The top floor of Fisk Tower.
Wilson Fisk—Kingpin—moved through his private penthouse with practiced grace, working in a kitchen that cost more than most people's houses.
He whisked eggs with precise technique, folding in butter at exactly the right temperature. The pan moved in his massive hands with surprising delicacy as he tilted and rotated it. A few pieces of osmanthus flowers scattered across the golden surface just before he transferred everything to an antique blue-and-white porcelain plate.
The scrambled eggs looked perfect. Restaurant quality.
Kingpin's expression remained completely neutral as he lifted the plate. He turned and walked from the spacious kitchen into the empty living room beyond.
Soft light from an ornate chandelier illuminated the room's centerpiece—a chessboard positioned in the exact center of the space. An intense game was in progress, black and white pieces locked in strategic combat.
Kingpin carried his plate to the chessboard with elegant economy of movement. He studied the position for a long moment.
Then his thick fingers—surprisingly nimble—picked up a black knight. He moved it one square left, capturing a white pawn.
At precisely the same moment, on the massive wall-mounted screen displaying tactical information, the red number representing Madam Gao's forces decreased by one.
Perhaps it was merely coincidence.
Because Kingpin paid no attention to the screen at all. His entire focus remained locked on the black and white board before him, mind working through permutations and possibilities.
He forgot entirely about the eggs cooling on their porcelain plate.
Several minutes passed. The scrambled eggs reached the perfect eating temperature—no longer scalding, but still warm and soft.
Unfortunately, when Kingpin finally emerged from his strategic contemplation, he simply tossed the priceless antique plate and its contents into the trash without a second glance.
The wooden door facing the chessboard burst open.
Bullseye strode in quickly, blood spattered across his face and clothes. He approached the chessboard and clasped his hands behind his back in a gesture of deference.
"Boss, the Index Finger—Murakami of the Hand—is dead. All the Hand's operatives in the combat zone have vanished. They've abandoned the field entirely."
Kingpin gave no indication he'd heard. He moved sideways with surprising fluidity for his size, lowering himself into a chair that faced the chessboard directly.
His terrifying bulk seemed to expand as he sat, his shadow falling across the entire board like a mountain eclipsing the sun.
Lester lowered his head instinctively, unable to meet those cold eyes.
A faint light flickered in Kingpin's gaze as he stared down at the top of Lester's skull. The silence stretched uncomfortably.
Finally, Kingpin's low voice rumbled through the room.
"It doesn't matter. The Hand is nothing but a nest of cowards too afraid of death to face it honestly. They huddled together for warmth and called it strength. They betrayed Madam Gao to assist me. They'll betray me to assist someone else when the moment suits them. That's their nature."
"I understand, boss." Lester smiled slightly, his tone agreeable. His hands remained clasped behind his back.
He stepped around the chessboard, approaching Kingpin from the side.
"Boss, Madam Gao's forces are nearly exhausted. Should we finish them now? Although—"
Lester closed to within a few steps of Kingpin.
His hands suddenly whipped forward!
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—
Metal playing cards flew from his fingers like razor-edged darts, screaming through the air toward Kingpin's neck and skull!
Ting, ting, ting—
Kingpin didn't even blink.
The metal edges—sharp enough to slice through flesh and bone with ease—struck his exposed skin and simply stopped. They didn't cut. Didn't even scratch. They left absolutely no mark at all.
It was impossible.
Lester's expression transformed in an instant. Shock replaced confidence. Sickly green light surged through the depths of his eyes, pulsing rapidly.
His fingers—adorned with metal rings—trembled slightly. A thin blade materialized from his sleeve, narrow as a cicada's wing and wickedly sharp.
But Kingpin had already moved.
While still seated, one massive hand shot out and seized Lester's head in a crushing grip. His fingers completely engulfed the blonde man's skull.
Then Kingpin's other palm rose almost lazily and fell like a hammer onto Lester's arms and chest.
CRACK.
The sound of shattering bone echoed through the penthouse. Lester's expression twisted in agony as his limbs went limp, hanging uselessly. Both arms broken. Ribs caved in. His entire skeletal structure compromised in seconds.
Lester's mouth opened to scream, but Kingpin's palm clamped over his face, muffling any sound before it could escape.
Kingpin held Lester's head steady, examining him through the gaps between his fingers. He could see the green light churning frantically in the depths of those eyes—something unnatural, something other looking out from behind Lester's face.
"Mind control. Brainwashing." Kingpin's voice emerged flat, almost disinterested.
Before the words fully left his mouth, he squeezed.
Lester's skull deformed under the pressure. Half his head simply exploded, fragments of bone and brain matter erupting outward. Both eyeballs popped from their sockets, forced out by the sheer hydraulic force.
Kingpin tossed the corpse aside carelessly, like discarding a used napkin. He shook blood and gray matter from his fingertips with mild distaste.
Then he rose slowly to his full height, an avalanche of muscle and controlled violence standing up.
"Your remote-controlled toy is broken." His voice carried a hint of dark amusement. "You should have come yourself from the start."
Behind the living room's second door, shadows shifted.
Nolan emerged fully armed, his black helmet and gas mask concealing his features completely. The chainsword in his grip still dripped with blood from his passage through the building. His brown military coat swayed with each measured step.
"What a shame. He was such an obedient tool."
Nolan's voice emerged muffled and distorted through the gas mask's filters.
"But honestly? I didn't expect him to actually succeed."
Kingpin looked down at Nolan from across ten meters of expensive hardwood flooring. His expression remained utterly impassive. He stepped around the chessboard while unbuttoning his black suit jacket, movements casual despite the violence he'd just committed.
"Blood feud? Family revenge?" The question emerged conversational, almost polite.
Nolan—his face hidden behind black helmet and mask—shook his head slightly. He hung the flesh-stained chainsword from his belt, letting it dangle beside his hip.
"Started as personal grudges," his distorted voice admitted. "But eventually? The New York underworld simply stood in my way. And you happen to be its uncrowned king."
"Yes. I appreciate that reasoning."
Kingpin stripped off his suit jacket quickly, revealing a metallic shirt beneath—fabric woven with silver threads that gleamed under the chandelier's light. He began rolling up his sleeves with deliberate care.
"At least it's more honest than those costumed heroes playing their justice games in the streets."
Tens of seconds later, Kingpin's forearms lay completely exposed.
They looked carved from steel. Muscles knotted together in impossible configurations, every fiber visible beneath skin that seemed to glow with faint metallic luster.
"My body has been tempered by countless hours of training. Sweat and time and iron discipline."
Strange, vaguely occult patterns began to surface across Kingpin's forearms—symbols that writhed and shifted under the light. He stared at Nolan with cold calculation.
"It's been reinforced with black magic. Blessed by pagan rituals from a dozen different traditions. Your weapons won't be enough to harm me."
His voice dropped into something darker.
"So tell me, unusual enemy... how do you plan to die?"
Hearing Kingpin's confident declaration, Nolan couldn't help but chuckle. The sound emerged hollow and mechanical through his mask's filters.
He reached back casually and unhooked the hell gun from his battery pack. The weapon came up smoothly, barrel tracking toward Kingpin's center mass.
"This is a battlefield relic from an old friend."
Before Nolan could finish the sentence, Kingpin exploded into motion.
Every muscle in his body swelled simultaneously, his already massive frame expanding impossibly larger. His feet detonated through the hardwood floor, crushing the expensive timber into splinters.
The force launched Kingpin forward like a human cannonball, his bulk hurtling toward Nolan with terrifying speed despite his size.
Nolan's smile widened behind his mask.
"...specialized for killing bugs."
He pulled the trigger.
The hell gun screamed.