In the early morning, the fog in Manhattan had not yet completely dissipated.
Inside the Fisk mansion on the other side of the city, the atmosphere was so oppressive it felt like water could be wrung from it.
When Wesley pushed open the heavy oak doors, his palms were covered in cold sweat.
He had been calling Mr. Fisk since early this morning, but no one ever picked up. Even the two trusted subordinates he sent to check on the situation half an hour ago had vanished like stones dropped into the ocean, with no word back.
This kind of sudden loss of contact had never happened in all these years.
"Mr. Fisk?" Wesley called out tentatively, his voice echoing in the empty mansion with a faint, imperceptible tremble.
No one responded.
A nauseating metallic smell of rust filled the air—the smell of blood.
Wesley's heart sank to the bottom. He hurried through the living room and pushed open the bedroom door.
In the next second, the sight before him caused his pupils to shrink and his breath to hitch.
The bedroom's blindingly white wall had been transformed into a shocking abstract painting.
Bright red blood was sprayed across it, mixed with bits of flesh and bone fragments, slowly trickling down.
And on the carpet in front of the wall, the two missing subordinates had been turned into piles of unrecognizable mush.
Wilson Fisk sat by the bedside.
He was still wearing the same tattered, dust-covered suit from last night, sitting like a silent statue, staring fixedly at the blood-stained wall.
Hearing the door open, the mountain of flesh slowly turned its head.
Wesley gasped.
What kind of eyes were those... bloodshot, sunken in their sockets, yet burning with a violent flame that bordered on losing control.
He clearly hadn't slept all night. The aura he radiated was no longer his usual calculated composure, but that of a severely wounded Beast driven into a corner, ready to devour anyone at any moment.
His massive palms were covered in blood and gore—remnants of when he had just beaten those two subordinates into pulp with his bare hands.
"Mr... Mr. Fisk..." Wesley took half a step back, intimidated by Fisk's ferocious gaze, but he forced himself to stay calm.
He knew that Fisk was currently on the verge of a breakdown; the slightest provocation could send him into a frenzy.
"Today's schedule..." Wesley took a deep breath, trying to use work to bring back Fisk's reason, just like always, as if the demon named Makima had never appeared last night. "It's about the Russians... the brothers Anatoly and Vladimir, regarding last month's territory division..."
"Wesley."
Fisk suddenly spoke.
His voice was hoarse and coarse, like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together, cutting Wesley's report short.
He didn't turn around, still staring intently at Wesley, his bloodshot eyes flashing with a terrifying, neurotic light.
The feeling of powerlessness from last night, the humiliation of being toyed with like an insect, gnawed at his nerves like termites.
Now, everyone he looked at seemed like that woman's spy, and every sound he heard seemed like that woman's whisper.
Fisk slowly raised a massive, blood-stained hand, pointed at Wesley, and asked the question that had terrified him all night:
"Did you want to come..."
"Or did that woman... make you come?"
In that instant, Wesley felt as if his throat were locked in the sights of an ancient predator.
Fisk was like a startled giant Beast, his muscles tensed. If Wesley's answer was off by a single word or if his eyes flickered for even a second, he might be torn to shreds in the next moment by this completely maddened Beast, just like the two corpses on the floor.
Fear.
It wasn't just fear of Makima, but also fear of this 'King' before him who no longer trusted anyone.
The future Emperor of the underworld wasn't dead, but he had broken.
And all of this was simply because of that woman's sudden visit... One hour later, Fisk Tower.
On the top floor of the building, in a brand-new office that had never been open to the public.
The decor here was completely different from Fisk's office, which was filled with classical artistic flair.
It was minimalist and bright, with huge floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a view of almost all of New York.
Makima sat in a white leather office chair, holding a cup of hot coffee, her expression languid.
She showed little interest in taking over the Fisk Group's complicated business of vice.
After all, in her eyes, so-called gang wars and territory disputes were as boring as watching two colonies of ants fight.
The reason she was sitting here was partly to get some pocket money for Su Modie, and partly because... Fisk was a witness to the 'Su Modie Blackout' incident.
Perhaps he had some information that even Su Modie herself didn't know?
She had to find an opportunity to ask.
Just then, there was a knock on the office door.
"Come in."
The door opened.
Wesley entered first, respectfully stepping aside to make way.
Following him, that massive frame—Wilson Fisk—walked in with heavy steps.
Although in private, Fisk had been driven nearly insane by Makima, even resorting to vent his rage by killing in front of that blood-stained wall, the moment he stepped into this office and felt the pressure of dominance radiating from that woman, a certain'switch' inside him was forcibly flipped.
The violence vanished, and the madness was reined in.
Before Makima, Fisk lowered his proud head and became refined and polite.
Despite his muscles trembling slightly from fighting this instinct, he still displayed absolute obedience.
"Good morning, Miss Makima," Fisk said in a low voice, struggling to maintain his last shred of dignity.
"Good morning, Mr. Fisk." Makima nodded with a smile, not even bothering to ask him to sit. She simply asked casually, as if to a subordinate, "It seems you slept well last night?"
Fisk's eye twitched violently, but he still lowered his head and squeezed out a few words through his teeth: "Thanks to you."
"Report on your work."
Wesley immediately stepped forward and opened the folder in his hand.
Wesley's current mindset was very complex.
He was still loyal to Fisk, but he recognized even more clearly that Makima was an invincible 'God'.
"As long as he obeys her, Mr. Fisk can survive, and perhaps... gain an even higher status in this New York that is about to change completely."
This was Wesley's philosophy of survival.
"Miss, regarding the current status of the group, there are two important matters to report to you," Wesley said in a respectful and professional tone.
"The first matter concerns the Russian Gang."
"Those brothers have been very restless lately. They not only withheld our goods but also spoke... disrespectfully of Mr. Fisk in public."
Su Modie knew that the current Fisk was still some distance away from becoming the true 'Kingpin'. Right now, he was more like a local snake in New York, a contact and middleman between various gang forces. Although they feared him on the surface, they were not entirely submissive.
"The second matter is the intelligence you specifically instructed us to watch for, regarding Madame Gao."
At the mention of this name, Makima's finger, which had been tapping on the desk, stopped.
Those golden ringed eyes widened slightly, finally showing a hint of interest.
"Continue."
"Madame Gao and that Japanese man named Nobu have been acting very strangely lately."
Wesley flipped a page in the file, which had several blurry surveillance photos attached. "Our informants discovered they seem to be in contact with some people with official backgrounds, something called... S.H.I.E.L.D.?"
Su Modie was stunned.
S.H.I.E.L.D.?
And The Hand?
How did you two get together?
Nick Fury, what the hell are you doing?
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