Daredevil walked out of the police station.
He had never been so quiet.
The blind lawyer Matthew Murdock, the man who believed in the law, upheld procedural justice, and always argued his case in court, just breathed his last along with Sergeant Brett.
What stands here now is merely a shell filled with rage, a violent symbol yearning for revenge.
"Buzz--"
The noise of propellers overhead was deafening.
A news helicopter painted with the "Vought News" logo hovered at low altitude.
Searchlights swept across the streets, attempting to capture sensational images to feed the greedy viewers.
The beam of light swept across Daredevil.
But he did not retreat into the Shadow as he usually did.
He raised his head, his red eyes staring directly at the blinding light source.
At that moment, even the cameraman hundreds of meters in the air felt a chill and instinctively moved the camera away.
The red figure moved.
It's not running, it's hunting.
Three blocks away, an underground gun modification shop.
The roller shutter door was half-closed, and shrill rock music and the pungent smell of solder emanated from inside.
Turk Barrett, an arms dealer and opportunist in Hell's Kitchen, was sweating profusely as he stuffed modified Glock pistols into cardboard boxes.
"Hurry! That madman in Joker makeup is desperate for this batch of goods!"
Turk yelled at his two men, "He said he's throwing a big party in Times Square tonight, and these are for handing out admission tickets over there!"
"Boss, are we really going to sell to that lunatic? I heard he just slaughtered 15 precincts..."
A younger brother asked, trembling.
"Shut up! Money is money! There's no blood on those dollars!"
Turk greedily counted the stack of cash on the table.
"Once this order is finished, we'll go to Miami..."
"Bang!"
The roller shutter door made a loud crash, and the metal frame collapsed.
Turk was thrown to the ground by the blast wave, and the American dollars scattered all over the table like snowflakes.
From the smoke and dust, two short sticks came flying towards us.
Before the two henchmen could even reach for the guns at their waists, an unbearable pain shot through their wrists.
"Snap!"
The scream was barely out of his mouth when a heavy punch slammed back into his stomach.
Daredevil uses no superfluous moves: knee strikes, elbow strikes, and broken joints.
Fast, accurate, and ruthless.
Three seconds.
The two fully armed gang thugs were reduced to two lumps of mud, with only the slight rise and fall of their chests proving that they were not quite dead yet.
Turk, Tek scrambled backward, trying to grab the shotgun that had fallen to the ground.
A foot stepped on the back of his hand.
"Creak."
The sound of finger bones cracking was especially clear in the cramped basement.
"Ouch--! My hand! My hand!"
Turk let out a pig-like scream.
Daredevil grabbed Turk by the collar, lifted him up, and slammed him against the wall full of tools.
Where is he?
His voice was hoarse, with a rough, metallic quality.
Turk looked at the face in front of him.
He had dealt with Daredevil countless times, been beaten up, and hung on a lamppost, but he had never seen the guy look like this before.
"I... I don't know! I'm just a seller! I'm just a middleman..."
"Click."
Daredevil expressionlessly crushed Turk's left shoulder blade.
"Ah!! I'll talk! I'll talk!!"
Turk was in so much pain that his eyes felt like they were going to pop out, and snot and tears streamed down his face.
"He's at the radio tower! That abandoned radio tower on the top floor of the Old Clinton Hotel! He said he's going to tell the whole city a joke from there!!"
"Bang."
Daredevil released his grip.
Turk slid down the wall and curled up on the ground, convulsing.
There was no preaching, no advice to "turn yourself in."
The red figure turned and disappeared into the rainy night, leaving behind only the room full of injuries and Turk, utterly destroyed by fear.
Old Clinton Hotel.
This is an unfinished building on 42nd Street. Thirty years ago, it was a landmark in Hell's Kitchen, but now it's just a den for drug addicts and homeless people.
Matthew sprinted up the scaffolding along the exterior wall.
Sensory radar fully activated.
The building is very quiet; there are no homeless people and no rats.
He was cleaning up the site.
For that so-called "joke".
Upon reaching the rooftop, a fierce wind mixed with raindrops assaulted my face.
Beneath that signal tower stood a solitary desk.
An old-fashioned television set sat on the table, its screen filled with static.
A camera was set up nearby, its red recording light flashing in the darkness.
There is no one.
Except for that inflatable doll sitting behind the table.
The doll was wearing that purple suit, that repulsive Joker mask, and a sign hanging around its neck with several large words written in bright red paint:
[To our dear Daredevil: Press that red button, there's a surprise!]
Daredevil walked to the table.
No bombs, no snipers, no heartbeats.
There was only that doll and that conspicuous red button on the table.
This is a trap.
It was the mockery left behind by that madman, him showing himself that even in his absence, he could manipulate the city's strongest hero like a puppet.
Daredevil reached out and pressed down without hesitation.
"Sizzle--Sizzle--"
The static on the TV screen disappeared.
The image flickered a few times, revealing a pale, large face pressed against the camera lens—a pre-recorded video.
The Joker adjusted his bow tie in the scene, the background resembling a factory in operation, with the sounds of a noisy assembly line faintly audible.
"Hey! Looks like you've found your way here, Little Red Riding Hood!"
The Joker waved at the camera, holding a half-eaten hamburger in his other hand.
"I'm sorry I can't meet you in person, but I recently landed a big job; the terrorist market is currently experiencing a severe shortage of supplies."
The Joker in the frame turned away, moving out of the camera's view.
Behind him, a blender was running, containing some kind of green liquid.
Thousands upon thousands of cans printed with cartoon smiley faces are being sealed and packaged on the assembly line.
"So I decided to start my own business! ' Joker Brand' Happy Canned Goods! Just open it and you'll forget about your mortgage, your heartbreak, and that damn 996 work schedule!"
The Joker brought his face back close to the camera, his eyes gleaming with malice.
"But I still need a spokesperson."
"Your muscular friend is pretty good. What's his name again? Luke Cage?"
The screen abruptly stopped.
The screen went back to displaying static.
"Boom!"
Matthew smashed the television set with his fist.
Glass shards pierced his glove and embedded themselves in his flesh, but he felt no pain.
assembly line.
can.
The noise in the background... that peculiar low-frequency vibration.
That was the abandoned chemical plant on the west side of Hell's Kitchen, the property that originally belonged to Kingpin, the place that had been shut down three months ago.
Just then, a blinding green light appeared on the distant horizon.
Those were fireworks rising from the direction of the chemical plant on the west side.
A firework shaped like a smiling face, still slowly spreading, bloomed in the gloomy New York night sky.
Daredevil stood in the rain, his knuckles white from clenching his fists.
He heard it.
He could hear the sound even from several blocks away.
It was the simultaneous, hysterical, unstoppable the Batman Who Laughs of countless people.