[Hell's Kitchen, Manhattan]
In the scarred heart of New York, amidst the grime and the sirens, a new storefront opened its doors.
[Constantine Consulting]
The sign was modest, but the real estate was not. The owner had purchased the building outright, a move that confused the locals. In Hell's Kitchen, businesses didn't buy; they rented and prayed they wouldn't be burned down for insurance money.
The agency offered exorcisms, private investigations, and "specialized intelligence."
To the residents of the Kitchen, these services were a joke. Here, human hearts were far more terrifying than any demon. If you had a problem, you bought a gun. You didn't need evidence; you needed a caliber.
Naturally, the local gangs took notice. A wealthy shop owner with a British accent moving into their territory? It was like a gazelle walking into a lion's den.
One by one, the enforcers went in to collect "protection fees."
None of them came out with the money.
In fact, most didn't come out at all for a few hours. When they finally stumbled onto the street, they were pale, shaking, and babbling about things that shouldn't exist.
The final straw came when John Constantine paid a personal visit to the local Kingpin's lieutenant. He didn't use violence. He simply introduced the man to a very minor, very hungry denizen of the Abyss.
After that, the gangs learned a hard lesson: They weren't locked in the neighborhood with the Detective. The Detective was locked in there with them.
Peace—or a terrifying version of it—descended upon the storefront.
[Inside the Agency - Late Night]
John Constantine sat with his boots up on the desk, a glass of cheap whiskey in one hand and a Silk Cut cigarette in the other.
He was bored.
The money from Tony Stark and S.H.I.E.L.D. was enough to keep him in booze and cigarettes for a decade. He didn't need clients. He was just waiting. As the multiverse cracked open, he knew Coulson or Stark would come crawling back eventually.
John glanced at the clock. It was past midnight. He stood up, downed the whiskey, and grabbed his trench coat. Time to see if the local bars had any company worth keeping.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The rhythmic rap on the glass door stopped him.
John sighed, unlocking the latch.
Standing under the flickering streetlight was a man in a dark red, armored suit. Horns rose from his cowl.
"You're late," John drawled, leaning against the doorframe.
The man stood statue-still. "You know me? Detective?"
"It's my job to know things, mate. Besides," John gestured to the street. "Anyone with half a brain checks the landlord before moving into the neighborhood. Hello, Daredevil."
John lied smoothly. He hadn't researched Daredevil. He'd just picked up whispers from the terrified gang members he'd interrogated. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen.
"Come in," John stepped back. "Unless you prefer brooding in the rain."
Daredevil stepped inside. He moved with the silent grace of a predator. He didn't look around the room; he listened to it.
"You just moved into this neighborhood," Daredevil said, his voice a low gravel. "And you've already turned the status quo upside down."
"I like to keep things tidy."
"You've made a calm place chaotic," Daredevil warned. "If I were you, I'd pack up and leave."
John let out a dry chuckle. He walked back to his desk and poured another drink.
"Heroes..." John muttered. "You're all so territorial. Like cats pissing on fences."
"Do you have something to say?" Matt asked, tilting his head.
"I'm saying you're naive," John took a sip. "You think because the gangs are quiet, the city is safe? Crime doesn't disappear, Red. If the cockroaches stop scurrying when you turn on the lights, it doesn't mean they're gone."
John's eyes glinted in the dim light.
"It means they're in the walls. Plotting."
Matt frowned behind his mask. The unease in his gut spiked. His partner, Foggy, had mentioned how quiet the streets had been lately. He had taken it as a win. But this stranger was suggesting it was the calm before a storm.
"What do you know?" Matt stepped forward, his muscles tightening. "What did you do?"
"That'll be one hundred thousand dollars."
Matt froze. "What?"
"Consulting fee," John said casually. "The sign is on the door."
John paused, snapping his fingers.
"Ah. Sorry. I forgot. You're blind."
The air in the room vanished.
Matt's heart rate didn't jump—he controlled it instantly—but his body shifted into a combat stance. His hand dropped to the billy club at his hip.
"You know?" Matt's voice was dangerously quiet.
"I'm a detective," John shrugged. "And a part-time intelligence dealer. Knowing things is the gig."
"So," John extended a hand. "One hundred thousand. Cash or check?"
Matt didn't reach for his wallet. He gripped his billy club.
"You know my identity?"
Matt wasn't talking about the Devil suit. He was talking about the man beneath it. If this stranger knew who he was, everyone he loved—Foggy, Karen—was in danger.
"Which identity are we talking about?" John asked, feigning ignorance.
He took a drag of his cigarette, exhaling smoke toward the vigilante.
"Matt Murdock, Attorney at Law?"
Snap.
In a blur of motion, Matt crossed the room. He slammed John against the wall, the billy club pressed hard against the Brit's throat.
"Speak!" Matt growled, his face inches from John's. "Who are you?! What is your purpose in Hell's Kitchen?!"
John didn't struggle. He didn't even drop his cigarette. He just looked down at the weapon pressing into his windpipe.
"Hey now," John wheezed, a smirk playing on his lips. "Calm down, counselor."
"I didn't know heroes threatened unarmed civilians."
"You are no ordinary person," Matt hissed.
"True," John admitted. "But you're still squeezing too hard."
Matt didn't let go. "Where did you get that information? Who talked?"
"If you'd listened to my sales pitch," John rasped, "you'd know I'm the best detective in the city."
"And frankly, Mr. Murdock... your secrets aren't as hard to gather as you think."
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