[Clinton Church. The Aftermath. Continuous.]
Matt Murdock stood in the aisle, the scent of fresh blood and old incense heavy in the air.
He gripped his white cane, his knuckles turning white. He "looked" at the void standing perfectly still beside him. Four elite Hand assassins were dead on the floor, and the demon hadn't even wrinkled his suit.
"You're a monster," Matt breathed, his voice tight with a mix of awe and horror.
"I am a butler, Mr. Murdock," Sebastian corrected smoothly. "And I have successfully ensured my client's legal counsel remains among the living. A rather successful outing, wouldn't you agree?"
"No," Matt snapped, stepping forward. "Not in my city. Not on my watch. I don't care if Pepper Potts pays you or if you crawled out of a sulfur pit. You don't kill in Hell's Kitchen. We believe in the law here."
Sebastian looked down at the blind lawyer. He saw the fierce, unyielding conviction in the mortal's stance. It was the same stubborn, foolish, magnificent morality that his Master had possessed.
Sebastian's fuchsia eyes softened slightly, though his smile remained sharp.
"A strict moral code," Sebastian mused. "How delightfully archaic. Very well, Mr. Murdock. If it pleases you, I shall refrain from permanently terminating the local vermin."
He picked up a stray piece of lint from his sleeve.
"A handicap," Sebastian whispered, his eyes gleaming in the dark church. "How thrilling. Now, shall we fetch the police, or slip out the back?"
[Fisk Tower. The Penthouse. The Next Evening.]
Wilson Fisk stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, looking down at the glittering expanse of his city. He wore a pristine white suit, his massive frame casting a wide shadow over the expensive Persian rug.
Behind him, sitting at a custom-built, reinforced oak desk, was Benjamin Poindexter. Bullseye. The assassin was currently tossing a steel ball bearing up and catching it with terrifying, rhythmic precision.
"The Hand failed," Fisk rumbled, his deep voice vibrating the glass. "Sterling failed in the courtroom. Stark Industries is making a mockery of my development plans."
"It's the driver," Dex said, catching the steel ball. "I reviewed the security footage from the courthouse. He's fast. Too fast."
"Everyone has a price," Fisk turned around. "And everyone has a breaking point."
The private elevator chimed.
The heavy steel doors slid open. Stepping into the lavish penthouse was Sebastian Michaelis. He carried a silver tray with a single, perfectly folded white napkin resting upon it. He looked around the room, his red eyes briefly locking onto Dex in the corner, before settling on the Kingpin.
"Mr. Fisk," Sebastian bowed with impeccable grace. "I received your invitation. Though I must confess, calling a man's employer with threats of a hostile takeover is a rather vulgar way to request a meeting."
"I am a direct man, Mr. Michaelis," Fisk walked toward his desk, his heavy footsteps thudding against the floor. "You serve Pepper Potts. You protect the blind lawyer. You are a pebble in my shoe."
"I have been called worse by better men," Sebastian smiled pleasantly.
[The Pitch]
Fisk sat heavily in his reinforced chair. He placed his massive, meaty hands flat on the oak desk.
"Stark Industries is a sinking ship," Fisk said. "They are clinging to the past. I am the future of this city. Leave them. Come work for me. Name your price. I can make you a king in the underworld."
Sebastian let out a soft, cultured sigh.
"You misunderstand my nature, Mr. Fisk," Sebastian stepped closer to the desk. "I do not serve for money. I serve for the aesthetic. I serve a House built on brilliance and a legacy of iron."
Sebastian looked pointedly at Fisk's white suit.
"I could never serve a man whose tailor allows such dreadful bunching around the shoulders. It is simply unforgivable."
Fisk's face darkened. The veins in his thick neck bulged. He wasn't used to being insulted, especially not in his own tower.
"You don't know who you are dealing with," Fisk roared, slamming his massive fists down onto the oak desk. The impact was like a thunderclap, rattling the expensive liquor bottles on the far wall. "I am the Kingpin!"
Fisk gave a sharp nod to the corner.
[The Pin]
Dex didn't hesitate.
With a flick of his wrist, he threw the heavy steel ball bearing. He didn't aim for Sebastian's head. He aimed for the demon's throat, throwing it with the velocity of a sniper bullet. It was a guaranteed, lethal strike.
Sebastian didn't even turn his head.
He simply raised his left hand, clad in a pristine white glove, and caught the steel ball bearing between his index and middle fingers.
The kinetic energy of the projectile was completely absorbed, vanishing into the demon's unnatural stillness.
Dex froze, his eyes widening in absolute shock. He didn't even look.
"As I promised Mr. Murdock," Sebastian murmured, his eyes flashing fuchsia as he finally turned his head to look at the assassin. "No killing."
Sebastian flicked his wrist.
The ball bearing shot back across the room at three times the speed. It didn't hit Dex's flesh. It slammed into the lapel of Dex's tactical jacket, embedding itself three inches deep into the concrete pillar behind him.
Dex was violently pinned to the wall, left hanging by his own jacket, entirely immobilized.
[The Broken Desk]
Fisk stared at his top assassin, now dangling helplessly from the concrete. He slowly looked back at the butler. For the first time in a very long time, Wilson Fisk felt a cold sliver of fear.
Sebastian stepped up to the massive, custom-built oak desk.
"You rely on brute force, Mr. Fisk," Sebastian said softly, his voice echoing with a dark, resonant timbre. "You slam your fists and demand the world bow to your weight."
Sebastian extended a single, gloved index finger.
He placed it gently in the exact center of the heavy oak wood.
He didn't punch it. He didn't slam it. He merely pressed down.
CRAAAACK.
A deafening sound of splintering wood filled the penthouse. The massive desk—thick enough to stop a bullet—split perfectly down the middle, collapsing inward as if it had been struck by a meteorite. Dust and splinters clouded the air.
Fisk stumbled backward out of his chair, staring at the ruined furniture.
Sebastian dusted off his gloves.
"But true power," Sebastian whispered, his eyes locking onto the Kingpin's wide, terrified gaze, "does not need to raise its voice. Or its fists."
Sebastian picked up his silver tray from the wreckage.
"Stark Industries will retain the warehouse," Sebastian delivered his final warning, his voice returning to a polite, cheerful hum. "And if you ever attempt to threaten Mrs. Potts or Mr. Murdock again... I will not be nearly as gentle with your spine as I was with your desk."
He bowed perfectly.
"Have a pleasant evening, Mr. Fisk. Do consider a new tailor."
Sebastian turned and walked toward the elevator, leaving the King of New York trembling in the ruins of his own office.
[End of Chapter 81]
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