Hell's Kitchen had transformed into a multi-factional battleground.
In plain sight, police vehicles dominated the streets—arriving with sirens blaring, departing with equal urgency.
Pedestrians venturing out after dark would invariably discover law enforcement units strategically positioned in shadowed corners, engines idling, ready for immediate deployment.
Within this brief period, Hell's Kitchen's security presence had surpassed even the affluent Upper East Side's protective measures, becoming an unexpected model for public safety throughout New York City.
Local residents, unaccustomed to such comprehensive protection, experienced a paradoxical sense of gratitude toward the masked vigilante who had inadvertently prompted this response.
Less visibly, mercenaries and contract killers employed by various criminal syndicates lurked throughout the district.
These professional predators-maintained vigilance through endless nights, pursuing the underworld's substantial bounty, each hoping to achieve both notoriety and financial windfall by claiming Hell's Butcher's life.
Even S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives had established a presence.
Their approach, however, leveraged advanced technological solutions. Bird-shaped surveillance drones dispersed throughout Hell's Kitchen, mechanical sentinels patiently awaiting their designated target.
In a nondescript surveillance van, Agent Coulson jolted awake from an unintended nap, blinking rapidly as he assessed the dense array of monitoring feeds. "Any confirmed sightings?"
"Negative, sir. No appearance yet."
"What about Daredevil? Still maintaining his observation post?"
The technician adjusted a particular feed, centering the image on a red-suited figure perched motionlessly at a rooftop's edge. Like some medieval gargoyle, Daredevil maintained his vigil from Hell's Kitchen's highest vantage point, positioning himself to detect any significant movement throughout the district.
Coulson sighed wearily. He had attempted multiple approaches toward Daredevil, yet each effort proved futile—whenever an agent ventured within fifty meters, the vigilante would immediately relocate, refusing even momentary dialogue.
"Sir," the technician ventured cautiously, "Hell's Butcher hasn't surfaced for seventy-two hours. Is it possible he's abandoned this territory entirely?"
Coulson considered this hypothesis. "It's certainly possible. We'll maintain surveillance for now. If he remains absent, we'll terminate this operation accordingly."
Meanwhile, Jason—the individual sought by these converging forces—was nowhere near Hopewell Sanctuary.
He had infiltrated an upscale Brooklyn neighborhood.
This particular location housed Carson Wolf, the senior Homeland Security agent who had attempted to murder David Lieberman.
Jason approached an elegant brownstone, produced a key, and deftly unlocked the front entrance.
David had monitored Wolf for over a month, eventually compromising the agent's home security system and surveillance network.
The target's house keys had appeared repeatedly throughout this surveillance footage. After multiple iterations and comparative adjustments, David had successfully duplicated a functional copy.
Carson Wolf experienced a sudden, inexplicable chill while sleeping.
He awoke groggily, moonlight illuminating a silhouette standing motionless beside his bed.
Who—
Before his consciousness fully registered the intrusion, a devastating impact connected with his face, immediately returning him to darkness.
...
At an abandoned construction site outside city limits, Wolf regained consciousness as ice water cascaded over him.
Immediate situational awareness returned—he was suspended by his wrists, shoes and socks removed, forced to stand barefoot upon a cold steel plate.
His instinctive struggle proved futile.
"I wouldn't waste energy," a calm voice advised.
Seated before him was a young Asian man, observing him with clinical detachment.
Beside this individual stood another figure wearing an unsettling puppet mask, approaching with a portable brazier, which he positioned directly beneath the steel plate.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Wolf demanded, attempting to project authority despite his compromised position.
The masked figure adjusted the brazier before responding in a measured tone: "Agent Wolf, have you ever enjoyed teppanyaki cuisine? I suspect after today, you'll develop a permanent aversion."
As the metal beneath his feet gradually heated, genuine fear crept into Wolf's expression. "Who sent you?"
The masked individual met his gaze directly. "If I claimed military affiliation, would that frighten you?"
