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Chapter 39: The Kane Group
Everything happening at the Fisk Global building was unfolding in a very public arena. With the cause of the previous night's explosion officially pinned on Wilson Fisk, a wave of public outrage had begun to crest. Protestors gathered, brandishing hastily made signs, ready to march on the corporate citadel.
But as they neared the building, they witnessed a strange exodus. Directors of Fisk Global were emerging in a hurry, faces pale, some practically fleeing to waiting cars. One was even escorted out in handcuffs by NYPD officers.
The scene gave the protestors pause. Even with a scandal this big, the NYPD's response seemed unnervingly swift and precise, especially for targeting a board member. It didn't add up.
The chanting faltered, replaced by confused murmuring.
Among the crowd, a young reporter and his cynical cameraman were also observing. "I think we might have a bigger story here," the reporter whispered, sensing the shift.
The cameraman just scoffed, adjusting his lens. "Sure. And if it was really big, they wouldn't have sentĀ us. If it weren't for the explosion, the biggest news this year would still be whatever's happening with super-soldiers in Europe." He was right. In a world with superpowers, corporate drama often played second fiddle.
The reporter sighed but kept his eyes on the building. Suddenly, a flurry of activity: staff rushed out, setting up a makeshift podium and microphone stand with practiced efficiency. Security personnel formed a cordon.
"Looks like they're facing the music," the reporter said, perking up. "Let's do our job."
He pushed forward through the crowd, stopping at the security barrier. It was all very official, very controlled. Too controlled for a company in freefall.
"Wow. He actually looks... decent," a woman beside him murmured, her earlier protest sign now lowered.
The reporter glanced at her, then back at the podium. He had to agree. The man who stepped up to the microphone wasn't a greasy PR flack or a nervous lawyer. He was young, impeccably dressed, and carried an air of calm authority that immediately quieted the restless crowd.
Bruce Wayne looked out over the sea of faces, a mix of anger, curiosity, and confusion. He didn't smile.
"It seems everyone is rightfully concerned about the actions of Fisk Global," he began, his voice clear and carrying a note of shared anger. "How could they not be, after what its chairman did last night? An appalling act."
His words were like gasoline on the dying embers of the protest. Signs shot back into the air.
"That's right!"
"Fisk should fry!"
"He's a monster!"
The young reporter watched, baffled. Was this spokesmanĀ tryingĀ to burn his own company down?
"However," Bruce continued, raising a hand, not for silence, but as a point of transition, "that chapter is now closed. This doesĀ notĀ mean we shy away from accountability. For the wrongs done, even by one man acting alone, there must be restitution."
He paused, letting the anticipation build. "Therefore, effective immediately, Fisk Global will cease to exist under that name."
The crowd stilled. The signs wavered.
"From this moment forward," Bruce announced, his voice firm and final, "this company will be known as theĀ Kane Group."
He let the new name hang in the air for a beat.
"The Kane Group will resume all viable operations. Furthermore, we will establish a dedicated foundation to oversee compensation and rebuilding efforts related to the Brooklyn incident. Our focus will be on healing, not hiding."
With that, he turned from the podium, his statement apparently concluded.
"Wait!" The young reporter found his voice, shouting over the murmuring crowd. "Who will lead the Kane Group? Why isn't the new owner here to explain this? Or is Wilson Fisk still the power behind it all?"
It was a bold, aggressive question. The security guards tensed.
Bruce stopped. He turned back, not to the crowd, but directly to the reporter. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.
"Am I not?" he asked, the question simple, delivered with absolute certainty.
Then he was gone, disappearing back into the building, leaving behind a stunned silence that quickly erupted into a new kind of buzz.
The young reporter's mind raced. The man wasĀ his age, maybe younger. And he now controlled what was left of a multi-billion dollar empire? It was a different kind of shock than the Stark brothers taking over their family business. This was an outsider, a complete unknown, seizing control from the ashes.
But the reporter's shock was quickly being replaced by a thrilling, electric excitement. HeĀ couldn'tĀ get an interview with Captain America or the Fantastic Four. But this... this was a different kind of story. A story of sudden, mysterious corporate takeover. A story that happened to coincide with the appearance of a certain bat-shaped weapon at the scene of a crime lord's arrest.
He looked up at his cameraman, his earlier cynicism gone, eyes wide with the spark of a groundbreaking idea.
"We..." he said, his voice low and charged with possibility. "We might have a bombshell. Not about super-soldiers. About a different kind of hero."
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