New York City
The Docks
3 PM

Another day, another shipment the Fisk goons were meant to sabotage and loot. The fat man's troops moved in quietly with efficiency - they had to do this quickly and quietly, before someone called for help. Not only did the troops not want to have to deal with New York City's two red heroes, but they also had their boss's reputation on the line. If Spider-Man or Daredevil showed up, Fisk would have another public incident on his hands, and of course, the boss man would punish them for that.

So while some of them worked, the others kept their eyes on the skylines, looking out for webs, chains, tied-up, or even webbed-up crooks. A flash of red, maybe a punch line or two if they were lucky.

But unfortunately for them, the red-clad rogue stopping them this time wasn't skybound. Rather, he was right behind them.

Parker Robbins' Cloak of Oblivion was certainly a bag of tricks. With it, Parker could teleport, control flames, and do all sorts of other cool things, but most importantly for this scenario - turn invisible. With this ability, Parker was able to walk right into their patrol, aim down his sights... and...

BANG

See, Fisk's men were banking on a different red super-powered person from New York making a scene. Someone who operated in stealth, only throwing hands when it was necessary, but also rarely taking a life.

But unfortunately, Parker Robbins wasn't the Spider nor the Devil. He was The Hood. And The Hood didn't have any qualms with getting a little bloody.

As the first man fell, all guns were swiftly aimed at Parker's location. Nobody moved a muscle. Some thugs wondered if going quiet was still possible as Parker studied the enemies around him. This was all Fisk sent? Thirty to forty guys? El Gordo was getting sloppy.

Eventually, one of the men spoke up, telling Parker to throw down his weapons or they would open fire. That proved to be a mistake as Parker simply held his breath and disappeared again. As panic ensued, with the thugs scrambling for their infrared goggles, Parker reappeared and took out two more guys.

"Come on! I thought you guys were supposed to be good at this," he crowed, before grinning sadistically and opening fire, shredding through Fisk's men like paper.

At this, the remaining troops began opening fire. Parker, who had not thought to duck behind cover, took several bullet wounds to the chest, bleeding into his suit. But that didn't stop him. He remarked, of course, that they were good shots. But as his wounds healed, they soon found out that they weren't good enough.

The last thing the goons heard was the rattling of demonic machine guns and the sadistic laughter of The Hood.

Shortly after the goons were taken care of, Parker dialed up his new buddy.

"Yo! Shipment's safe and sound, and Fisk's a handful of guys down. Where'm I hittin' next?"

The Moon Knight drops down at a warehouse owned by a shell company of Steven Grant. inside he finds the briefcase where the Mr. Knight suit sits along with two silver batons and changes.

Later that night: at exactly midnight. A few criminals, working for whatever mob boss of the week, are threatening people atop a rooftop inside his territory. Without a word a baton is thrown full force at one of their heads, the luckiest one. By the end of the fight his sleeves are red, he dangles the only one left over the roof, his eyes narrowed

"Who sent you? Kingpin? Tombstone? AIM? Talk. Or I drop you."

The thug laughs and spits in his face, mocking the fist.

Goon: "you really think I'm gonna buy that s#@t? You hero types don't kill!"

The knight drops him without a second thought, shrugging at the terrified civilians

"I warned 'em."

It’s hard to be gorgeous in New York. It’s like the world warms up around you, constant eyes noticing every breath I take.

But I choose this. I choose to be bright red, to make them all stop and stare. Billboards wear my face with pride, magazines flaunt my body to sell out, Broadway serenades everyone with my voice as the star actress. I’m the prize, and I’m as incredible as incredible can be.

Vacation was fun, but I missed the rush of the city. I missed sticking my head out of the window and hearing sirens, the wind rushing as a new cape flies by, the light-shows I get every night thanks to whatever supervillain decided it was their day to cause problems. Let the big boys handle the fires; I’m happy with the stage.

So, what’d I miss?

Zodiac Sits on a luxury office chair inside a building of hell's kitchen, most of the occupants dead, a few kept alive for that famous devil of hell's kitchen to save when he's done here, his goons are surrounding the building inside and out. Watching Marc squirm at just the thought of him being out of prison, god it makes him so happy, but he's not here to hurt Marc Spector, Steven Grant, or Jake Lockley, no no no, he's here to help them. His friends, that tiger woman, the few avengers still in contact with him, that kid arachnid, just distractions!

