton dead-center mid-flight, sparks exploding as metal struck metal. The baton clattered harmlessly to the ground.
Daniel finally looked up.
Perched atop a rusted streetlamp, silhouetted against the sickly yellow light and the endless night behind him, stood a figure in a dark red suit that clung like a second skin. A horned mask covered the upper half of his face; rough stubble lined a grim, set jaw.
He looked like a demon straight out of hell's basement.
Daredevil.
"Hand him over," the vigilante said, voice low and rough as gravel.
Daniel flashed a lazy grin. "If I do everything you say, how will anyone respect me?"
Daredevil's jaw tightened beneath the mask. "He deserves a trial, not summary execution."
"Funny thing; I'm NYPD." Daniel shrugged.
"You're no cop."
Daredevil's tone turned colder. "I can smell the blood on you. It's thick enough to choke on."
Blind, yes; helpless, never. Every other sense honed to a lethal edge.
He could hear heartbeats three blocks away, could map an entire room by the echo of a footstep, could catalog a person's scent forever.
And right now, the stench of blood rolling off Daniel was apocalyptic.
"How many people have you killed?" Daredevil asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Daniel tilted his head, amused. "Do you keep count of every slice of bread you've ever eaten?"
The flippant cruelty of the answer made the vigilante's breath hitch.
Daredevil was Catholic to the bone. Thou shalt not kill wasn't a suggestion; it was the line he refused to cross.
And this man treated human lives like trash loot.
"They're people!" Daredevil snapped, fury bleeding through the calm.
Daniel chuckled as if the idea itself was hilarious.
"Just packets of data," he said lightly. "They'll respawn anyway."
He lowered the golden muzzle toward the unconscious gangster at his feet.
"Like this one."
BANG!!
The gunshot cracked through the alley like thunder.
The bullet punched clean through Hammerhead's neck. Blood jetted in a high crimson arc, painting the brick wall.
One last twitch, then nothing.
Daniel looked down at the fresh corpse and sighed with mild regret.
"Shame. Turning him in alive would've given better mission score. But dragging him the whole way? Too much hassle."
High above, Daredevil froze atop the streetlamp, an icy shiver racing down his spine.
He had just ended a man's life… because carrying the body was inconvenient.
The devil in the alley smiled up at him, golden gun still smoking.
"Your move, horn-head."