The meeting with Sky bled into a nervous energy I couldn't shake, a low hum in the back of my skull. I needed to talk to Gwen. Not over a scroll, not in text. Face to face. So I headed straight to the diner down the block from Obsidian Works—the one with the perpetually sticky floors, the smell of fryer grease embedded in the vinyl booths, and the bottomless, tar-thick coffee Gwen loved for reasons I'd never fully understand. Maybe it was nostalgia. Maybe it was the fact they never bothered us.
It was the tail-end of the lunch rush, the air thick with the sizzle of the grill and the clatter of plates. The old jukebox in the corner was battling it out with a tinny Elvis song against the chatter. I spotted her already in our usual booth in the back, tucked into the corner by the window that looked out onto the brick wall of the next building. She was still in her Midtown High hoodie, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy, practical ponytail, a few stray strands framing her face. She had a textbook open but wasn't reading it; she was just staring out at the brick, tapping a pen against the Formica table. She had that post-lecture look—a little distant, intellectually elsewhere, but it softened into a real, warm smile when she saw me weaving through the tables.
That smile. It always did something to my chest, a specific kind of unraveling. I slid into the booth across from her, dropping my backpack with a heavy thud that made the salt and pepper shakers jump.
I grabbed the laminated menu, more for something to do with my hands than any need to read it.
peter: How was patrol last night? You texted me after two AM—everything cool? No new holes in the suit I gotta patch?
Gwen closed her textbook with a soft snap. She leaned forward, folding her arms on the table, her blue eyes sharpening, losing their academic haze. That was my Gwen. Could switch from calculus to combat logistics in a heartbeat.
gwen: Yeah. Mostly. It was… quiet. Too quiet, honestly. Which is why I was up on that roof near the old rail yard, trying that weird breathing thing you sent me. The inner flame stuff. It was actually starting to feel… I don't know. Real. Like a warm battery in my gut.
She paused, her gaze flicking past me, over my shoulder, as if checking the room. A habit.
gwen: And then someone showed up.
My fingers tightened on the menu's edge. The casual tone didn't match the tension in her shoulders.
peter: Showed up? Who? Not one of Hammerhead's stragglers?
gwen: No. Not like that. He just… appeared. Out of the shadows. Dressed head-to-toe in red leather. Horns on the mask. Looks like a devil walked out of a church warning. Has 'DD' stitched right here.
She tapped a spot over her own heart.
peter: Daredevil. The Hell's Kitchen guy. The one they say is blind.
gwen: That's the one. I was ready to web him to the water tower. Had my shooters up and everything. But he didn't move. Just held up his hands, all calm. Said he meant no harm. Introduced himself—vigilante from the Kitchen. Said he'd been trying to find Vector first, but…
She gave me a look, a mix of annoyance and admiration.
gwen: But you're apparently 'hard to track.' His words.
peter: Interesting.
The word came out flat, automatic. My mind was already clicking through implications. Daredevil didn't do social calls. If he was crossing the river into Queens, it was because a problem had spilled over.
gwen: 'Interesting'? That's your take? A guy dressed like Satan's lawyer pops up on my meditation rooftop and your analysis is 'interesting'?
peter: Okay, poor word choice. Alarming. Concerning. Go on. He didn't just come to critique your chi form. What did he want?
She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a murmur that blended with the diner's background noise.
gwen: He said we played a huge part in taking down Hammerhead. That the data leak, the Widows… word got around. And that we'd created a power vacuum. He said Wilson Fisk is moving to fill it.
I set the menu down slowly. The plastic laminate made a soft click against the table.
peter: The Kingpin. Of course he is. Hammerhead's empire was the only thing keeping Fisk out of half the boroughs. What's the play? Straight occupation?
gwen: Drugs, trafficking, the whole grim catalogue. He's already making moves on the warehouses near the docks. But it's not just real estate, Pete. Daredevil said… he said Fisk is hiring special help. To get rid of us. 'Loose ends.'
A cold knot formed in my stomach. I kept my face neutral, for her sake.
peter: What kind of help? Mercs? More Widows?
gwen: Mutants.
She said the word like it was a foreign object in her mouth. Her eyes were wide, not with fear, but with the sheer, daunting scale of it. We'd dealt with enhanced individuals, tech-based villains, organized crime. But 'mutant' came with its own baggage, its own tier of power sets that broke the conventional rules.
peter: Mutants. Okay. That's… a step up.
gwen: A step up? It's a damn escalator to the penthouse. He said Fisk contacted a specific one. Emma Frost. Some telepath who can also turn her skin into diamond. Calls herself the White Queen, runs with something called the Hellfire Club. The deal is she helps 'remove' us—his word—and she gets a cut of the new territory.