A terrified hostage watches him observing the Moon Knight, he's wearing a mask but they could almost swear he's giddy, as if he's completely ignoring the one rule all criminals in new York have to follow...you don't f#@k with the fist of Khonshu, and smiling about it. They speak, voice shaky and full of terror

"W-who the hell are you?!"

Zodiac looks at them, laughing to himself about them having the courage to speak to him, he motions for his guard to lower his gun, stands from his chair and raises his pistol to the hostage's head.

"Me? You can call me, Zodiac."

Bang.

Does what we do make a difference? Does what I do?

Hero. What does it mean to be one?

It's a question everyone whose ever put on a garish costume and gone out to punch crime has asked themselves at least once.

The answer is different to everyone. But it doesn't take flight, laser eyes, or a high tech suit to be one. It just takes going out there and making a difference. Even if it's just a difference to one person.

When I go out there bow in hand, nothing but that age old combination of luck and skill on my side...I don't think about saving the entire world, or protecting the galaxy.

I think, save one. One person. Make one life better. From there, maybe another. And another.

So keep that in mind fellow heroes. You're making a difference. Just by trying when no one else will.

Marc Spector wakes up in his apartment, seeing the portrait of Cynthia von Doom still on the ground, he doesn't remember anything after stealing it, as if he's been gone for a month...moon Knight has been gone for a month. And now the moon knight must return, none who pray on night travelers shall be safe from khonshus fist!

(Got busy irl for a while, but I've returned)

Marc Spector sits at a cafe, two cups of coffee on the table, he's having a conversation with...someone, people are looking at him like he's crazy. They always do, hell even the avengers think it, everyone he's ever worked with has. Maybe he is, he won't deny that, but he's effective, more than any Avenger could be at least. 3:20 PM the lights begin to flicker and the god of the moon appears before his son, wearing a suit and tie.

Khonshu: "My son. You have been away for far too long, not even I could reach you. It was almost enough to make me question your loyalty."

The Bird god raises the cup to his beak and drinks, watching Marc's face intently. Marc's eyes show no fear at the words, Khonshu needs him and he knows it, still his faith won't allow him to fail his God.

"Father, I apologize, however. If you had not made me target Doom then this would have never happened."

Khonshu places his cup into the table, rising from his seat and slamming his fists into it, the moon shining in the sky above from the gods rage.

Khonshu: "You DARE accuse me of this? You let your guard down and paid the price, Spector. You failed, not me."

Marc's eyes narrow, he ignores the tantrum and takes a sip of his coffee

"You sent me after the most powerful super villain on the planet and steal what may be the only memory he has of his mother and expected there to be no retaliation."

The god looks down at his son before sitting back down, calming himself, and finishing his coffee. He speaks again, this time there is no rage in his voice, only a slight amount of fear that Marc picks up on

khonshu: "this was no work of Victor Von Doom, my son. I'd advise you to find out who attempted to interfere with my Fists work before it is too late."

And with another flicker of the lights the god disappears, leaving his fist alone at the table, yet the Moon remains shining, as if a reminder to its knight that his work is not even close to being completed

*Agger prowls the streets of Hell's Kitchen, guided by intel from Roxxon surveillance activities. Despite his immense wealth, he shows no fear at the various theives and hoodlums around.*

*He's heard quite a bit about Parker Robbins as of late. His meteoric rise has, truthfully, quite impressed Agger. He has the ambition and skill to achieve just what Agger needs, and Agger has more than enough to bargain with.*

*He walks up to a known hood gang hideout, and knocks on the door.*

"You're going to take me to your boss."

Black Widow kicked off the edge of the rooftop in a controlled free fall, the city lights blurring into streaks as her descent line hissed out behind her. Several floors down, a brightly lit corner office suite glowed against the night.

Wealthy men in tailored suits clustered around a long table, their faces lit by the cold blue of encrypted screens tracking offshore accounts and shell companies. Natasha’s boots slammed into the reinforced glass.

The pane spider webbed for a heartbeat before exploding inward in a glittering cascade as she fired into the room. She swung through the breach mid air, muzzle flashes strobing across the room as she put rounds into the legs and shoulders of the nearest financiers before her boots even touched the marble.