Wolf's jaw tightened defensively. "You're no soldier. You lack the bearing of American military personnel."
"Is that so?" The mask tilted slightly. "What bearing would that be, exactly? The dignified bearing of those whose bodies you hollowed out, filled with heroin, shipped stateside, and leveraged for personal enrichment?"
Wolf's complexion drained immediately.
The mask emitted a low chuckle. "Your reaction confirms you recognize precisely what I'm referencing."
"I can provide compensation," Wolf offered desperately. "One million—no, ten million. Release me, and the money is yours."
The steel plate's temperature continued rising. Remaining water droplets evaporated with audible sizzling. Wolf struggled to maintain his feet above the increasingly dangerous surface.
The masked figure shook his head. "This isn't about negotiation. This is retribution."
Something about the figure's slightly hunched posture triggered Wolf's memory—recognition struck with lightning clarity. "You're... that's impossible. You're dead!"
David removed his mask, revealing features contorted with undiluted hatred. "Your survival apparently didn't preclude mine."
Wolf stared in disbelief. "How is this possible? I shot you through the heart!"
David ignored the question entirely, instead releasing years of accumulated rage.
"Today's judgment serves multiple purposes—personal vengeance, justice for the soldiers whose bodies you desecrated, and retribution for everyone you've betrayed, deceived, and murdered! Your existence ends tonight."
Wolf's strength gradually depleted. Eventually, his trembling legs lowered involuntarily, his bare feet contacting the scorching metal. Agonized screams echoed throughout the abandoned site.
Pain-induced adrenaline allowed him to raise his feet momentarily, but inevitably, exhaustion prevailed.
"I was wrong! I'm sorry! Please stop this—I'll surrender everything I own! Please!"
His increasingly desperate pleas fell on indifferent ears as Jason and David departed without acknowledging his suffering.
...
"Honestly, I wouldn't mind having his money," Jason remarked as they walked toward their vehicle.
David shrugged nonchalantly. "Who says we can't access it without his cooperation?"
"What?" Jason turned, surprised. "You can directly breach banking security?"
"Of course not. But did you think I monitored his home surveillance merely to duplicate a key?"
David's expression showed professional satisfaction. "When he accessed his accounts, I captured his credentials from reflections in the glass surface behind his workstation."
"Impressive work. How much?"
"Sixteen million. He maintained three separate hidden accounts, though unfortunately, we only accessed this particular one during surveillance."
"Perhaps we should have postponed his death," Jason mused.
David shot him a reproachful glance.
The two men sat in the battered pickup truck, listening to Wolf's diminishing cries.
Approximately thirty minutes later, Jason checked his watch. "He should be dead."
Shortly afterward, his system provided confirmation: Bronze level task: 1/3.
Their return journey proved complex, necessitating circuitous routing to avoid the various forces converging throughout Hell's Kitchen. Under David's guidance, they proceeded cautiously along secondary paths.
From a considerable distance, Jason glimpsed Daredevil's distinctive silhouette and spat contemptuously.
"Sanctimonious bastard. I'm genuinely tempted to put a bullet in him."
David remained focused on his mobile device, which maintained a secure connection to their church-based equipment, enabling remote operation.
"Interesting development," he noted. "I've uncovered evidence implicating those corrupt officers you mentioned. Additionally, they inadvertently revealed information about their superior—that Wilson individual."
He continued scrolling through data. "Apparently, he's developed more sophisticated tastes recently. Frequent visits to an art gallery."
"Which gallery, specifically?"
"Place called 'Vanessa.'"
"Has our bald crime lord found genuine romance?" Jason asked with sardonic amusement.
"What?" David glanced up, confused by the reference.
"Keep close surveillance on that gallery," Jason instructed.
"Why the particular interest?"
Jason smiled cryptically. "We've suddenly acquired substantial resources. Perhaps we should support the arts community."
His expression brightened mischievously. "Who knows? You might even meet an attractive gallery curator."