I let out a low, slow whistle, leaning back against the cracked vinyl of the booth. The jukebox song ended, leaving a sudden bubble of relative quiet at our table.
peter: So we've officially upgraded from mob enforcers to psychic diamond socialites. What's next, aliens?
gwen: Don't. Don't even joke. This isn't funny. This is… this is a different league. Daredevil seemed legit, he was calm, detailed… but it freaks me out. What if they come at us like the Widows did, but instead of taser nets, they just… turn my brain off? Or make me shoot you?
I reached across the table. Her hands were resting beside her coffee mug. I covered one with mine, feeling the coolness of her skin. I gave it a gentle squeeze.
peter: Could be?
It was a weak attempt to lighten it, a dumb reflex. Her look—a flash of real hurt and frustration—shut it down instantly.
gwen: Not. Helping.
peter: Sorry. You're right. Bad joke.
I didn't let go of her hand. I rubbed my thumb over her knuckles, feeling the subtle calluses from her web-shooters.
peter: Look, you're right to be freaked. It's a new kind of threat. But 'different league' goes both ways. We're not the same as we were when the Widows came after us either, right? You've got the manual. You're cultivating. I've been… upgrading.
She searched my face, her anxiety slowly being edged out by a fierce, focused curiosity.
gwen: So what's the move? Do we trust him? Daredevil?
peter: We can trust him. His reputation is solid. He's a lone wolf, but he's ethical. Sticks to the shadows, protects his people, and he only goes after the real rot. If he's reaching out, forming some kind of… bridge… it's because he sees the same storm cloud we do, and it's big enough to cover both our cities.
She watched me for a long moment, then gave a single, slow nod. Some of the tension seeped from her shoulders.
gwen: Okay.
peter: Just like that? No pushback? No 'are you sure, Peter, maybe he's playing us'?
gwen: You said we can trust him. You've got your own reasons, your own sources. I believe you. But that doesn't make the rest of it less terrifying. Telepaths, Peter. People who can get inside your head. How do you fight that?
I kept hold of her hand, my voice dropping, forcing a calm I was working hard to feel.
peter: We don't need to worry—not yet. It'll be weeks, maybe more, before they make a real move. Fisk is methodical. He doesn't rush. He builds scaffolding, tests weight loads. He won't pull the trigger until every piece is in place, especially with a volatile asset like Frost.
Gwen pulled her hand back gently, crossing her arms over her chest. A defensive posture.
gwen: And how can you be so sure? You sound like you've got a timetable. You been hacking his calendar too?
I leaned in closer, the smell of old coffee and onions enveloping us. I kept my voice just above a whisper.
peter: Look, Gwen. Fisk is a kingpin. A big, scary, brilliant one, but his vision is ultimately small. It's about territory, control, money. From my own digging—through back-channels, through Gaia's more discreet data pulls—that's his ceiling. Emma Frost… she's not in this for a slice of his dirty money or a new warehouse. She's a different species of predator. The White Queen. Hellfire Club elite. She wouldn't give a single damn about Fisk's little street-corner empire unless there was something in it for her that he can't even comprehend. A bigger prize.
Gwen uncrossed her arms, drawn in despite herself. Her brow was furrowed.
gwen: What prize? What could be bigger than controlling half the criminal underworld of New York?
peter: Me.
The word hung between us, simple and absolute.
She blinked, confusion wiping the frustration from her face.
gwen: You? What are you talking about?
I took a breath, organizing the theory I'd been piecing together since I first saw the Hellfire Club's name linked to a shell company Fisk used.
peter: Gwen, you know what I am. The power checkpoint, the serum, the whole… package. It's my secret. But to the outside world? The intelligence agencies, the power brokers… their best guess is that I'm some next-generation Captain America. A super-soldier with telekinetic perks. Think about it. Even now, decades later, Cap's legacy, the idea of him, influences everything. The power he represented. How much would someone pay, what would someone do, to get their hands on someone they believe is not just an equal, but an evolution? Stronger. Faster. With extra, unexplainable abilities on top?
