Wilson Fisk, known as Kingpin, tossed his cigar aside and glared at his subordinate. "Don't screw this up."
Kingpin, the underworld emperor of New York City, had set his sights on Jack. As a rising Chinese-American writer with considerable wealth, Jack was an easy target.
To Kingpin, Jack's fortune was ripe for the taking. Why bother with complicated schemes when you could exploit someone like him? In his eyes, a Chinese-American was barely worth considering a person.
After a brief report from his subordinate, Kingpin had devised a plan. Every detail was calculated, every contingency covered. It was foolproof.
Or so he thought.
Meanwhile, in a nearby coffee shop, Hela sipped her coffee, her brow furrowing. She sensed a shift in the air—a familiar, malicious intent. As the Goddess of Slaughter, she knew this feeling well.
It was the same malice that had once led to her imprisonment. Someone was targeting her.
Not wanting to expose her identity—or drag Jack into danger—she pulled out the phone he'd given her and texted, "I'm heading back. Something came up."
Jack, still en route to the meeting, was surprised but replied quickly, "Got it. Be safe."
Hela left the coffee shop swiftly.
Jack, meanwhile, reached the office. Before he even knocked, his senses—heightened by the Superman template—picked up on something wrong. Malice. Thick, unmistakable malice.
The door opened, revealing two men in black. Jack's expression shifted. These weren't bodyguards. They were trouble.
Inside, his supposed partner was nowhere to be found. Instead, a middle-aged stranger sat at the desk.
"Hello, Mr. Lane. I'm Kenzie," the man said, introducing himself before Jack could ask.
Jack eyed him warily. "And you are?"
"No need to know who I am," Kenzie said, leaning back lazily in his chair. "Just know that the adaptation rights to all your works now belong to me. For free."
His words sealed his fate.
Jack slowly removed his glasses, his calm demeanor giving way to cold determination. "If you're looking for trouble, let's get started."
Before anyone could react, Jack moved. A single punch sent the nearest man in black crashing across the room.
Kenzie's smug expression faltered. "You're challenging me?" he snarled, signaling his men.
Weapons were drawn, barrels aimed at Jack. But he didn't flinch.
To Kenzie's shock, Jack was unnervingly calm—too calm for someone surrounded by armed thugs.
Crash!
Glass shattered as another figure burst through the window—a vigilante dressed in black, distinct from Kingpin's men.
"I know your plan! Let him—" the newcomer began, but Jack was already in motion.
His speed was blinding, his strength overwhelming. In less than ten seconds, every thug in the room was down, unconscious or groaning.
Jack stood untouched, as if he hadn't moved at all.
He approached Kenzie, his voice low and deadly. "This doesn't happen again."
Then he turned to the vigilante. "Night Devil, I presume. I know who you are. Tell your people to leave me alone."
His words carried a quiet, murderous edge.
Kenzie and Night Devil froze, realizing the man before them was no ordinary writer.
Jack walked out, leaving Night Devil to clean up the mess. The vigilante knew what he had to do.