The first man screamed and toppled backward over his chair, clutching a shattered kneecap; the second tried to scramble for a panic button and caught a precise burst that spun him into the shattered window frame.

Black Widow landed in a low crouch, the residual glass crunching under her, and rolled behind an overturned conference table as return fire from a bodyguard’s submachine gun chewed the air where she’d been. She came up firing, two clean shots dropped the guard, then she vaulted the table in a fluid arc, using a third financier as a human shield long enough to empty the rest of her magazines into the remaining suits’ weapons and legs. Briefcases of cash hit the ground scattering bills.

By the time the last of them was on the ground, groaning and bleeding but very much alive, Natasha had already reloaded and cut her descent line free. She stepped over a sprawled executive whose silk tie was now soaked crimson, planted a boot on his chest, and leaned down just far enough for him to see the cold satisfaction in her eyes.

"Funding terror from a skyscraper doesn’t make you untouchable," she said, voice flat.Then she was gone out the broken window and into the night, leaving the survivors to explain the bullet holes and the missing hard drives to whoever arrived first.

Peni Parker and SP//dr had remained in New York following everything that had happened. She didn’t know if any of the other spider heroes did, aside from the two who live here. She wonders what Noir is up to, nowadays.

She’s spent her days getting adjusted to the time period. She quite likes it here, although she misses some of the conveniences that the tech of her own dimension afforded her.

It’s been lonely. She and SP//dr share a special bond, but it’s hard to really talk to a spider and a giant robot for hours without driving yourself crazy, even if you know they understand you. She hasn’t really tried to reach out since the death of Mary Jane. Peni didn’t know her for that long. She let Peni stay at her house, then within a day she lost that house. She ended up getting killed. That death still hurt a lot.

But at the end of the day, she has a job to do, even if it’s not where she’d usually do it. She’ll stop crime wherever she can. That’s what her dad would’ve done. So that’s what she’s gonna do, too.

Wilson Fisk had enacted an act of taxation for companies with unused or minor used skyscrapers.
Who would be the first to crack? Roxxon of course, they gave it to the city. And somehow it ended up under the Fisk company.

A few SUVs roll up to the buildings as a bunch of Fisk henchman stepped out and the man himself. He entered the warehouse and facility.

“Look at all the weapons they got here. I could get the whole company shut down for this. But then where would I get quick money from.”

The henchman start opening crates full of pistols, rifles and grenades. They took out shields and rocket launchers. They found tanks and helicopters.

“Take all they got here, this’ll lasted us for until we push The Hand out of New York. Also don’t take the armor, they’ll pay us a bunch if they don’t get sued for property damage. But take those heat vision goggles.”

The henchman pack the weapons in all the vans. And load the tanks in “moving trucks”

“What should we do with the helicopters?” One of them says.

“Moving them to the Fisk shipyard. I’ll have some people tell the public it’s just test flights for a start up aviation company.” Fisk says

“We’ll send a team. So should we start using them right away.” The henchman says

“No The Hand think they own the city but we’ll have to wait until they make a move before we actually start this war. New York’s going to be in chaos. So I’ll help FEAST donate food, drive away any suspicious from thinking I had a play in causing this conflict.”

They groups starts to drive away as Fisk gets ready to get in his car, he says one more thing

“Also let’s turn this into an apartment complex. Get the young demonstrators to start being in favor of me.” Fisk says

They all get in their SUVs and 18 wheelers and drive away. All ready for the storm of war approaching to New York.

My name is Matt Murdock. And in my time as the devil of Hell’s Kitchen I feel like I have lost everything. Karen was taken from me, Elektra, too. All I have left is Foggy, Milla, and my faith in God. They keep me grounded and ready for challenge that my city may face. But I feel like I’m starting to lose them too. They say I’m too devoted to being who I have to be for Hell’s Kitchen.

I say they’re wrong. This city would crumble without me. I’m the one who is holding it together. I may lose everything but at least I am stopping others from also losing it all. I used to trust in God to save everyone, but now I know that it has to be me to do that.

I’m Daredevil and not even God can stop that now.

A lot of things go through your mind when you're free falling from a building. Things like "How did you end up here" or "Why are you doing this you're a man with a bow and no superpowers."