Her face was pale now. Her hand came up, fingers pressing to her lips.
peter: Dissect me. Reverse-engineer the serum. Copy it. Weaponize it. Frost is a telepath. A master manipulator. If she can crack open my head, bypass my defenses, and extract the 'how'—the genetic blueprint, the chemical formula, the psychic triggers—that's her jackpot. That's the prize. Not Fisk' turf war. She's using him as a front, as muscle and local intelligence. She helps him remove the pest problem—us—and her payment is getting to take the prize home to her club. To experiment. To replicate.
gwen: Oh, god.
Her voice was a hollow whisper. The color had drained completely from her cheeks. She reached for her glass of water, her hand trembling slightly, and took a sip.
gwen: They think you're him. They think you're the next step. A living weapon they can own. If they capture you… if she gets inside…
peter: Exactly. That's the incentive. That's why they're not rushing in with guns blazing. They're planning. Scheming. They need the right bait, the perfect trap. One that can hold someone they think is a super-soldier. They're not just trying to kill us; they're trying to acquire me.
She set the glass down carefully, as if it were made of glass. The fear in her eyes was now molten, transforming into something harder. Protective.
gwen: That's not happening. We can't let that happen. What's the plan? Do we tell Daredevil this? Do we hit them first, before they're ready?
I shook my head.
peter: Not yet. We watch. We use Daredevil's intel—it buys us time. We get stronger. You double down on the breathing, the inner flame. I'll push my own upgrades. We stay sharp, paranoid on patrols. If Frost is scouting, she'll slip up. Telepaths are powerful, but they're not omniscient. They have tells. Patterns.
gwen: But what if she reads us before we even know she's there? Gets in our heads, plants something…
peter: It won't be that easy. My mental shields aren't just for show. They block surface-level probes, and anything deeper would be like setting off a psychic alarm bell. And you? Your spider-sense is one layer. The chi-sense you're developing from the manual is another. It's an early-warning system for more than just physical danger. We're not sitting ducks, Gwen. We're prepared in ways they won't expect.
She held my gaze for a long moment, then nodded again, slower this time. The fear was still there, but it was being boxed in, compartmentalized by a fierce, stubborn resolve I knew all too well.
gwen: Okay. I trust you. But Peter? Aliens. If aliens are the next logical step after psychic diamond queens, I'm out. I'm hanging up the webs and applying for a nice, safe job at a library.
I couldn't help it. A real laugh broke through, tight and relieved. I reached for her hand again, and she let me take it.
peter: Deal. No aliens. Scouts honor.
Just then, our waiter—a guy named Lou who'd seen us here a few times—slid two plates in front of us with a clatter. Greasy cheeseburgers, towers of onion rings, pickles speared on the side. The familiar, comforting smell cut through the heavy conversation.
We ate in a quieter, more focused silence. The weight of what was coming hadn't lifted. If anything, it felt heavier, more specific. But we were sharing the load. And for now, in this greasy diner booth, that was enough.
Two days ago
Wilson Fisk did not pace. Pacing was for men who were uncertain, who let anxiety gnaw at their edges. He sat. He waited. A mountain in a tailored, bone-white suit, positioned behind the vast expanse of his oak desk like a king on a dais.
His penthouse office was a monument to controlled power. Floor-to-ceiling windows presented a dizzying panorama of Midtown Manhattan, a galaxy of electric light shimmering in the December night. The glass was three inches thick, laminated, capable of stopping a .50 caliber round. Below, the city was a silent, sparkling chessboard. His chessboard. Or it would be, once the final pieces were cleared.
Hammerhead's abrupt fall had been… inconvenient. Not tragic. Silvio Manfredi had been a blunt instrument, a rival whose ambition outweighed his intelligence. But his empire—the drug pipelines, the protection rackets, the trafficking lanes—had been a stabilizing counterweight. Now it was chaos. A vacuum. And nature, as Fisk well knew, abhorred a vacuum. Scavengers were already sniffing at the edges.
The real problem wasn't the scavengers. They could be bought, bullied, or buried. The problem was the two loose ends who had created the vacuum in the first place. Vector. And Ghost-Spider. The vigilantes. The leak that had gutted the Maggia had been a surgical strike, one that had exposed unsettling vulnerabilities in his own, far more sophisticated operations. They were a variable. An ideology. And in Fisk's world, ideology was a poison. It had to be cut out, cleanly, before it spread.
His massive fingers, each thick as a cigar, drummed a slow, patient rhythm on the polished oak. The intercom on his desk buzzed, a soft, intrusive hum.
