The private bar of Sean "Butcher," leader of the Irish mob, had been transformed into a slaughterhouse.
Bodies were arranged in grotesque, deliberate poses.
Some were nailed to the counter, broken pool cues driven through their chests.
Others hung from the ceiling fan by their own intestines, rotating slowly in the stagnant air.
This wasn't murder.
It was a message.
A dark red figure vaulted through the shattered window.
In Daredevil's world, the dozen heartbeats that should have filled this room were gone.
Silence.
He crouched beside one of the corpses, fingertips tracing the incision across the throat.
Clean.
Precise.
Execution.
He rose and listened.
Sirens.
Distant screams.
Explosions echoing across blocks.
And beneath that chaos—
a faint heartbeat.
Three blocks away.
Irregular.
Fading.
Not a survivor.
Bait.
Daredevil moved without hesitation, vanishing into the night.
The Warehouse
Darkness swallowed the interior.
A burly man was chained to a support pillar, gagged, trembling violently.
His pulse fluttered in panic.
Daredevil landed silently on a steel beam overhead.
The man was dying.
His heart rhythm had already begun to falter.
Daredevil dropped from above, reaching for the chains—
A sudden slicing whisper cut the air to his left.
He ducked.
Metal shrieked.
A chained scythe slammed into the concrete pillar behind him, sparks scattering.
Fast.
Too fast.
He hadn't heard the swing begin.
Daredevil's muscles coiled. He whipped his baton toward the origin point—
CLANG!
The strike rebounded as if hitting solid iron, shock vibrating up his arm.
From the darkness, a tall figure emerged.
Ancient black samurai armor.
Layered plates scarred by age and battle.
A demon mask twisted in a permanent snarl.
No heartbeat.
No breath.
No heat.
"Daredevil," the masked warrior said calmly.
"The guardian of Hell's Kitchen."
Matt lowered his center of gravity.
"Who are you?"
"Us?"
The warrior rested the chain weapon against his shoulder.
"We are the original masters of this city."
Contempt lingered in every syllable.
Before Daredevil could respond, the warrior advanced.
Steel rang.
Chain hissed.
Matt retreated under a storm of strikes.
His radar sense — capable of tracking bullets in flight — failed him.
There were no muscle contractions to detect.
No breath shifts.
No cardiac rhythm.
Only movement.
Pure movement.
He fought on instinct alone.
Crude.
Desperate.
Insufficient.
"Too weak," the warrior said.
His wrist flicked.
The chain uncoiled like a striking serpent, wrapping Daredevil's left leg.
Matt's stomach dropped.
He was yanked airborne—
—and slammed into the concrete.
BANG!
Pain detonated through his torso.
Air fled his lungs.
Blood filled his mouth.
The warrior stepped forward, raising the flail.
"Your protection is meaningless."
"In the face of true order, chaos must be corrected."
The weapon rose toward Daredevil's leg.
Matt clenched his teeth, forcing his body to move.
With his right hand, he hurled his baton like a spear.
The warrior tilted his head.
The baton missed by inches.
But the distraction gave Matt one heartbeat.
He tore free of the chain and rolled away.
"Running?" the warrior mocked.
The chain lashed again.
This time the scythe carved across Matt's back.
Blood sprayed.
The wound cut deep — nearly to bone.
Daredevil stifled a cry and hurled himself through the window into the night.
The warrior did not pursue.
He watched the dark red silhouette vanish into darkness.
A contemptuous sneer formed beneath the mask.
He turned toward the chained man — bait from the beginning — now sobbing uncontrollably.
The flail rose.
Fisk Tower — Top Floor
Kingpin stood at the shattered window, overlooking the city he had set ablaze.
Behind him, Madam Gao knelt gracefully, pouring tea.
Steam curled upward.
The fragrance clashed with the scent of distant smoke and blood.
"Your stone failed to crush that insect," Kingpin said.
"That insect is more resilient than expected," Gao replied calmly.
"But that is not important."
She sipped her tea.
"What matters is that the city has heard the proclamation."
"Fear governs more efficiently than money, Mr. Fisk."
"You understand this."
Kingpin's jaw tightened.
"My men report that our target has begun to move."
Interest flickered across Gao's face.
"He is heading toward Hell's Kitchen."
She set her teacup down and rose.
"Excellent."
"Then let my other child greet our 'iron fist.'"
"Let us see whether sunlight burns brighter…"
"…or whether poison kills faster."
Hell's Kitchen Streets
Joren walked through chaos.
Sirens wailed.
Smoke drifted between buildings.
Firelight flickered against shattered glass.
He stopped.
Ahead, a dozen bodies lay scattered across the street.
Each corpse bore a thin, hair-like silver needle embedded at the base of the neck.
Precise.
Silent.
Instant.
In the center knelt a woman in pristine white.
A white kimono draped perfectly around her.
Her jet-black hair cascaded like ink across snow.
She polished a blowgun with a snow-white cloth.
Each motion delicate.
Graceful.
Ceremonial.
Sensing his presence, she slowly lifted her head.
Her face was breathtaking.
Perfect.
Expressionless.
Her eyes held no life.
Only cold, surgical killing intent.
Her voice was soft.
"The sun should not walk in the night."
Joren lowered his hat brim and glanced at the bodies blocking the street.
"Yare yare."
"You're in my way."