In the next second, the originally cold and hard expressions on their faces melted at a speed visible to the naked eye.
In its place was a look of fawning even more exaggerated than that of the thugs, as if they were seeing the true Master of this building.
"Yes... yes! You are right! We were so rude!" One security guard actually slapped himself across the face, then immediately bent over, running ahead to lead the way with a face full of smiles: "Welcome to the Fisk Group! Distinguished lady! Please forgive our stupidity!"
The other security guard, as if competing for favor, rushed to the elevator entrance and pressed the button frantically, fearing he might be a second late.
"The elevator is this way! Please! Please step inside!"
A green light all the way.
No conflict, no bloodshed.
Everyone in the lobby, including the receptionist at the front desk, joined this "welcoming party" without exception the moment they came into contact with Makima's gaze.
Ding.
The elevator doors opened.
Makima stepped inside and turned elegantly to face the lobby.
The elevator doors slowly closed, shutting out those eerie faces filled with adoration and worship.
Watching this scene, Su Modie couldn't help but shudder.
It was no wonder Makima viewed human life as completely expendable.
Accompanied by the soothing classical music in the elevator... the top floor, the Chairman's office.
This was the place with the best view in all of Hells Kitchen; through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, one could overlook the lights of thousands of homes in this fallen city.
The atmosphere in the office was not murderous; instead, it exuded an elegant business ambiance.
"Regarding the redevelopment plan for the West Side Docks, the union side has been handled," Wesley said, pushing the gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose as he handed a document to the man behind the desk. "That union leader was stubborn, but after we showed him photos of his granddaughter leaving school, he became much more reasonable."
"Well done, Wesley."
Wilson Fisk, who would become the underworld emperor Kingpin years later, was sitting behind that massive mahogany desk.
His physique was like a massive mountain of flesh, but his behavior was the exact opposite of his giant frame; he was elegantly holding a knife and fork that were far too miniature for his thick fingers, leisurely enjoying a medium-rare steak.
Kingpin
"This city needs order, and we are the maintainers of that order."
Knock, knock, knock.
Suddenly, a soft and rhythmic knocking interrupted the conversation between Master and servant.
Wesley frowned.
No appointment, and security hadn't reported anything.
Who was so ignorant of the rules?
"Come in."
Fisk said in a deep voice. It was clear he wasn't happy about his dinner being interrupted, and he simultaneously gave Wesley a look.
Wesley understood and discreetly reached for the silenced pistol in his coat.
The door opened.
The person who walked in was neither a fully armed assassin nor a panicked subordinate.
Rather, it was a young woman wearing a black Public Safety trench coat with her red hair in a braid.
She looked like a big sister from next door who had wandered into the wrong room, walking in with a gentle smile and a leisurely pace.
"Good evening, Mr. Fisk," Makima smiled, as if visiting an old friend.
The knife and fork in Fisk's hands stopped.
He didn't fly into a rage, nor did he panic.
As the future underground emperor of this city, he possessed shrewdness and composure beyond ordinary imagination.
He slowly raised his head, his eyes hidden in the shadows like an enraged brown bear as he stared at Makima: "Who are you? I don't recall inviting a lady to dine with me."
As his voice fell.
Wesley, as his deputy, tacitly helped Kingpin translate his somewhat decent words into something more easily understood by outsiders.
"Lady, I'll give you three seconds to explain your purpose, or..."
Makima clearly saw Wesley's hidden pistol, but she ignored him and continued to address Fisk.
"I've heard some say that every rat in Hells Kitchen listens to you. Is that so?"
"I don't quite like that."
She feigned a look of distress, lightly pressing a finger against her thin lips.
Then, those golden ringed eyes looked at Kingpin, her tone gentle but carrying a bone-chilling coldness.
"Whether it's dogs or rats, they should only listen to their Master."
Fisk was slightly stunned.
He looked at Makima, his brain taking half a second to process what rats were, what dogs were, and what a Master was.
A surge of humiliated rage immediately welled up in his heart.
However, Fisk didn't slam the table and rise; instead, he stood up slowly, elegantly undoing a button on his suit cuff.
Suppressing his anger, his voice was as low as muffled thunder: "Do you mean... you want my territory?"
Makima maintained that hair-raising, inhuman smile, neither confirming nor denying.
In fact, Kingpin had guessed wrong.
"I have never liked being rough with beautiful ladies, but you... seem to be speaking a bit too boastfully."
Fisk, who had been called a "dog," had worked hard to restrain himself until now.
Clearly, he was beginning to lose control of his naturally violent emotions: "Whose person are you? What is your purpose?"
Wesley also sneered and stepped aside, but he didn't draw his gun immediately.
In his view, an unarmed woman daring to break into a dragon's den or tiger's lair alone was simply a joke.
"Lady, you might not know what kind of place you've walked into. This is..."
However.
The disdainful smile on Wesley's face froze after only half a second.
Wait.
This was too strange.
The fact that "an unarmed woman dared to break into a dragon's den or tiger's lair alone" was suspicious in itself.
There was no way she didn't know where this was; it was obvious she knew Mr. Fisk very well, as if she had come prepared.
And what about the security downstairs?
It had been quiet since a moment ago. Why hadn't any alarms gone off?
Add to that the indifferent smile on her face, as if she were looking at monkeys in a zoo... and those terrifying eyes... why were there so many rings?
Were those colored contacts? Or... no, no, no... there was definitely something wrong!
A strong sense of crisis, originating from biological instinct, instantly exploded.
Everything was too bizarre!
"Mr. Fisk! Don't go over there!!"
Wesley suddenly shouted, while simultaneously drawing his gun in a flash to aim at Makima's unchanging smile.
But it was too late... Fisk charged over like an out-of-control tank, while Makima merely tilted her head, not retreating a single step.
Just as Fisk's massive hand, capable of crushing a skull, was about to touch her.
Makima moved.
Or rather, in Fisk's retinas, she seemed to vanish for an instant.
Whoosh.
There were no wasted movements, just an extremely slight sidestep.
Fisk's grapple, carrying a terrifying gale, actually brushed past Makima's fluttering black trench coat, not even touching the hem!
"What?!"
Fisk's pupils shrank violently.
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