In the private lounge, gunfire cracked through the air, followed by Hammerhead's agonized screams echoing like a soul being torn apart.
Darren didn't stop until the last bullet in his Desert Eagle clicked empty. Only then did he exhale, lowering the golden weapon with a faint smile. He'd never been the type to remember slights for long—but when he did, he preferred to settle the score on the spot.
Hammerhead's smug, mocking grin from moments earlier was still vivid in his mind. An NPC daring to him? That wasn't bravery. That was suicide.
By now, Hammerhead's legs were a ruin of flesh and holes. Blood had soaked through his pants, spreading dark across the carpet in a grim, blooming stain. The man's breath came in shallow gasps, his eyes rolling back, his mind barely clinging to the edge.
Under the sofa, Wesley had watched the entire massacre unfold. His throat bobbed hard, barely suppressing a whimper.
Too brutal. Too inhuman.
He'd been around the underworld for years, seen killings, torture, bloodbaths—but nothing like this.
One man had singlehandedly wiped out the entire Maggia crew, and even Hammerhead, one of New York's most notorious gang leaders, had been reduced to a plaything.
This wasn't a fight. It was a slaughter.
Wesley had never believed in God before, but tonight, he prayed—to every god he could name—that this demon in human skin wouldn't notice him.
Maybe the gods were merciful.
Darren didn't seem to notice the terrified man cowering in the corner. He grabbed Hammerhead by the ankle and dragged him out like a sack of meat, leaving streaks of blood behind.
Only when the footsteps faded did Wesley realize his heart was still beating.
"Hallelujah…"
He crossed himself, scrambling out from under the couch on shaky hands and knees. Avoiding the bodies, he fumbled for his phone and dialed a number.
"What is it?"
The voice on the other end was low, heavy, commanding.
Wesley swallowed hard. "Mr. Fisk... there's been an incident. The Maggia... they're gone. Hammerhead's been taken."
"Hm?" Kingpin's voice flickered with genuine surprise. "Was it the Demons? The Russians?"
"No, sir. Neither," Wesley stammered. "It was one man. He wiped them all out. Hammerhead didn't stand a chance. Said he was... from the NYPD."
Kingpin paused. "…NYPD?"
Since when did the NYPD get that kind of manpower?
...
Meanwhile, Darren was hauling the unconscious Hammerhead down a shadowed alleyway. The last thing on his mind was the sniveling survivor in the room—no red name tag, no bounty, not worth the effort.
"System, why can't I use fast travel on the map?" he muttered under his breath. Carrying a full-grown man was a pain.
[Fast travel is prohibited when carrying living beings or items exceeding ten kilograms.]
"Got it." Darren glanced down at the limp body. "Guess I'll chop him up and bring ten kilos worth."
...
Before the system could respond, a sharp hiss cut through the night.
Something streaked from above—a short, dark red baton spinning through the air like a striking serpent, aimed straight at Darren's wrist.
Bang!
The Desert Eagle fired almost at the same instant. Darren barely turned, wrist flicking with lazy precision. The bullet struck the baton midair, sparks scattering as the weapon clattered to the ground.
He lifted his gaze toward the source of the attack.
Perched atop a streetlight at the club's entrance stood a lone figure.
The man was cloaked head to toe in a skin-tight crimson suit. A horned mask covered most of his face, save for a stubborn jawline peppered with stubble. Under the amber glow of the lamp, framed by the abyss of darkness, he looked like a demon risen from shadow—a guardian of the night.
Daredevil.
"Hand him over."
The vigilante's voice was low and gravel-edged, pointing toward Hammerhead sprawled unconscious at Darren's feet.
Darren grinned. "You think I just hand him to you? That'd make me look bad."
Daredevil's brow furrowed beneath the mask. "He deserves to face the law, not your brand of street justice."
"Funny," Darren shrugged. "I am the law. NYPD."
"No," Daredevil said, voice hardening. "You're not. A real cop doesn't smell like that. I can smell it—the blood on you."
God closes one door, they say, but opens another.
And Daredevil was the man who'd found that door.
Blind, yes—but blessed, or cursed, with senses beyond imagination. He could hear a heartbeat from across the street, feel the vibration of every breath, and smell the very essence of a person.
And the scent clinging to Darren was suffocating—thick, metallic, ancient. Not the blood of ten or twenty lives. Hundreds, maybe thousands.
"How many people have you killed?"
Darren smiled easily. "Do you remember how many slices of bread you've eaten in your life?"
The answer hit Daredevil like a punch to the gut.
As a devout Catholic, he lived by one sacred rule: never take a life. To him, Darren's casual disregard for life was a blasphemy, a perversion.
"They were human beings!" he shouted, anger crackling through his voice.
"Human?" Darren laughed softly. "They're just data. They don't really die."
He tilted his gun down toward Hammerhead's neck.
"Like this."
Bang!
The Desert Eagle roared again, and the bullet ripped through Hammerhead's throat.
So much for Hammer Head—apparently, his training hadn't reached that far. Blood geysered upward in a brutal arc before his body gave one final twitch and stilled.
Darren sighed, shaking his head with faint disappointment. "Shame. Bringing him in alive would've bumped up the completion rate. But dragging him was such a hassle."
High above, Daredevil stood frozen beneath the dim light, a chill crawling up his spine.
To kill a man simply because it was inconvenient...