The crisp January air bit at Alex's face as he stood on the helipad of the newly christened K.A.N.E. Headquarters, a needle of glass and steel in Midtown. Below, the city was a grid of light and shadow, a kingdom he was building piece by piece.
A small, satisfied smile played on his lips. He'd acquired the prime real estate months ago, long before Tony had even broken ground on the new Stark Tower. The thought of getting a jump on Tony and finally putting an end to his endless bragging about Pepper's architectural input was a small but definite win.
Strategy cascaded in the back of his mind—resources, politics, contingencies. Power wasn't only strength; it was preparation on a grand scale—and the crown that came with it felt heavier than the wind on this roof.
His comm-link chimed. Richard's voice came in clipped, urgent bursts. "Alex, we've got an armored truck heist on the Williamsburg Bridge. Heavy weapons. The scanner's calling it an active war zone. NYPD is requesting Knight support under the new charter. They're waiting on us."
A thin smile tugged at Alex's mouth—less satisfaction, more resolve. A warzone was the perfect testing ground—not for him, but for his newest investment.
"Scramble a response team. Standard protocol," he said. "And Richard… inform our new public relations associate that his suit is ready. It's time for a field test."
He let the smile fade as the VTOLs lifted from lower pads. Every choice bred consequences; every symbol invited challengers. The crown pressed down, and he made himself taller beneath it.
While chaos stirred in the city below, preparations were being made above. And all the while, the city waited to see who would answer.
---
Matt Murdock stood in the armory deep within K.A.N.E. HQ, a chamber of polished chrome and soft blue glow. The suit on the stand before him was nothing like the black rags he'd once worn: a deep, blood-red interlaced with darker metallic mesh. The sleek cowl-style helmet was made of the same material, its form-fitting design leaving the lower half of his face exposed. It featured two tapered horns, short and subtle, that curved upward from the brow. The eyeholes were covered by a dark, tinted material that looked opaque to the naked eye but would likely be a technological marvel.
A technician gestured to the display. "Polymer-weave with an impact-dispersing mesh. Resists small-arms fire and blades. The cowl houses multi-band comms and an environmental filter. Billy clubs: your design, upgraded—taser function, magnetic retrieval."
Matt's fingertips traced the fabric. He felt the dense, layered energy and the hairline currents humming through the suit's lattice. "It's not black," he said, surprised at the warmth in his voice.
Alex spoke from the doorway. "You don't like red?"
Matt's lips tilted. "I love it. My father always wore red. Said the crowd couldn't see him bleed."
Alex nodded, a look of understanding on his face. "Well, I had a hunch you'd like it. And black... black reminds me of someone else. A guy with a surprisingly similar conviction to never kill."
Matt's head tilted in curiosity. "There's another vigilante like me out there?"
"Well, I wouldn't really say he is out there," Alex said cryptically. "As for him being like you, he has a very strong conviction to never kill. But he had a disturbing fondness for bats."
Matt tilted his head, filing that away.
Alex handed him a small black band. "The faceplate is for them—a symbol. This is for you. It dampens the 'visual noise' you talked about. Helps you focus on what matters."
Matt slipped the band on and drew the cowl over his head. The city's electrical hurricane softened into a clean, layered map—signals in harmony rather than a cluster of voices. A voice, crisp and familiar, came through the comms.
"Comm check. This is Control, do you read?" Richard's voice asked.
Matt took a breath, letting the moment sink in. "Loud and clear," he answered, his voice modulated into a low growl.
Alex's voice, steady and calm, chimed in. "The name is a bit of a placeholder, but I've been thinking about the press. They'll want something to call you. A symbol needs a name." Alex paused for a beat. "I was thinking... Daredevil."
Matt felt a jolt. He thought of his father's old boxing nickname, "Battlin' Jack" Murdock, and the impossible odds he'd faced. He thought of the quiet whispers on the street, the stories of a "devil" of Hell's Kitchen. The name felt right. It felt like a promise.
He thought of Alex's advice—stop hiding what you are and make them name it. He would. He rebranded himself not as a cautionary whisper, but as a warning bell. From this night on, he was Daredevil—to the underworld, simply the Devil.
Alex's voice followed, steady. "Your public awaits."
---
Minutes later, the VTOL cut a silent line over the East River.
