The SUV's interior was utterly silent.
Thick, soundproof glass sealed out the city—no honking cabs, no sirens, not even the whisper of wind.
Jimmy Wu watched the boy in the rearview mirror.
Joren sat with his eyes closed, posture slack, as if asleep.
But Wu knew better. The kid wasn't sleeping. He was thinking—calculating, weighing, dissecting.
"Mr. Joestar," Wu said, voice smooth as polished steel, "we've learned that a few days ago, Hand ninjas infiltrated your residence and caused… considerable structural damage."
Not a flicker. Joren's eyelids didn't so much as twitch.
S.H.I.E.L.D.'s intel really is everywhere, he mused.
"If you don't mind," Wu continued, "we'd like to offer full reconstruction services. All costs covered by the agency. No strings."
No strings, Joren thought. Right.
Tony Stark had made the same offer yesterday—"Just let me run a few scans, upgrade your power grid, maybe install a mini arc reactor in the basement?" That "rich dog" would've turned his house into a lab overnight: gamma-ray motion sensors in the ceiling, biometric toilet seats, air filters that double as DNA samplers.
S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't any better. Their "renovation" was just an excuse to lace the walls, floors, and ceiling cavities with bugs smaller than dust motes.
But there was a difference.
Tony's intrusions were loud, flashy, and ego-driven. S.H.I.E.L.D.'s were cold, silent, and systematic.
Still—neither mattered much when you had Star Platinum.
With its microscopic precision and speed beyond human perception, sweeping the house for surveillance gear would take less than five minutes.
"Can."
The single syllable hung in the quiet cabin.
Jimmy Wu's smile deepened—like he'd expected nothing less. He pulled out his phone without hesitation.
"It's me. Initiate 'Affordable Housing Plan,' Option 3."
"Target address confirmed. Highest priority."
"I need it finished by tomorrow afternoon."
He ended the call and turned slightly in his seat, addressing the back.
"You'll return to a brand-new, fully secured home by then. Until then, S.H.I.E.L.D. has standing reservations at a dozen five-star hotels. Your pick."
"No need."
Joren—now fully awake—opened his eyes and stared out the tinted window. His voice was calm, edged with quiet finality.
"Park here."
...
Joren stepped out of the SUV and didn't head home.
That house was probably crawling with S.H.I.E.L.D. agents in blue jumpsuits by now.
He had no interest in playing supervisor—not today, not ever—and dealing with a spook like Jimmy Woo was the last thing he needed.
Standing on the rain-dampened corner, Joren pulled out his phone and scrolled to an unnumbered contact.
"...Who is it?"
The voice on the other end was rough, worn thin by exhaustion and pain.
"Joren Joestar."
A beat of silence. Then, clearer:
"...It's you." Matt Murdock's voice sharpened slightly, as if waking from a half-dream. "What do you need?"
"Peter's training."
Another pause—this one heavier, edged with fatigue.
"I'm still flat on my back," Matt said, dry and self-deprecating. "Kingpin nearly turned my ribcage into confetti. Training's going to have to wait."
"I'm not here about the training," Joren said. "I need information. About Kingpin."
Matt exhaled—almost a laugh. "If you absolutely have to come... I'm at the office. Hell's Kitchen. Corner of 10th and 45th. 'Nelson & Murdock.' The sign's small. Don't miss it."
"Good."
Joren ended the call and flagged down a passing yellow cab.
"Hell's Kitchen," he said.
Joren leaned against the window as the city blurred past—steel, glass, and neon bleeding into gray concrete.
Even now, days after the chaos, the neighborhood thrummed with tension. Every shadow seemed to hold eyes. Every siren screamed over fresh blood.
The driver—a broad-shouldered man with a scarred jaw—caught Joren's reflection in the rearview. His brows knotted.
A kid, alone, heading into Hell's Kitchen?
Either lost… or already dead.
"Tenth Avenue's up ahead," the driver grunted. "That's as far as I go. Drive another block, and my car ends up on blocks."
Joren tossed a wad of bills onto the passenger seat and stepped out before the meter stopped ticking.
He stood beneath the looming tenements, swallowed by their shade.
Compared to Osborn's green-veined monsters or the woman who bent beasts to her will, the malice here was cleaner. Sharper. Hungrier.
He walked until he spotted it—a faded sign hanging crooked above a second-floor window:
NELSON & MURDOCK
The stairwell smelled of dust, old wood, and mildew. Each step groaned underfoot like a warning.
The office door stood ajar, frosted glass etched with the same name.
Joren pushed inside.
The space was cramped—two battered desks buried under case files, a coffee machine that looked like it survived the Cold War. Behind one desk sat Matt Murdock, sunglasses in place, sleeves rolled up to reveal bandaged forearms. He didn't turn, but his head tilted slightly—listening.
Even through the lenses, Joren felt the weight of that blind gaze.
"Your heartbeat's steady," Matt said. "Too steady."
Joren let his eyes trace the bandages, then the exhaustion carved into Matt's face.
"You look like hell."
Matt's mouth twitched. "Coffee? Or… coffee?" He gestured weakly toward the ancient machine.
Joren dropped into the chair opposite. It creaked in protest.
"Someone's hunting me."
Matt leaned forward, fingers interlaced. "Then let's skip the pleasantries. What do you want to know?"
In Matt's world—devoid of color, light, or shadow—reality was built from echoes: breath, heat, pulse, air currents.
But this boy?
He was a void.
A heartbeat like a metronome. Breathing so shallow it barely stirred the air. Muscles coiled like bedrock.
And around him—vibration.
A low, rhythmic hum in the atmosphere, as if space itself bowed to his presence.
This wasn't just a fighter.
This
was something older. Something other.
"A woman," Joren said. "Telepath. Controls animals. Calls someone 'Kim'… and 'my king.'"
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