Daniel waited until both Director George Stacy and Lydia Hardy had left the study. Then, quietly, without drawing attention, he slipped out as well—though not before giving the room one last, thorough sweep.
Nothing in the space screamed "incriminating" or even "valuable." No damning ledgers, no secret tech, not even hidden compartments. But there was something else—something less obvious. Knowledge. And power.
The study, while sparse in overt secrets, confirmed what Daniel had begun to suspect: the Hardy family wasn't just wealthy—they were armed. Not metaphorically. Literally.
They had a private militia.
In New York, that wasn't unheard of. Old money families often funneled cash into private security firms—mercenaries in suits—but the Hardys weren't playing at security theater. Their personnel were trained, coordinated, and clearly ready for war.
Even Kingpin himself, wouldn't walk into a fight with them lightly. He might win, eventually. But he'd leave a trail of blood and hundreds of bodies behind. That wasn't his style.
Which only deepened Daniel's curiosity.
What was so important about the Hardy family that Kingpin was willing to risk it all? What secret made them worth drawing this much heat? Especially now, with the name "Captain America" echoing through the background?
That old photograph—Captain America standing beside a young Paul Asham Hardy—was more than just history. If a random civilian had hung it on their wall, it would've been nostalgia. But in the hands of a high-powered legacy family with deep international ties?
That photo was a threat.
Daniel had noticed the change in Director Stacy's expression when he saw it. Not fear. Not even awe. Something more subtle—anxiety.
Stacy was no rookie. As Chief of Manhattan's 67th Precinct, he was intimately familiar with the power players of the city, both legal and otherwise. He knew which families to leave alone, which alliances to respect, and most of all, which names not to speak above a whisper.
The Hardy family had just made their status very clear.
But there was something else gnawing at the back of Daniel's mind. Something Stacy had probably realized, too.
Captain America—Steve Rogers—wasn't just history. He was alive.
After being pulled from the ice, Rogers had briefly vanished from public life, reappearing only to clash with S.H.I.E.L.D., then disappearing again. Rumors swirled: that he was in hiding or that he was rogue or that he was dead.
But the NYPD knew better than to trust rumors.
Daniel could see it in Stacy's face—he was connecting dots. And Daniel was right behind him.
If Kingpin knew Captain America was alive, and believed the Hardy family had ties to him… maybe this wasn't just about old alliances. Maybe this was about drawing Steve Rogers out.
Because there was one thing more valuable than Steve Rogers' life—his blood.
The original Super Soldier Serum had been lost to time. Destroyed. Buried in myth. But if anyone had access to its formula—or a sample—then they could replicate Rogers' power. Mass produce it. Create an army.
And in the right—or wrong—hands, that was world-changing.
Daniel was still following that thread when he returned to his modest clinic, settling in for the night. His apartment was still being renovated, so he bounced between the clinic and the dorms at Imperial University. It wasn't ideal, but it worked.
Before bed, he checked in on the situation at Imperial University. As expected, the internet was already swarming with news. Video footage, eyewitness accounts, and early speculation—all centered on one name:
Spider-Man.
Peter Parker had been busy.
Daniel skimmed the breakdown. Alistair Smythe had sent one of his robotic "Spider-Slayers" to assassinate Flash Thompson—an obvious bait tactic. But the real game was deeper.
The first Slayer flushed Norman Osborn out of hiding.
Then a second attacked. Spider-Man neutralized both.
Just when it looked like the threat was over, a third Spider-Slayer emerged. This one was smarter, deadlier—ambushing Peter right after he rescued Osborn. If he hadn't reacted in time, the explosion would've turned him into web-patterned confetti.
But that wasn't even the twist.
The three damaged Spider-Slayers—mere machines, easily dismissed—suddenly merged, fusing into a towering monstrosity. A super-Slayer, with triple the firepower.
Daniel read on. Peter had barely survived. In a last-ditch move, he used Alistair's own high-yield explosives to destroy the amalgamated robot. The battle ended in fire and twisted metal.
But Daniel saw the pattern. Smythe wasn't just trying to kill Peter. He was probing. Testing Spider-Man's limits. Looking for weaknesses.
And that meant Kingpin was playing more than one game.
Tonight had been a disaster for him.
Bullseye had failed. The hit on the Hardy estate had backfired spectacularly. The university incident had dragged Kingpin's name into the light. And now his own allies were calling, furious that their reputations—and their children—were caught in the crossfire.
Some of those children taught or studied at Imperial University. Others were donors. Everyone had skin in the game. And they weren't happy.
The Hardy family, meanwhile, was preparing to strike back—politically, legally, and financially. NYPD and City Hall were mobilizing. Kingpin had to act fast.
And yet…
In the shadows of his fortified skyscraper, Wilson Fisk—the man the world called Kingpin—was not shouting or panicking. He was thinking.
Bullseye was gone. Too exposed.
Time to move in someone else.
"Call Elektra," Fisk said quietly.
A few minutes later, the elevator doors slid open. Elektra strode in like she owned the place.
Red hair. Black leather jacket. Tall boots. Gum chewing. Massive silver hoop earrings.
In the gloom of Fisk's office—reinforced so well it could take a missile—she barely slowed.
"You called, boss?"
Fisk didn't turn to face her. "You heard about Bullseye."
Erica rolled her eyes. "He's slipping. Getting too cocky."
Everyone in Fisk's circle knew she and Bullseye hated each other. They'd nearly killed each other more than once.
Fisk exhaled slowly. "Maybe. But I suspect outside interference. Bullseye's good, but someone knew he was coming. He's leaving the country. For now, you're taking over the Hardy operation."
Elektra blinked. Bullseye… exiled?
She didn't question it. Just nodded. "Understood."
Fisk turned slightly.
"The fallout from tonight is bad. Cops are under pressure. Our people are exposed. We're pulling back our assets. Let the police mop up the low-level muscle. You'll need to work clean. Quiet."
Elektra's eyes narrowed. "So we're going dark."
"For now."
Fisk tossed her something—a sleek black envelope. She caught it midair.
"A reception. German embassy. Night after tomorrow. Lydia Hardy will be there."
He leaned back into the dark.
"She lived in Germany for years. Has ties with high-ranking officials. If the embassy starts whispering about 'American instability,' Washington will come knocking. Not good for the city. Not good for us. But…"
He smiled faintly.
"Not all bad either."
Elektra flipped the envelope open, scanning the invite. "Will Felicia Hardy be with her?"
Fisk chuckled. "Probably. Good instinct."
Elektra showed no reaction. "If that's all, I'll start prepping."
She turned, already calculating next steps. But Fisk called out once more.
"Leave the University alone unless absolutely necessary. And if you do act, be quick. Be clean."
Elektra's lips twitched. "Understood."
She vanished down the stairs, the cold steel echoing beneath her boots.
Outside, the night wind howled across the rooftops. Elektra paused, smirking.
Kingpin was feeling the pressure.
A family like the Hardys didn't scare easy. They had money, power, legacy—and now, momentum. Bullseye's failure had flipped the board. The retaliation would come fast and hard.
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