Daredevil stands atop the ruins.
Rainwater slid down his dark red helmet, mixing with the dust in the cracks between the bricks, and gathered into murky droplets at his chin.
The sound of police sirens grew closer in the distance.
Daredevil did not stop.
He took a running start, pushed off the wall, grabbed the rusty water pipe above, and flipped himself onto the roof, disappearing into the vast rain.
This city not only has a high and mighty false god like Vought.
Now, a real demon has emerged from the sewers.
A few years ago, a new building was constructed in Manhattan and named the Fisk Tower.
Wilson Fisk, a successful man, often describes himself as a humble spice dealer.
He was wearing a custom-made white suit, his massive frame resembling a mountain of flesh, and his bald head gleamed coldly under the chandelier.
On the plate in front of me was a piece of Wagyu beef, seared to perfection, with crispy edges and a pink interior.
Wesley stood three steps away, holding a tablet computer and adjusting his glasses.
"That's four million in cash, sir."
Wesley spoke in a low voice, trying not to disturb his boss's mealtime.
"Everything was burned. Our transit depot on Tenth Avenue, along with the twenty brothers inside, and Ivan, the one in charge."
Fisk put the meat in his mouth, chewed it thirty times, and swallowed.
Is Ivan still alive?
"Dead. Cause of death:... laughter leading to oxygen deprivation and cardiac arrest."
Wesley pulled up a photograph.
That was Ivan's corpse.
Even after death, the face still bore the Batman Who Laughs, its mouth slashed open with a knife, the split extending all the way to the earlobe, and roughly stitched back together, forming a permanent smiling face.
Fisk put down his knife and fork.
"A madman," he commented. " Hell's Kitchen doesn't need madmen. What it needs here is order, business, and rules."
"That so-called ' Joker,' whether he escaped from some mental hospital or was Wild Dogs released by Vought International to clear out the slums."
Fisk stood up.
"Find him."
"Cut off his limbs and pull out his tongue."
"Hang him on the lamppost across from the Vought Tower, so everyone knows who the king is here."
Wesley nodded. "I've got it all arranged. Tonight, all the gang leaders who are affiliated with us will gather at the Irishman Bar on the docks. We're going to turn Hell's Kitchen upside down."
"Very good."
Fisk sat back down in his chair and picked up his wine glass.
Don't let me down, Wesley.
Hell's Kitchen, Pier 42.
An abandoned shipyard warehouse has been converted into an underground bar.
This is a "neutral zone" for gangsters to sell stolen goods and negotiate.
Dozens of heavily armed thugs guarded the entrance, and every passing car was targeted by several assault rifles.
The warehouse was filled with smoke.
Around a long table pieced together, sat several leaders of the remaining forces in Hell's Kitchen.
The new leader of the Irish Mob, O'Shea, Turk from the black neighborhood, and several distributors who came from Brooklyn.
There was no wine in front of them, only guns.
"That lunatic just blew up my laundromat!"
O'Shea threw a severed hand onto the table. It was his cousin's hand, with a purple ribbon still wrapped around the stump, tied in a pretty bow.
"He didn't rob me! He didn't even want the money! He just poured bleach down my cousin's throat, watched him vomit blood, and kept laughing!"
Turk stubbed out his cigarette hard on the table.
"Where are Kingpin's men? Wesley said he'd give us an explanation tonight. We don't pay that much protection money every month just to let these monsters shit on our heads!"
"Please be quiet, gentlemen."
A gentle voice came from the doorway.
Wesley walked in wearing a sharp suit, followed by two burly bodyguards.
He ignored the severed hand on the table and went straight to the head of the table to sit down.
Kingpin very unhappy.
This sentence silenced the previously noisy warehouse.
In this neighborhood, Kingpin's displeasure means someone is going to reclaim land from the sea.
"We've pinpointed the Joker's area of activity. Tonight, we'll conduct a thorough search..."
"Bang!"
The iron lock on the warehouse door suddenly snapped.
A brightly colored ice cream truck crashed through the gate, screeching to a halt and playing a cheerful children's song. It drifted through the middle of the warehouse, sweeping across three tables.
The loudspeaker on the roof was still playing a loop. "Delicious ice cream here~"
All the gang leaders drew their guns, dozens of muzzles pointed at the driver's seat.
The car door slowly opened.
No one came down.
Only one Deadman, wearing a cheap Homelander cloak, fell out.
Those were the guards at the gate, their faces painted with exaggerated Joker makeup, and a small flag stuck in their chest that read "BANG!"
Good evening, everyone!
The sound wasn't coming from inside the car.
Instead, it came from above everyone's heads.
The Joker was crouching on the ventilation duct of the warehouse beam, his legs dangling, holding Mike Mike connected to the warehouse's public address system.
He changed his clothes.
He wore a purple tuxedo, a green vest, and even an ridiculously tall top hat.
But what he was holding wasn't a cane.
It's a limited edition figurine of a Homelander.
The figurine's eyes were gouged out and replaced with two red LED bulbs that blinked.
"I heard you guys were having a party? Why didn't you invite me?"
The Joker jumped straight down from the five-meter-high beam.
Without any protective action, he slammed heavily onto a table, smashing the Irish boss's whiskey to pieces.
For an ordinary person, this would break at least two ribs.
But the Joker simply sprang up like a spring, grabbed the severed hand from the table, and actually shook hands with it.
"Hi! Are you Mr. O'Shea's cousin? Would you like to see that magic trick done again?"
"Kill him!!"
O'Shea let out a heart-wrenching roar.
"Da da da da da!"
Dozens of guns opened fire simultaneously.
Bullets rained down on the Joker's location.
Sawdust flew everywhere, and the bottle shattered.
The entire table was riddled with holes.
The gunfire lasted for a full half minute, until the magazine was emptied.
The smoke and dust cleared.
The table was completely empty.
The Joker is gone.
He's there!
Turk pointed to the ice cream truck.
The Joker had somehow hidden behind the car, holding the Homelander figurine above his head.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I'm Homelander! I'll slice you all in half with my Cyclops! Zzzzz!"
He made clumsy sound effects and imitated the flying posture of Homelander, making comical dodging movements amidst a hail of bullets.
He was like a purple loach, swimming in the cracks of death.
That's enough.
Wesley pulled a silver pistol from his pocket and aimed.
"Bang."
One shot.
The Joker suddenly stopped moving.
He clutched his shoulder and dramatically fell backward, crashing into the ice cream truck.
"Oh! I've been shot! I'm going to die! Damn Kryptonite bullets!"
The Joker slid off the car and collapsed to the ground, his head drooping. The Homelander rolled to one side.
The warehouse fell silent.
O'Shea grabbed a machete, roared, and charged forward, wanting to chop the madman who had ruined his business into mincemeat.
"Watch out!" Wesley sensed something was wrong.
That's too easy.
O'Shea rushed up to the Joker and raised his knife.
"Go to hell! You freak!"
Just as the Blade was about to fall.
The Joker, who had been hanging his head, suddenly raised it.
There was no pain on his face.
Only that chilling, extremely excited smile.
He even winked at O'Shea.
"Surprise."