Joren didn't answer.
Daredevil didn't move again; he kept his stance, facing Joren.
He knew his battle-hardened body was still thrumming with restless energy.
But even his hard-earned skills had proven fragile against the kind of power Joren wielded—or stumbled into.
The kid had been telling the truth. He really had shot that bullseye… and wound up in the hospital for it.
"Your troubles trace back to one man," Daredevil said, voice low and steady.
"As long as he sits on that throne, this won't stop. Take down one Bullseye, and he'll send ten. Wipe out a squad of thugs, and he'll send an army."
Joren said nothing. He just tugged the brim of his hat lower, shadowing his eyes.
"His name is Kingpin," Daredevil continued. "The underground emperor of New York. More than half the city's crimes—directly or indirectly—lead back to him. You break his pieces. You defy his rules. He never lets that go."
And sure enough, the trouble had only deepened, layer by layer.
"I want to make a deal with you," Daredevil said, stepping half a pace forward.
"One that leads you straight to the source."
He tilted his head slightly, "listening" toward the docks.
"Tonight, Kingpin's moving a shipment of dirty money through the cargo channels—laundering it under the guise of legitimate freight. His most trusted lieutenants are running the operation, and the perimeter's locked down tight. If we hit it hard and fast, we don't just steal his cash—we humiliate him."
He hesitated.
Should I really drag a high school kid into this?
But Joren had already crossed Kingpin's path—and Wilson Fisk didn't forget, didn't forgive. The conflict would escalate, with or without Daredevil's involvement.
And judging by the way the boy stood—chin up, shoulders squared, silent but unbroken—he wasn't the type to back down.
After a long beat, Daredevil made his choice.
He'd fight alongside him tonight. And if the chance arose later… maybe even show him a few tricks. Refine that raw instinct into something sharper.
Joren studied him for a long moment—then gave a single, firm nod.
"Good."
...
One hour later.
West Side of Hell's Kitchen, Pier 13.
Joren and Daredevil stood on the roof of an abandoned warehouse, the sea breeze carrying a salty, damp chill.
In the distance, the dock blazed under harsh floodlights, containers stacked like steel mountains. Several black sedans idled in front of the largest warehouse, and men in dark suits patrolled the perimeter—their jackets straining over holstered weapons.
"There are fourteen inside," Daredevil said, his voice steady against the wind. "Sixteen patrols outside, split evenly in four directions. They check in every five minutes."
His senses painted the scene in perfect detail—heartbeats, footsteps, the click of safety switches.
"I'll breach from the east," Daredevil continued. "Cut the backup generator, trigger the alarm, draw them out."
He pointed toward the lit warehouse. "Once the perimeter's compromised, the rest is yours."
Joren gave a single nod—no words needed.
"Remember," Daredevil added, stepping toward the roof's edge, "our goal is to sabotage the deal and humiliate Fisk. Don't get dragged into a brawl."
With that, he vanished—leaping into the maze of shipping containers, swallowed by shadow in three silent bounds.
Joren waited.
Five minutes passed.
Then—darkness. The eastern floodlights snapped off. An alarm shrieked. Gunfire cracked through the night.
"What the hell?!"
"East side! Move!"
"Check it out—now!"
The guards bolted toward the commotion, leaving only two men near the main entrance.
Perfect.
Joren dropped from the roof, landing with a muted thud.
The two guards spun, rifles rising—then froze.
A high schooler in a rumpled uniform stood before them, hands in his pockets, eyes calm.
"Kid, you've got—"
Before the man finished, a bluish-purple blur tore through the air.
"ora!"
The guards crumpled before they hit the ground.
Joren didn't glance back. He strode toward the iron warehouse door, already reaching into his coat.
Inside, the deal was underway.
Long tables sagged under bricks of cash. A man in a tailored suit—Wesley—adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, feeding bundles into a counter. Dozens of armed thugs lined the walls.
Then—BOOM.
The entire iron gate exploded inward, ripped from its hinges by a force like a freight train. It cartwheeled through the air, crushing crates in a storm of splinters and dust.
Silhouetted in the shattered doorway stood Joren, backlit by the dock's cold glow.
Every gun swung toward him.
Wesley's eyes narrowed. That kid? Alone? He'd seen the perimeter collapse—this wasn't a coincidence.
"Kill him," he ordered, voice like ice.
Gunfire erupted.
Muzzle flashes stitched a web of death across the warehouse floor.
But before the first bullet could cross halfway—
A platinum-gold figure materialized in front of Joren.
"Ora! Ora! Ora! Ora! Ora! Ora! Ora! Ora!"
Fists blurred into afterimages, striking with impossible speed. Each punch met a bullet mid-flight, crushing lead and copper into twisted scrap.
Jingle bells—
The sound of warped metal clattered like wind chimes as deformed rounds piled at Joren's feet—a gleaming mound of failed assassination.
Silence fell.
The thugs stared at their smoking guns, then at the boy who hadn't even flinched.
"…Monster," someone whispered.
The word hung in the air like smoke.
Joren pushed his hat up a half-inch. His eyes locked onto Wesley.
Then he stepped inside.