His assistant's voice, filtered and deferential, filled the quiet room. Sir. Ms. Frost is here.
fisk: Send her in.
He did not raise his voice. He never needed to. He stood, unfolding his six-foot-seven, three-hundred-pound frame from the leather chair. The motion was smooth, powerful, devoid of hurry. He adjusted his cuffs, the white fabric stark against his hands. He wanted to be standing when she entered. A matter of presence.
The double doors to his office swung open silently.
Emma Frost entered as if she were walking onto a stage she already owned. She was a vision of calculated elegance amidst the room's severe masculinity. Her hair was a platinum wave, pinned with artful precision. A white fur coat, surely worth more than the annual salary of everyone in the lobby below, was draped over her shoulders. Beneath it, a dress of stark white hugged her form, cut with such sharp, minimalist lines it seemed less like fabric and more like a carving of ice. Her eyes, a piercing arctic blue, swept the room in one comprehensive, dismissive glance before settling on him. A smile touched her lips—polite, professional, utterly devoid of warmth.
A second figure followed her in, but stopped just inside the doorway, lingering in the space between the light of the office and the shadow of the hall. A young woman, dark-haired, with a streak of white at her temple. She wore a simple green jacket, brown gloves, and an expression of profound, practiced boredom. Her arms were crossed, her posture relaxed but watchful. She didn't speak.
emma: Mr. Fisk. Or is it 'Kingpin' in these surroundings? The view is… adequate. If one enjoys staring down at ants.
Her voice was like smoothed silk over chilled steel. She extended a gloved hand.
Fisk took it. His grip was immense, capable of crushing bone, but it was applied with exacting control—a test, a statement. Her hand in his felt slender, but there was no yielding in it. It was like gripping marble.
fisk: Ms. Frost. A pleasure. Please, call me Wilson. Can I offer you a drink? Scotch, I find, is appropriate for business.
emma: Always.
She released his hand and glided to one of the guest chairs, settling into it with a slow, deliberate grace. She crossed her legs, the movement drawing the eye, a piece of calculated theater. She made no move to remove her coat.
fisk: Your companion?
emma: Rogue. She's with me. She's fine where she is. She prefers to observe.
Fisk's gaze lingered on the silent girl by the door for a fraction of a second. A name, no more. A tool. He nodded once, then turned to the crystal decanter on the sideboard. He poured two generous measures of a deep amber scotch, the liquid catching the lamplight. He handed one glass to Emma, then resumed his throne behind the desk, the leather groaning softly in protest.
emma: Let's dispense with the pleasantries, Wilson. Your message was intriguing, if vague. A rival eliminated, an empire in disarray. And two costumed nuisances in your way. Vector and… Ghost-Spider, was it? Cute names. Tell me why the Hellfire Club, and why I, should spare them a single thought.
Fisk took a slow sip, letting the smoky heat of the liquor coat his tongue. He appreciated her directness. It saved time.
fisk: Because opportunity, Emma, rarely knocks twice so loudly. Silvio Manfredi's operations were worth, conservatively, three hundred million dollars a year in gross revenue. The infrastructure is intact, merely… leaderless. I am in a position to absorb it, to consolidate it under a single, rational authority. Mine.
He set his glass down with a soft click.
fisk: The 'nuisances,' as you call them, are the only reason that infrastructure is available. They are the ones who exposed him. A data leak of remarkable precision. They are also the ones who subsequently dismantled a full contingent of Red Room-trained Widows sent to eliminate them. They are not children playing dress-up. They are capable, unpredictable, and they have developed a taste for interfering with the natural order of this city.
Emma took a delicate sip of her scotch, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly over the rim of the glass.
emma: The Widows? You hired the Red Room's cast-offs? An expensive gamble that didn't pay off. And now you turn to mutants. To me. What is your offer, Wilson? My time is not inexpensive, and my skill set is… unique.
fisk: A percentage. Twenty percent of the net profits from the newly consolidated territory, in perpetuity. Additionally, first refusal on any technological or biological assets we recover from the vigilantes. Vector, in particular, is of interest. His capabilities suggest a physical enhancement on par with the Rogers template, augmented with potent telekinetic abilities. Shields. Force projection. If he can be taken alive…
emma: …he becomes a specimen. A puzzle to be solved. A serum to be reverse-engineered, or a mutant genome to be catalogued and replicated. The Hellfire Club is always in the market for leverage. For an edge.
