"The deepest desires always breed the most extreme hatred."
"Conversely, the most extreme hatred can also give rise to deeper desires. Vladimir is no exception."
Kingpin's massive figure stood by the window, his broad back facing Wesley.
He gazed down at the bustling nightscape of New York, overlooking the city like a king surveying his domain.
In his hand, a glass of red wine swirled gently as he spoke in an even, detached tone.
"Sooner or later, Vladimir's hatred will pull him into the abyss. Our job is simple."
"We wait patiently. There will come a day when he comes crawling to us... and then, there will be no more negotiations."
His voice was calm, yet carried the weight of an unshakable decree.
Wilson Fisk—known secretly as Kingpin—had clawed his way up from the gutters of Hell's Kitchen.
Abused by his father as a child, scarred and hardened by brutality, Fisk's thirst for control had been forged through unimaginable suffering. Every step of his rise was paved with blood and corpses.
Those who once mocked him... no longer existed to tell the tale.
"I understand," Wesley nodded, the lenses of his glasses flashing faintly under the overhead light.
Then his expression shifted slightly.
"However, there's another matter to report—regarding the two attackers at the warehouse."
"The agents we sent after them encountered... some resistance. It seems they have an unusually strong sense of anti-surveillance."
Kingpin tapped his cufflink lightly, a subconscious gesture that betrayed a sliver of irritation.
"Have you confirmed their identities?"
"Partially," Wesley answered.
"One of them is a vigilante who has recently gained notoriety—the one known as the Punisher. He hunts criminals, but there are no official records of his identity. It will take time to track him down."
"As for the other attacker..."
Wesley hesitated, as if unsure how to continue.
A dangerous glint appeared in Kingpin's eyes.
"Speak."
"Our people did manage to get a look at his face," Wesley said reluctantly.
"He appears to be Asian... but the descriptions were inconsistent."
Wesley adjusted his glasses and continued awkwardly:
"Some said he was from a distant eastern country. Some claimed he was Japanese. And... a few swore he was the famous movie star, Jackie Chan."
"..."
For a moment, even Kingpin—the ruler of Hell's Kitchen—was speechless.
Jackie Chan?
A Hollywood actor?
Was the dark web hiring action stars now?
Kingpin's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly before his chair slowly rotated, his massive figure looming larger in the dim light.
"As the employer," he said coldly, "you mean to tell me you don't even know who you hired?"
"The commission was handled through the dark web," Wesley replied with a slight bow.
"All information is encrypted and confidential. The only thing we can confirm is that only one person accepted the commission. The Punisher's appearance was coincidental."
Kingpin tapped the edge of his glass thoughtfully.
"It seems," Kingpin mused, "this mercenary isn't simple at all."
Originally, his plan was straightforward:
Hire an outsider to disrupt the transaction between Vladimir's Russian Ross gang and the drug lord Kaqi, then use the chaos to allow his own hidden forces to assassinate Anatoly and Kaqi.
Everything would be blamed on the outsider. Vladimir would lose power. Kingpin would absorb the spoils without lifting a finger.
It was elegant. Precise.
But now?
The mercenary didn't just disrupt the deal—he single-handedly wiped out everyone, leaving no chance for Kingpin's hidden forces to act.
Even worse, Vladimir's revenge squads failed spectacularly, losing even more men.
"A perfect plan, derailed by a variable," Kingpin said softly, swirling the wine in his glass.
Yes. From the beginning, it had been his idea to commission the hit through the dark web.
That's why the mercenary had found the trading location so easily.
That's why the timing was so convenient.
If all had gone well, Kaqi would die, Vladimir would be weakened, and Kingpin could swoop in to take control of the transportation network—the true prize.
But now?
Now a major flaw had appeared.
The mercenary survived.
And he escaped.
Worse yet, with Vladimir's men dead and suspicions growing, the mercenary could unintentionally expose the entire plot.
For a long moment, Kingpin said nothing, deep in thought.
Finally, he spoke.
"Wesley."
"Sir."
"Tell Vladimir about the Punisher."
Wesley blinked.
"Let him focus his anger on the Punisher. Keep Vladimir busy. If necessary, assist the Punisher in staying alive... just long enough to buy us time."
Kingpin set down his wine glass.
The polished surface of the desk reflected his cold smile.
"As for the mercenary—the one who accepted our commission..."
His voice dropped to a chilling whisper.
"Find him. Then kill him."
[End of Chapter 29]
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