Chaos reigned on the Williamsburg Bridge. Two shot-up NYPD cruisers blocked the eastbound lanes; an armored truck sat with its doors blown open. Six mercenaries in tactical gear had formed a tight, disciplined kill box, pinning a dozen officers with military-grade fire. Radios screamed. Brass danced across asphalt. The cops, pinned down, waited desperately for backup that might not arrive in time.
A Knights VTOL hovered in, side door yawning to reveal a Knight from Sentinels in standard grey-blue armor—a deliberate distraction.
They never saw the red shape unspool from the VTOL's belly, drop to the suspension cable, and ripple forward like a vein of color in a gray sky.
Matt moved. A billy club snapped a rifle aside; an elbow shattered a jaw. He flowed through the firing arcs, reading air pressure shifts, the telling click of triggers, and the skin-prickle of muzzle capacitors. The suit drank the shock of near misses, dispersing force with a faint hum only he could feel.
He planted a club, fired the grapnel, and slingshotted—pivoting around a pole to clothesline one merc and kick off into a roll. The club ricocheted twice before cracking another rifle's charging handle clean off. A flick sent the line snaking; two men went down tied together, pulled off balance like marionettes.
The largest mercenary racked a shotgun. Matt felt the charge and didn't dodge. He focused. Blue energy spidered across the suit's mesh for a heartbeat. The blast hit him full in the chest.
Cops flinched, waiting to see if he would fall.
The shock dispersed, and Matt stumbled a step, breath driven out—but intact. He surged forward, heel-kicked the shotgun into the East River, and dropped the man with a short, savage combination.
From the VTOL, Alex watched on a grid of feeds—thermals, telemetry, and public sentiment graphs ticking upward in real time.
'Ninety-three seconds to containment,' he noted, almost clinically.
The suit worked. The serum worked. More importantly, the symbol worked—live, on half the city's screens. And the city waited, breath held, to see what this new Devil would do next.
Within a minute and a half, all six mercenaries were down, weapons kicked aside, wrists cinched. Officers swept in, torn between relief and disbelief.
A news helicopter dropped lower, the lens swallowing the red figure standing amid the wreckage. He didn't speak. He fired a grappling line and swung off the bridge into the maze of New York, leaving only the whir of rotors and the crackle of radios behind him.
---
Back in the command center, headlines blinked into being: CRIMSON PROTECTOR TAMES BRIDGE SIEGE. The carefully seeded narrative took root on cue.
Richard approached, tablet in hand. "Commissioner's over the moon. We've got a dozen new sponsorship inquiries already."
"Good. Package what we can use and keep the rest at arm's length," Alex said, eyes on the feeds. A symbol bought you leverage—but it also bought you eyes. And waiting eyes were always the most dangerous.
Elias stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, eyes scanning the monitors. As head of intelligence collection, he was already processing patterns and anomalies in the feeds. Richard reported the intercepted encrypted burst. "There's more. We intercepted a weak, encrypted burst right before deployment. Originated from a merc's radio, but it wasn't meant for them. The handshake looks… familiar."
Alex turned to Elias. "Origin?" he asked.
"Shell company dead-end," Elias replied, tapping a few keys on his terminal. "But the encryption pattern matches what we pulled from the Ten Rings months ago. And the signal seemed timed to our appearance—like it was waiting to see if a non-police encrypted actor would show up."
The small victory lost its warmth. Not hollow—useful. A message had been sent, and messages always had readers. Obadiah Stane was gone, but the network that fed him had learned to breathe without him. Someone had just tapped the glass to watch the new fish move.
Alex addressed Elias directly. "Increase cyber monitoring. Full-spectrum pull on all Ten Rings–adjacent chatter. Prioritize real-time intelligence collection through the Nexus. This wasn't an ending. It was an introduction. They've been waiting, watching, and now they know."
He looked one last time at the looping video of the red figure arcing off the bridge. The crown weighed more tonight. He adjusted it and went back to work.
{A/n: I've been swamped with work and was in a mood-off lately. The updates have slowed down considerably. Just visit the patreon for more chapters. For next week I will update 3 chapters together on this sunday here. After that, the next sunday. If more chapters are needed, consider cheering me up with a ko-fi. ko-fi.com/chaoswriter01. Enjoy. }