A genuine smile, cold and sharp, touched her lips this time.
emma: And the girl? The spider?
fisk: Primarily a means to an end. Her abilities are derivative—agility, adhesion, proportional strength. A mutated arthropod bite, from what my sources suggest. But she is his partner. His emotional tether. Capture her, and you draw him into the open. Eliminate her, and you remove his support. I require your particular talents, Emma. Telepathy to dismantle their resolve, to turn their strengths against them. Your diamond form to withstand anything they might muster. And you will need a team. Mutants loyal to the Club. Discreet. Effective.
Emma set her glass down on the edge of his desk. The crystal made no sound on the polished wood. She began tapping a single, perfectly manicured fingernail against the chair's armrest. The tap-tap-tap was the only sound in the room for a long moment.
emma: Twenty percent is a… starting point. Make it twenty-five. And exclusivity on Vector. His mind, his body, his genetic material become the property of the Hellfire Club. You get your streets, your ports, your silent, obedient city. We get the science.
Fisk's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The lamplight gleamed on his bald head. He steepled his fingers before him, a cathedral of flesh and bone.
fisk: Twenty-three. And we share any practical applications derived from the study. Enhancements that can be safely replicated for my… security personnel.
Emma watched him, her psychic presence a faint, frosty pressure at the edge of his consciousness. He was a fortress, his mind a wall of disciplined, singular will—no easy cracks for her to slip through. She respected that. In a way.
emma: Agreed. Now, the details bore me, but they are necessary. What is your proposed methodology? A straightforward ambush? Or something with more… finesse?
fisk: A lure. We bait a scenario they cannot ignore. A high-value shipment at the docks. Something with ties to both Hammerhead's old schemes and my own new acquisitions. They patrol, but they are reactive. They will investigate. Your team will be waiting. Telepathic interference first—seed confusion, paranoia, make them doubt each other, their senses, their allies. Then, when they are disoriented, the physical containment.
Emma leaned back, a sculptor evaluating a block of stone.
emma: It's a simplistic framework, but it has potential. Vector's telekinesis suggests a measure of mental discipline. He may resist a direct assault. The girl is fast, tactile. We will require specific countermeasures. Pyro for area denial and to negate her webs. Toad for mobility, to match her agility. And Rogue…
She glanced toward the door. The girl named Rogue didn't move, but her eyes, previously dull with disinterest, seemed to focus.
emma: Rogue is my insurance. Her touch absorbs the memories, the skills, the very life force of her target. One solid grab on your precious Vector, and not only is he neutralized, but we gain a temporary weapon of equal or greater power. She is rather final.
Fisk's gaze shifted back to the silent figure. A vampire of power. A terrifying, perfect tool.
fisk: I am familiar with the name. Is she reliable?
emma: She is loyal to the Club. And more importantly, she is loyal to me. But such a tool commands a premium. Her compensation comes from my share.
fisk: Acceptable. Timeline? The situation is fluid. I have other… competitors… to discourage.
Emma stood up in one fluid motion, picking up her fur coat as if it were an afterthought.
emma: Two weeks. The first week for reconnaissance. We will find their patterns, their haunts. The second week for execution. The payment will be structured half now, as a gesture of good faith, half upon delivery of the two vigilantes, alive or otherwise.
Fisk gave a single, grim nod. He rose and moved to a large, utilitarian safe set into the wall behind a framed Modigliani. His bulk blocked the view as he worked the combination. The door swung open with a heavy thunk. He withdrew a sleek, black aluminum briefcase, brought it to the desk, and flipped the latches.
Inside, stacked in neat, bound bricks, was five million dollars in non-sequential, used bills.
fisk: Half. As agreed.
Emma didn't bother to count it. She simply took the case, snapped the latches shut, and hefted it as if it were weightless.
emma: A pleasure doing business, Wilson. We'll be in touch.
She turned, the fur coat swirling around her. As she reached the door, the girl—Rogue—uncrossed her arms and fell into step behind her, a shadow given form.
rogue: All settled, boss?
The voice was a quiet Southern drawl, at odds with the severe efficiency of her posture.
emma: For now, dear. The boring part is over. Now comes the fun part.
rogue: Huntin' season?
emma: Precisely.
The doors closed behind them, swallowing the sound of their footsteps.
Wilson Fisk remained standing behind his desk. He picked up his scotch, drained it, and stared out at his city. The loose ends had been identified. The contractor had been hired. The trap was being designed.
Soon, the variables would be eliminated. And the chessboard would be his alone.
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