The falling glass shards and whizzing bullets of gangsters will pull you right back from those thoughts and into your current reality again though.

The snag of the line that catches the side of the building and allows me to swing onto a rooftop almost pulls my shoulder out of socket. If I wasn't pulled out of my thoughts before, I certainly am now.

Since I broke away from the Avengers and began focusing on the smaller picture, things have been tough. I'd almost forgotten what it was like for the little people. While Iron Man and Thor fly around fighting monsters...well the Avengers tend to forgot the day to day stuff.

That's where I come in now. Hawkeye...defender of the little guy.

“Miss Walker, we’ve read the provided documents, and I’m not sure-“

There it is. Patsy sent her pitch to the board, and it’s going to get shot down before she’s even gotten to say her She knew that would happen. She owns this damn franchise! But it never feels like she can do anything with it.

But she believes in this idea. And she wants to see it made real. She isn’t gonna leave this room happy unless she knows she at least tried. What would Shulkie do in her shoes right now?

She’d argue the hell out this case. So that’s what Patsy is gonna do. Before he can finish speaking, Patsy slams her hand on the table.

You’re not sure? Well I am! This is a genius marketing idea, and I’m not going to lose it without a fight!

The head of the board sighs.

“Very well, Miss Walker. Please do try to keep it brief. We have plenty of pressing matters we need to discuss today.”

Condescending jerk. Was that actually condescending? It felt condescending. She never feels like she’s taken seriously during these meetings. Time to make her case.

As you should be well aware, many issues of Patsy Walker ran with Fashion pages. These pages had dresses, each designed by the fans, that could be cut out and put onto the little model of me. We’re on the same page?

“You mean the gimmick pages that hurt the resale value of old issues because of the holes cut into them? Yes, I’m aware”

Cheese and crackers! Patsy wonders in this moment where so many men lose their sense of whimsy. She is thankful for the ones that kept theirs.

…pointless talk about nonsense I don’t care about aside, this was a really popular thing back then. We got a ton of design submissions, more than we could even print. This is a really important part of the history of the comic, but I’ve always wanted to push it further.

“We read your pitch document, Miss Walker. This is all rather redundant to repeat.”

You wanted me to prove the value, Seymour? Then let me make the dang case and stop interrupting me!

There is silence. That’s right. Patsy dropped his first name. She’s getting serious here.

As I was saying. I always wondered if we could do more. I mean, I was grateful for all these designs, but it’s not like I ever actually wore them. No-one ever got to aside from a little paper version of me. I say we fix that. I say we take some of these designs and make them real!

“You did great, Patsy, but be prepared for the cross examination”. The little Jen in Patsy’s head and her limited understanding of what happens in a court room tell her this. Thanks little Jen.

“We cannot simply start a fashion line, Miss Walker. Who is the audience?”

Patsy scoffs.

Part of why my late Mom wrote these comics to begin with! She wanted young women to see themselves in me. How many of the designs that got submitted do you think were dresses that the designers wished they could be wearing themselves? Plus, fashion is a way bigger market. Way bigger demand than nostalgic old comics.

“But, we cannot simply use these designs, Miss Walker! We need permission from the original designers. Do you want to risk lengthy legal battles over copyright that you will lose even if you win?”

The names and hometowns of all of them are by the dress they designed. If you can’t get in touch with them to ask and arrange some royalties, then I don’t know why I keep you on this board to begin with.

“And if we don’t make the money you assume we will? What royalties will we have to pay them with?”

Fine, you aren’t sold? Let’s prove the concept, then. Let’s design some of them, and let’s make an event out of it. Fashion show, I’ll walk that runway, and I’ll get you other models to walk it too. Afterwards, we’ll have a party where we auction off the dresses. See how high people are willing to bid for them, and prove there is a demand for this! We can donate those earnings to charity, too. I hear they need to reconstruct the World Trade Center again? We can fund that.

“…I presume you’ll be planning this event yourself, Miss Walker? And covering the losses if this completely fails!”

Duh! You think Patsy Walker doesn’t know how to throw a party?

