We couldn't rule out the existence of people in this world who couldn't be bought.
They had their own principles and their own loyalties.
They had noble characters and cared little for worldly gain.
But here and now.
In Hell's Kitchen.
In this place where all sorts mingled, faced with people who operated in the gray areas.
Money carried more weight than force.
Some people joined gangs because of circumstances beyond their control.
But for the vast majority, their morals and principles fell below those of ordinary people.
Money had tremendous appeal.
That was why John liked using it.
It happened to be the one thing he never lacked.
Matt, on the other hand, as a masked vigilante fighting street crime, would have chosen to deal with them swiftly and decisively.
John's money silenced the four men in front of him.
One man's face twitched a few times before he said, "Sorry, sir, but we can't break the rules."
See? Faced with money.
Even uncouth street thugs would soften their tone.
"How much do you make a month?" John tossed the money straight to the man, walked up to him, and poked his chest. "There's five thousand dollars here."
"I want my car back. A simple request."
"You're afraid they'll come after you later?"
"Then I'll give you one last chance."
As that string of words landed, the man opened his mouth several times, only to swallow his responses.
John took more money from his pocket, and Fudge's expression changed. Was that pocket connected to a safe?
Why did it seem to contain an endless supply of money?
"Fifty thousand dollars." John held up the money, his gaze sweeping casually over the others. "Who's willing to take a risk for fifty thousand dollars?"
"Your children's tuition, your mother's hospital bills, luxuries for your enjoyment."
With every sentence John spoke, their expressions shifted.
By the end, everyone was looking expectantly at the man speaking to John.
"One last chance," John said. "Who's willing to take a risk for me?"
"Me! I am!" A man with a buzz cut and a floral shirt ran over and pleaded with the man blocking John's way. "Rand, my kid has leukemia. I need that money."
"Shut up!" the man named Rand snapped. "You're breaking the rules!"
"Looks like your salary is higher than your friends'." John began clapping, then said pointedly, "Or you think he should give up on his child for his job."
"Rand, you're a loyal man, but you're not a good friend."
The other two men's gazes changed as well.
The man who had been shouted down was even angrier. "So that's what you think, damn you, Rand!"
"You don't have a wife who spends money like water, frail old parents, or a sick child."
The devil's whisper stirred their anger. "So you think you're entitled to crush someone else's chance to change their life."
Fudge tugged at John, a trace of fear in his eyes.
What was this man doing?
Seeing John like this reminded Ferdinand of the time his hand had been pierced.
That madman had surfaced again.
Fear spread through John's friends, while anger had already ignited the other three Viper Gang members.
Realizing things were going wrong, Rand grabbed his radio to alert the people inside.
But the father of the child with leukemia erupted. He shoved Rand into the wall, pulled a switchblade from his pocket, and plunged it into Rand's stomach.
One stab after another.
The devil within him had awakened.
By the time the radio fell from Rand's hand, the man's face was covered in splattered blood.
A murder.
It had unfolded before Fudge, an innocent lawyer.
He no longer had any way to back out.
Fudge remembered Matt's warning.
This man was dangerous.
John walked behind the agitated man and gently laid a hand on his shoulder.
The panting man was like a beast being soothed.
He couldn't believe it. What had he done?
As he looked at Rand's lifeless body, terror rose inside him.
He was afraid. He had killed a Viper Gang member. They would surely hunt him down.
"Shh-" John helped the man up and raised a finger in a gesture for silence.
"You're brave. Yes, brave."
Using a hundred-dollar bill, John gently pinched the blood-soaked blade of the switchblade.
The man let John take the murder weapon.
"I... I killed someone."
His mind was a jumble. In a moment of blind fury, he had done something he regretted.
"No, no, no." John firmly patted his shoulder with his right hand, his expression earnest and approving. "I don't see a criminal. I see an angry father."
"You're a brave man. Your son is lucky to have a father willing to go mad for him as he grows up."
The man's terror gradually subsided. He desperately needed someone to absolve him, even with a lie.
He stared blankly at John. "Is that true?"
"You can ask them. Would they take someone else's life for the person they love most?" John turned him around and led him over to the other two Viper Gang members.
Having witnessed the murder, both men were extremely nervous.
They had never realized this quiet, honest man could kill.
"Life forced you down the wrong path." John stuffed the promised money into the hand that had released the knife and whispered, "Now you need to learn to change."
"They aren't Rand. They're people like you."
"You know what to do. They're your people."
"Think about your child. He's young. He still has many years ahead when he'll need you to protect him."
John let go, and the man looked at the money in his hand, then at the men in front of him.
He took twenty thousand out of the fifty thousand and gave ten thousand to each of the other two.
"Of the remaining thirty thousand, I'll use ten thousand for my child's treatment, give ten thousand to Rand's family, and put the last ten thousand toward starting a business together."
Watching their terror gradually turn to hesitation, he continued, "I hope you'll join me. We can't stay with the Viper Gang anymore."
