As the former ruler of Hell's Kitchen, Wilson Fisk was no fool.
On the contrary, he was clever.
Clever enough to reconstruct Dax's life from nothing more than a pile of therapy records.
Through that reconstruction, Fisk came to understand him.
A troubled child who had started killing at an early age.
A child suffering from some kind of mental illness.
"A psychopath." It was as though footage of Dax's therapy sessions unfolded before his eyes.
The female doctor patiently guided a murderer who had killed his coach.
"Yes, someone like you will be much easier to control."
Fisk murmured to himself and kept reading.
He saw Dax's hatred of his therapist's impending death, and he saw how helpless and alone that child was, with no one left to guide him.
As Fisk watched, it was almost as though he were looking at that child himself.
Then he saw the grown Dax begin working at a suicide prevention center, counseling people with suicidal tendencies.
So many times, he had wanted to tell those seeking help to pick up a weapon and shoot the people who had caused their suffering.
But he had held back.
Fisk watched a woman approach. Just a light touch on Dax's shoulder brought a smile to that overgrown boy's face and made him focus on his work.
Yet the woman saw it all as nothing more than ordinary encouragement between coworkers.
Fisk's gaze followed the woman as she left, then lowered to Dax again.
That woman. Fisk looked at the photograph on his phone.
In the photograph, Dax stood in a plaza, gazing at her with deep affection.
It was like a silent film, and Fisk had already figured out almost everything about that FBI agent.
A smile curled his lips. "You have your tools. I