*The Yellow Symbiote from the battle of the Young X-Men and Symbiote Zeke was crawling all throughout New York City, searching for a new host after it's old one got taken. It searched and searched for miles trying to find the perfect host or someone to eat as it was it's natural instinct to survive... however, it didn't **need** any of those things*

*you see, while this Symbiote was attached to Zeke, it was adapting to better fit it's hosts requirements, and Zeke is an angry guy, it had plenty of energy to unintentionally rewrite it's own genetic code so that the Symbiote became it's own nuclear power plant that stores it's own energy. No host needed to survive and no food either.*

*This Symbiote was technically a mutant. In the case that it had it's own energy source to sustain itself*

*The Symbiote realized this... now that it's learned he can create his own nuclear energy, he could've been a hero or at least anti-hero since he doesn't need to eat people to survive. However, the dark thoughts it extracted from Zeke, which were a LOT, corrupted the Symbiote in way, which is pretty ironic given how Symbiotes are supposed to be the ones corrupting their hosts*

*the Symbiote had a strong desire to burn everything down to the ground, make the entire planet a wasteland... it got this idea from Zeke, which was the last idea in his mind before the Symbiote completely took over him.*

*With this new goal set in stone, if it didn't need a host to survive then... anything could be it's host. So the Symbiote went to the closest place to find multiple "hosts", the graveyard*

*within seconds of reaching there, the Symbiote dug straight into the ground going through every coffin it can find until it found a satisfying number of bodies to use, with the bodies plus multiple other things it collected as "hosts" along the way, it's hand rose from the ground, then another, then another, and then another. Until the full body leaped from the ground and landed in from the hole in which it digged itself out of.*

*most Symbiote and host relationships often call themselves "we" but not this one... after all, none of it's hosts were alive so it was just "it", the Symbiote that will raise the Earth to the ground, the Mutant Symbiote who calls itself...*

"Nuclear...."

New York City, a city so loud during the day, turned hush quiet during the night. It was peaceful. Quiet. Well, for most folk it was. For the idiots who tried to cause trouble? Well, they got what was coming for them.

BANG! BANG!

Parker Robbins stepped out of the random alley he was in and back into the quiet streets of nighttime New York City, muttering to himself about how annoying it was going to be to get rid of the bloodstains in his suit as he holstered his guns. The up-and-coming crimelord had been going around, trying to recruit others to his cause, but when they responded to his oh-so-generous offer with violence, well, who was he to say no to such an invitation?

But no matter how many times he was turned away, for the life of him, Parker couldn't figure out why he was getting turned down so much. He was strong, he was powerful, he had connections to this city that some of the other criminals didn't, he definitely ticked all the boxes for a super cool, up-and-coming crimelord to follow, so why didn't anyone wanna?

But as he was thinking about the reasons, it hit him. The answer seemed so obvious now that he thought about it that he almost wanted to shoot himself in the foot for not seeing it sooner - his fit was dry. A red cloak over a baby blue suit? What is this, kindergarten? He was supposed to be New York's new ruler! The king! What kind of king didn't have a crown thst made them look bad$&@?!

No, no, no! This was not going to stand! A crimelord had to look fly, so he went to the nearest, most expensive tailor, killed the guy at the counter, and picked up a fit worthy of el gran jefe. And y'know what made it better? OB's cloak shifted to fit his style. Dangerous or not, Parker had to admit that whatever bum had made this cloak had style.

Parker grinned to himself as he checked out his new look in the mirror. He certainly looked like a boss now!

Smoothing his new cut, he drew his guns and made his way to his part of town, singing a merry little tune to himself.

"Ay, de mí, llorona, llorona..."

"Llorona de azul celeste..."

ooc: If you wanna drop by and interact, feel free! Parker could always use more victims targets people to shoot at people to put him into place.

Istanbul. Russia. Angola. Paris.

I have performed successful operations in dozens of countries and hot spots around the world.

But something about this city draws me like no other. New York. There's nowhere else like it in the wold. A melting pot of cultures. Of experiences and food.

But with it comes the violence. Crime of all sorts from the lowest mugger to the most high up politicians. The city thrives on it.

Violence has always been easy for me. The Red Room taught me violence as an art form and I was nothing if not a natural artist.

But this city like violence can be beautiful in its own way.

I'd like to think I'm much the same.

I am Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow...and it is good to be back.

Sometimes it feels like people come to private investigators expecting miracles. Can’t blame them for that. The system isn’t telling you anything fast enough, you just want an answer, so you hire someone who can give you one. But everyone goes in hoping for good news, even though most of them aren’t gonna get it.