"We can go somewhere else. Harold, your mother needs treatment at a nursing home. Vincent, your father-in-law needs you to prove yourself."
Both men fell silent. Each of these thugs had fallen into this life because of family circumstances.
In the end, they held out their hands. "Thank you, Bird."
They accepted Bird's invitation. The angry father had received the key to a second path from a stranger.
John watched the whole thing with a smile.
"Now there's one last thing you need to do."
John walked to the entrance and pushed the door open.
"Let me in."
None of the three tried to stop him.
Fudge couldn't believe it. He quickened his pace to catch up with John.
"What are you doing?" Fudge whispered in horror. "You're inciting a crime!"
"What are you talking about, Fudge?" John said with a smile. "I did no such thing."
"I saw it!" Fudge pointed at the slowly closing door. "A murderer was just born out there!"
John stopped and blinked. "So I killed someone?"
"You... n-no." Fudge felt something choke in his chest.
"Some people can't be dealt with through the law." With that, John headed down the stairs leading to the death race. "Look into Rand. You'll find his death was far more useful than his life."
His voice drifted back up.
Fudge's expression changed several times before he finally snorted. "I will."
He understood that whether he could get out now depended entirely on John.
This man liked to toy with people's hearts.
And life was like a game to him.
Behind the door, the staircase led to an underground club.
It was bustling inside.
The disappearance of Hell Paradise had brought new customers to this lawless establishment called Satan's Mansion.
After absorbing Hell Paradise's resources, Corey, the owner of Satan's Mansion, had risen to become a new kingpin in Hell's Kitchen.
What had happened at Hell Paradise that night wasn't entirely unknown.
Corey had received word that Daredevil had done it.
Daredevil?
The masked Daredevil?
Almost everyone immediately thought of that masked vigilante.
That guy wasn't welcome among the Underworld Forces in Hell's Kitchen.
Corey didn't like Daredevil either.
Inside the room, enormous floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the racetrack outside.
A patterned snake a full two meters long slithered over a dead branch.
A man with his shirt open, exposing a snake tattoo on his chest, closed his eyes and enjoyed the services of a woman from the red-light district.
"That damn Daredevil," Corey cursed. "If he hadn't ruined my business, Madame Gao wouldn't have chewed me out."
He had taken over Hell Paradise's contraband business. Madame Gao didn't care who sold her contraband.
But there was one condition: they had to keep it safe.
Corey had come under suspicion after drawing Daredevil's attention. He transported contraband inside human bodies and used the death race to carry out transactions.
Everything had been going smoothly, but somehow Daredevil had learned about this place and broken in.
He had even ruined a deal.
"I've got to sort things out with the Russians too, with that human trafficking business. Daredevil cost me over a hundred thousand today."
The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. Corey shoved the woman away, walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, and stared down.
"Tonight's death race has to be wild enough to empty those rich bastards' wallets!"
The large patterned snake hissed and slid off the dead branch.
The woman from the red-light district screamed as the snake slowly slithered toward her.
Watching her panic, he let out a cruel laugh.
"Mmm-"
"Ah-"
"Ugh-"
Neon lights cast a hazy atmosphere.
Low, stifled cries of pain rang through the passage leading to the death race.
Matt was drenched in sweat, his shirt torn open, panting like a beast.
His hands moved rhythmically as he held the man's head and slammed it repeatedly.
Don't get the wrong idea.
He was beating someone up.
His shirt had only been torn off because it was poorly made.
One final knee strike brought the man down. Matt staggered back and leaned against the wall.
Blood dripped from his fists.
He wasn't Superman. After fighting so many people in succession, only Murdock's willpower had kept him from collapsing.
He slowly moved forward with one hand against the wall, the wounds visible through his shirt alarming to behold.
"Keep going, Matt," he told himself.
The smell coming from the room had revealed this place's secret to him.
The so-called death race was a way to conduct contraband transactions through the competition.
The race was rigged. No matter what happened, only someone from Satan's Mansion would win.
The losers would be eliminated, drained of their last bit of value.
He pushed the door open and caught a pungent smell.
It was a shipping room, with a large bag of contraband sitting quietly inside.
Matt picked up the bag and hurried outside.
But his entry had also alerted someone.
Another group blocked his path. After a desperate struggle, he finally broke through.
He had one more scar on his body.
He staggered away, pushed open a random door, and ducked inside.
He hid in a bathroom stall, blood seeping from his wound.
"Fudge, wait here for me."
"Where are you going?"
"The bathroom."
He overheard an exchange.
Then came the sound of the door opening.
Footsteps sounded in the bathroom, drawing closer and closer.
The footsteps stopped outside the stall where Matt was hiding.
"I think you need help."
A voice spoke.
The large bag in Matt's hand fell with a dull thud.
He opened the door, his face pale, and said weakly, "Yes, I need help."
"Mr. Wick."
Before you continue