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Hell's Kitchen, St. Maria Park.
*Whoosh!* *Flutter!* *Flutter!*
A cloud of pigeons burst into the air, wings beating loudly as they circled above the plaza before settling again. At the center of it all stood Alexandra, dressed in a flowing robe that made her look like nothing more than a leisurely tourist enjoying the afternoon. Every so often, she scattered a few crumbs onto the ground, her movements slow, deliberate, and calm.
On the surface, she appeared perfectly at ease.
But that illusion fell apart the moment one looked a little closer. St. Maria Park should have been packed with people, locals, joggers, tourists, and street performers. Instead, it was eerily empty. No laughter. No footsteps. No noise beyond the flutter of wings.
Alexandra's people had cleared the area long before she arrived.
Once upon a time, such precautions would have been unnecessary. The Hand's Five Fingers had been legends, an ancient organization stretching back centuries, supported by near-immortal monsters who ruled the shadows. Their name alone inspired fear. No one dared challenge them openly.
But that was the past.
Now, catastrophe had arrived without warning. In less than two months, four of the Five Fingers had been erased from existence. Only Alexandra remained, and even she was living on borrowed time. Her body was failing. Without access to dragon bones, her death was inevitable, regardless of enemies or assassins.
With everything stacked against her, carelessness was no longer an option. Wherever she went, elite ninjas moved silently around her, guarding every angle.
"Master," a trusted aide said urgently as he hurried to her side, lowering his voice. "It's time to leave. Something unexpected has happened."
Alexandra didn't even look up from the pigeons. "Fisk," she asked calmly, "or Stick?"
In recent weeks, the balance of power in Hell's Kitchen had shifted violently. The Chaste, once hunted to near extinction by the Hand, had risen again. Under Stick's leadership, the remnants of the order had regrouped and launched a relentless counterattack.
With Stick and Elektra at the forefront, both wielding terrifying supernatural abilities, the Hand had suffered repeated losses. At the same time, Madame Gao's earlier failures had finally come back to haunt them. Wilson Fisk had entered the fray as well, unleashing his own forces and enhanced operatives to crush Alexandra from another direction.
Between the two, Fisk was the greater threat. His resources, influence, and army of empowered individuals made him a nightmare to deal with. That Alexandra had survived being hunted by both men was nothing short of miraculous.
"It's Stick," the aide replied grimly. "He's worse than the rumors. No one can stop him. We have to evacuate now!"
Alexandra didn't hesitate. She rose smoothly and allowed her guards to surround her, retreating at once.
"Hurry, Master," the aide urged as they reached a waiting car. He pulled the door open.
Alexandra stepped inside without a word.
*Bang!*
The door shut firmly behind her. She leaned back slightly and spoke in a calm, measured tone. "Drive."
"Why the rush, Alexandra?" The voice didn't belong to her driver.
The man in the front seat turned around, flashing her a grin far too relaxed for the situation.
In that instant, Alexandra understood everything. "Stick… Stick," she continued lightly. "You really are full of surprises."
The driver was one of Stick's people. Yet she didn't scream. She didn't reach for a weapon. Instead, she slowly closed her eyes and released a long, weary sigh.
Stick had always been an old enemy of the Hand, a persistent thorn in their side, but Alexandra had never truly regarded him as a serious threat. To her, he'd always been a nuisance at best, a relic clinging to a lost cause.
And now, that very man stood at the end of her road.
The irony was bitter. She had fallen into the hands of someone she once dismissed entirely.
"Ahhh!"
Sudden screams and strangled groans erupted from outside the car, sharp and violent, cutting through the air. Metal clanged. Bodies hit the ground. Then, just as quickly as it had begun, the noise died away, leaving behind an unsettling silence.
The car door was wrenched open.
Stick stood there, unmoving, his presence instantly filling the space. Beside him was Elektra, her expression cold and unreadable. Behind them lay the aftermath, a group of The Hands' ninjas, nearly all of them drenched in blood, the evidence of a brutal clash written across their bodies and weapons.
Stick, in particular, was a terrifying sight. Fresh blood dripped steadily from the blade of his sword, pattering softly against the pavement. The vividness of it all made the scene feel unreal, like a nightmare that refused to fade.
"Hello, Alexandra," Stick said at last, his voice calm but laced with icy cruelty. "We finally meet again."
He tilted his head slightly, a grim smile tugging at his lips.
"Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for this moment?"
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Home of the Devil Fruit
"Shopkeeper!"
Rosh, who had been lazily scrolling through short-form videos behind the counter, paused when a new message popped up on his screen. The sender was Tony Stark.
Although Tony hadn't joined the public group chat, the two of them had exchanged contact information a long time ago to stay in direct contact. For someone like Tony Stark, that alone said a lot.
"There's something I think you should know," Tony wrote. "I don't believe I was wrong to do it, but I feel it's better to give you a heads-up first."
That instantly caught Rosh's attention. Tony Stark wasn't usually this cautious or roundabout. If he was choosing his words so carefully, then whatever this was clearly mattered.
"Stark," Rosh typed back without hesitation, "just say it. Don't dance around the point."
A moment later, Tony replied. "Alright. Long story short, I told a good friend of mine about the Devil Fruits. And that friend… has a bit of a special identity."
Rosh raised an eyebrow, already forming a guess. "Rhodes?"
There was a long pause.
Tony Stark: "..."
"…How did you know?" Tony finally shot back, his tension practically bleeding through the text. For a split second, a paranoid thought crossed his mind. 'Did the Shopkeeper investigate me? Why did it feel like the Shopkeeper always knew what he was about to do before he even did it?'
Then Tony forced himself to calm down. Thinking back, this wasn't exactly new. The Shopkeeper had known the exact location of the cave where he'd been imprisoned, something that had eluded the CIA, the FBI, and every intelligence agency under the sun entirely.
There was only one reasonable conclusion.
The Shopkeeper wasn't someone who could be measured by normal standards.
"Relax, Stark," Rosh replied casually. "I'm running an open business. I'm not afraid of people knowing about it, even if it's the military."
Reading that, Tony finally released a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Understood, Shopkeeper."
Then, more seriously, he added, "Rhodey will probably come looking for me in a few days. When he does, I won't hide anything from him."
Back when he'd been flying, Tony had only given Rhodey a vague explanation. The situation had been chaotic, and that clearly hadn't been the right time or place to explain Devil Fruits properly.
"That's fine," Rosh replied calmly.
Just as he finished talking to Tony, the soft chime of the wind bell above the shop door rang out.
Rosh looked up and saw a bald, heavyset man stepped inside, his posture confident and his presence oppressive, like he owned every room he entered. His sharp eyes scanned the shop with calculated interest.
Rosh's lips curved slightly. He knew this man, he knew this man very well.
Obadiah Stane, also known as The Iron Monger.
Judging by the look in his eyes, this wasn't a casual visit. It seemed the Iron Monger had come for the same reason as everyone else lately, to buy a Devil Fruit.
Rosh leaned back behind the counter, his interest fully piqued.
''Now this is going to be interesting.''
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Next Chapter: The Iron Monger's Chosen Power
Next Next Chapter: A Power That Preys on Other Powers
Next Next Next Chapter: Swallowing Steel
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