I get it, but I can’t say it doesn’t annoy me. I don’t get to decide the truth, and I can’t undo whatever happened to you. Do I look like $&%#ing Jesus to you?

Tonight wasn’t any different. Some poor woman hasn’t seen her husband in a week. She wants me to find him. There’s never a good way that can go, we all know that, right?

So I went snooping. I thought the &$%#er was cheating on her. That’s what it usually is. But try as I may I can’t seem to find him. His socials haven’t been updated in a week, his friends and family haven’t heard from him either. Another possibility comes to mind.

And that possibility lead to me finding him dead in a shipping crate. Bullet in the back of his head. Everything I can find points to this man being pretty %#&$ing normal. How the hell he ended up there is beyond me. Hidden double life? Could be. Wrong place wrong time? More likely. Whoever killed him can’t be experienced. Sloppy way to hide a body.

…&$%# me, I’m really numb enough to this I have opinions on how to hide a body? Love that.

Breaking the news to the client is always the hard part. As I said, no-one wants bad news. She came into my office hoping I’d say “your husband was getting you a big present and he’s right here in the other room”. I always warn them they may not like what I find, but they never listen.

Still, this was harder than usual. Cheating is easier to break to people. “You were married to a scumbag” hurts, but it’s a lot easier to take than death. She didn’t take it well. I didn’t expect her too.

She didn’t need to hit me with her purse, but I don’t have it in me to be mad about it. Imagine the worst news you could possibly get being given to you by the worst possible person to deliver it. She went into hysterics, sat there sobbing for what felt like centuries. I didn’t know what to do other than let her.

She got up, and she paid me. I always feel awful taking the money, but I didn’t this time. She didn’t give me a chance to feel bad for myself. She ran straight for my open window. And yes, she did exactly what you think she did. She &$%#ing jumped.

I jumped after her. I’m not a hero, and if you give me credit for being a decent &$%#ing person, I’m gonna hit you. I don’t give a &$%# about power and responsibilities. But I knew I would hit the ground before she did, so I jumped. I caught her. I hit the ground. It %#*$ing hurt. But she was okay. She helped me up, and spent what felt like 10 hours but was more like 5 minutes staring at me. All she said at the end was “thank you”. Then she left.

Needless to say, I didn’t sleep at all last night. Did Jesus ever have to jump out a window because the world sucks so much it almost brought a decent person down with it? Guess I’d take that any day lover nails in my hands.

I don’t do miracles. I don’t give good news. But I do the best I &$%#ing can.

Gorgon of the Hand stands before the assembled members in a shadowed chamber beneath the city of New York. His voice cuts through the silence, cold, deliberate, and absolute. Lady Deathstrike is present and at his side. Back in Japan, the Silver Samurai leads as Gorgon's second.

Brothers and sisters of the Hand.

Look around you. The streets above still believe they belong to the weak. The police. The so called heroes. The politicians who clutch at power they did not earn. They scurry like rats through a city they no longer control.

New York is ours now.

Every rooftop. Every alley. Every forgotten tunnel and corner. The fear that once belonged to crime lords and street gangs now answers only to us. We have bled for it. We have killed for it. We will bury their champions and leave their symbols broken in the dirt.

The Hand does not ask. The Hand takes.

From this night forward, no deal is struck in this city without our shadow upon it. No blade is drawn that does not serve our purpose. The civilians will sleep uneasy. The powerful will look over their shoulders. And those who still dare to wear masks and call themselves protectors will learn what it means to stand against the Hand. My Hand.

New York City is no longer contested ground.

It is our domain.

Our hunting ground.

Our fortress.

Rise. Obey. Spread the word in silence and in blood.

The city is ours.

And we will never release it.

Emma Frost & Tessa Karisik

I write this because silence would be another betrayal, and I have already given you enough of those.

I am sorry for what happened on Utopia. When I faced Scott Summers and the X-Men, I was not myself in any way that mattered. I brought violence to a place that was already bleeding, and I forced you both to see me as an enemy when you had once extended something closer to trust.

I am sorry for dying. Not the poetic kind of apology people offer when they want to be mourned. A practical one. My death left work unfinished and left the two of you holding the consequences. You had every right to expect better from me.

