[New York City. 47th Street. The Stark Warehouse. Midnight.]
The air smelled of gasoline and cheap tactical gear.
Wilson Fisk had realized he couldn't win the legal battle. If the Stark warehouse existed at sunrise, the judge would grant the permanent injunction. So, the Kingpin decided the warehouse simply wouldn't exist.
Thirty heavily armed mercenaries—Fisk's elite sweepers—kicked in the loading dock doors. They carried incendiary charges, automatic rifles, and orders to burn the property to the foundation.
From the rusted rafters above, a billy club spun through the dark.
It struck the lead mercenary square in the jaw, ricocheted off a steel beam, and snapped perfectly back into the gloved hand of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.
Matt Murdock dropped from the shadows, his red suit blending into the dim, industrial light.
"The building is closed," Daredevil growled, dropping into a fighting stance.
The mercenaries didn't hesitate. They raised their rifles. "Light him up!"
[The Handicap]
Matt moved. He flipped over a hail of gunfire, his radar sense painting a chaotic 360-degree map of the warehouse. He kicked a mercenary in the chest, ducked under a rifle butt, and launched a brutal uppercut.
He was fighting brilliantly, but there were simply too many of them.
Two mercenaries flanked him, raising high-powered shotguns. Matt was trapped between a forklift and a wall of crates.
Suddenly, the temperature in the warehouse dropped.
The two mercenaries froze. They didn't scream. They simply dropped their shotguns and collapsed face-first onto the concrete, fast asleep.
Standing behind them, dusting his pristine white gloves, was Sebastian Michaelis.
Matt's radar sense picked up the void. "I told you to stay out of my city," Matt said, vaulting over a crate to dodge another burst of gunfire.
"I am merely securing the Master's property, Mr. Murdock," Sebastian replied cheerfully, casually side-stepping a bullet that whizzed past his ear. "And I assure you, I am adhering strictly to your tedious 'no killing' rule."
A mercenary charged Sebastian with a combat knife.
Sebastian sighed. He didn't punch the man. He reached out, moving faster than the human eye could track, and flawlessly unbuckled the man's tactical belt, unzipped his heavy combat vest, and tied his bootlaces together in a double Windsor knot—all in under two seconds.
The mercenary took a step, tripped over his own feet, and crashed into a steel pillar, knocking himself unconscious.
"See?" Sebastian smiled politely at Matt. "Completely non-lethal. Though terribly undignified."
[The Shield]
The remaining twenty mercenaries realized the red devil wasn't the biggest problem. The butler in the tailcoat was a ghost.
"Focus fire on the suit!" the squad leader yelled.
Five mercenaries leveled heavy, military-grade light machine guns at Daredevil, who was caught in the open aisle. Matt braced himself, spinning his billy club into a makeshift shield, knowing it wouldn't be enough to stop armor-piercing rounds.
RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT.
The guns roared.
But the bullets never hit Matt.
Sebastian stepped in front of the blind lawyer. He didn't use a shield. He didn't dodge. He just stood there, his hands neatly folded behind his back.
Matt's radar sense went wild. He "watched" as the high-velocity bullets struck Sebastian's chest, shoulders, and back. They didn't penetrate. They didn't even slow him down. The heavy lead rounds simply flattened against the demon's body as if striking an impenetrable bank vault, falling harmlessly to the floor with a shower of brass clinks.
The mercenaries stopped firing, their jaws dropping in absolute terror.
Sebastian looked down at his chest. The bullets had ruined his coat, tearing dozens of ragged holes in the expensive black wool.
Slowly, Sebastian looked up. His fuchsia eyes glowed with genuine, terrifying irritation.
"This was Egyptian cotton," Sebastian whispered.
He vanished.
A gust of displaced air blew past Matt. What followed was a symphony of precise, non-lethal violence. Matt heard the click-clack of assault rifles being completely disassembled into their component parts before the mercenaries could even pull the triggers. He heard the dull thuds of pressure points being struck with surgical accuracy.
In exactly five seconds, twenty heavily armed men were unconscious on the floor.
[The Confession]
The warehouse was silent, save for the hum of the distant streetlights.
Matt slowly lowered his billy club. He listened to the heartbeats of the mercenaries. All thirty were alive. Most were asleep; a few had mild concussions.
Sebastian stood in the center of the carnage, frowning deeply as he tried to brush the soot from his ruined lapels.
"I owe you a thank you," Matt said quietly, walking toward the void. "You took those bullets for me."
"I took them because you are currently employed by Mrs. Potts," Sebastian corrected, without looking up. "A butler must protect the household staff."
Matt stopped a few feet away. He tilted his head, listening to the impossible silence of the creature before him.
"Fisk offered you the world," Matt said. "He told you to name your price. With your power... you could be a king. You could rule this city, or any city. Why do you serve? Why take orders from humans?"
Sebastian finally stopped fussing with his coat. He looked down at the blind vigilante.
"Mr. Fisk is a glutton," Sebastian said, his voice dropping its cheerful facade, echoing with a dark, ancient sincerity. "His soul is bloated on greed, fear, and petty ambition. To a demon, a soul like that is... cheap fast food. Greasy. Unsatisfying."
Sebastian turned and looked at the glowing blue Stark Industries logo painted on the wall of the warehouse.
"But the Master," Sebastian murmured, his fuchsia eyes softening. "Tony Stark. His soul was a masterpiece. It was forged in a cave, tempered by guilt, and polished by an excruciating, magnificent sacrifice. He built a suit of armor to save the world, knowing it would crush him."
Sebastian looked back at Matt.
"I serve, Mr. Murdock, because the flavor of true, agonizing nobility is the rarest delicacy in the universe. I do not want to be a king. Kings are boring. I am a butler. I cultivate masterpieces. And I protect what they leave behind."
Matt stood frozen. For a moment, he didn't sense a monster. He sensed a creature of absolute, terrifying devotion.
"I see," Matt whispered.
"Indeed," Sebastian smiled, the polite, cheerful butler returning instantly. "Now, Mr. Murdock, the police are approximately three minutes away. I suggest you take to the rooftops. I shall remain here to offer a statement regarding this tragic, spontaneous outbreak of mass narcolepsy among Mr. Fisk's employees."
Matt allowed a small, genuine smile to cross his bruised face.
"Good night, Sebastian."
"Good night, Devil."
[End of Arc 14]