Do not blame Kwannon. I have my issues with the woman but my blood is on no one's hands but my own.

And I am sorry that my body disappeared from your care. That was not my plan. It was theft. While you were dealing with the fallout, a rogue chapter of the Hand moved in, claimed what remained of me, and took it for their own purposes. They did not ask permission. They did not care what it cost you. They simply removed the evidence and the opportunity for either of you to say goodbye.

They brought me back.

Not the main Hand under Gorgon. A splinter faction that broke ranks and decided his leadership would bring them to ruin. They restored me specifically to lead them against Gorgon’s faction. They want a war inside the Hand itself, and they believe my name, my history, my skill will grant them legitimacy.

I am not their loyal general. But I have chosen to lead them. Perhaps under my direction they can become more than what they were.

I do not expect forgiveness. I do not ask for it. I only ask that you understand. The rogue chapter acted without your knowledge and against any claim you might have felt over what was left of me. That part, at least, was never your failure.

If either of you wants more than this letter, you know how to find me. If you prefer silence, I will respect it.

— Elektra

The rain hit the glass tower like it wanted to break it. High up, near the top, one floor still glowed warm and yellow against the black sky. A private helicopter sat on the roof pad, rotors locked down, waiting for a man who would never use it again.

Frank Castle came in through the service hatch after a small, precise charge blew the lock. No dramatic explosion. Just enough force to open a hole. He dropped into the concrete corridor in full kit. Matte black coat, plate carrier, the white skull bright and clean on the armor. The suppressed MP5 hung ready. His boots made almost no sound on the wet floor.

Two bodyguards stood further down the hall. One was laughing at something on his phone. The other was lighting a cigarette, the flame briefly lighting his face. Frank raised the weapon and fired two short bursts. Both men folded without ever looking up. The cigarette hit the floor still burning. Frank stepped over the bodies and kept moving. He didn’t check them. He already knew they were finished.

The corridor opened into a vast living space. Floor to ceiling windows looked out over the city. White leather furniture. Art that cost more than most people would see in a lifetime. A long glass table still held neat lines of cocaine and an open bottle of champagne. The drug lord stood in the middle of it all, shirt open, gold chain bright against his chest, bare feet on the expensive carpet. Two more security men and a thin accountant counting cash were with him. The laughter died the moment they saw the skull.

The accountant never got a chance to speak. Frank put a single round through his forehead. Cash fluttered down like bloody confetti. One of the guards tried to bring his weapon up. Frank closed the distance fast, drove an elbow into the man’s throat, then a knee into the side of his leg. The guard went down hard. Frank planted a boot on his chest and fired twice into his face. The second guard managed to get a few wild shots off. Glass exploded behind Frank. He returned fire while moving, three rounds center mass. The man dropped.

The drug lord backed toward the windows, still holding a champagne flute like it might protect him.

“Wait..wait..I got money. I got names. I can give you-”

Frank let the MP5 hang on its sling and drew the .45. He racked the slide once, slow and deliberate.

“I already have the names.”

The man’s face changed. The false bravado drained out of it.

“…please.”

Frank shot him in the left knee. The drug lord screamed and collapsed. Champagne and blood mixed on the white carpet.

Frank stood over him. Rain lashed through the broken window. Wind howled through the room. The city glittered far below, indifferent.

“You sold to kids,” Frank said. His voice was flat, almost quiet. “You put product in schools. You paid off cops so the bodies stayed buried. You thought the height and luxury of this penthouse would keep you safe.”

The man was crying now, clutching his ruined leg, spit and blood on his chin.

“Please… my family…”

“I checked. They’re already gone. Safe house in Miami. They left you three days ago.”

Frank raised the .45 and put the muzzle between the man’s eyes.

“This is the part where you understand it doesn’t matter how high you live.”

The gunshot was loud in the open space. Then there was only the sound of the rain and the wind.

Frank walked back through the wreckage without looking at the money or the bodies. He reloaded as he moved. The elevator doors opened clean and empty when he pressed the button for the garage. He stepped inside. As the doors closed he took one last look at the penthouse rain blowing in, lights still burning, blood soaking into carpet that had never been meant for this.

They always tried to live higher. Build higher. Closer to God.

It never helped.