Karl stared silently at the shattered ice fragments at his feet.
If he had not struck so suddenly, Wilson Fisk would not have fallen so easily. Barely an hour had passed since Fisk dispatched the mutant enforcers to assassinate him. He had not yet mobilized his full network — only the Hell's Kitchen gangs had been ordered to intercept Karl.
The underworld was not limited to street gangs. Assassins, mercenaries, and private military contractors were all part of its machinery. Given time, Fisk could have hired enhanced operatives, rogue mutants, and professional killers willing to risk their lives for the right price.
But there was no undoing what had happened.
Kingpin was dead.
Karl turned toward Psylocke, still immobilized in ice.
He paused, considering.
A cold blue light flickered in his eyes.
The moisture in her brain and heart froze instantly.
Her body went still.
Karl did not linger.
He walked toward the exit.
As he stepped through the doorway, the last remaining witness — Wesley — had his throat silently severed by a shadow ninja emerging behind Karl.
Two shadow ninjas appeared and guided Karl into the Shadow Realm. Moments later, he emerged from the ground outside Fisk Tower.
He retrieved his motorcycle from system storage, put on his helmet, and drove away.
He did not destroy the surveillance cameras.
There was no point.
By now, federal agencies and S.H.I.E.L.D. were undoubtedly aware of the disturbance.
Hiding was meaningless.
Karl's feelings toward S.H.I.E.L.D. were complicated.
They monitored superhuman activity and prioritized planetary security. From Earth's perspective, their contributions were undeniable.
Yet their methods were often ruthless, their oversight opaque, and their operations riddled with moral compromise. Even without the hidden rot of HYDRA infiltration, no intelligence organization remained clean.
Karl disliked being watched.
Joining S.H.I.E.L.D. had never crossed his mind.
Nor did he have any desire to become one of the heroes they might attempt to recruit.
He was not a hero.
And heroism came at a price — often paid by those close to you.
Even with shadow ninjas, he could not guarantee the safety of people around him.
He had none to protect now.
But one day, he might.
If S.H.I.E.L.D. pushed him too far, he would not hesitate to expose HYDRA's infiltration prematurely — or confront Nick Fury directly. With his shadow traversal ability, infiltrating secure facilities, even Fury's office, would not be difficult.
As he rode through Queens, several pairs of crimson eyes slipped through the darkness behind him.
Karl had dispatched five shadow ninjas to watch over May Parker and Peter.
Though they had no formal connection, it would be dangerous if any agency or criminal force attempted to leverage them after Karl's visit.
The ninjas would remain hidden within their shadows, emerging only if their lives were in imminent danger — and if necessary, extracting them instantly.
He had taken Richard Parker's research.
He owed them that much.
Karl showed no mercy toward criminals.
But May and Peter were different.
The shadow guards were simply insurance.
…
Back at the farm, Karl deployed a hundred shadow ninjas to patrol the property before heading upstairs to sleep.
Though he had not personally killed most of the night's victims, witnessing the slaughter of thousands through his shadow soldiers left a weight on his mind.
Not long ago, he had been an ordinary wage earner.
He had forced himself to adapt.
But killing was not something one grew accustomed to overnight.
He fell asleep almost immediately.
Outside the house, inside the walls, and throughout the rooms, pairs of crimson eyes glowed silently.
Anyone attempting to infiltrate the farm would be met with instant, lethal force.
The next morning
Karl opened his eyes slowly, staring at the familiar ceiling.
Relief washed over him.
Each morning he half-expected to awaken in another world.
Instead, the same ceiling greeted him.
He sat up and ran a hand through his hair. Scarlet eyes flickered behind him before fading.
After washing and dressing — a white shirt, black trousers, polished shoes — he went downstairs.
Breakfast awaited him.
Shadow ninjas had prepared it.
After eating, he mounted his motorcycle and rode toward Manhattan.
…
He chose a quiet café, ordered coffee, and sat by the window.
For the first time in days, he had nothing urgent to do.
Or perhaps he simply didn't know what to do next.
So he watched the city.
"Here's your coffee, sir."
Karl turned toward the voice.
A woman with wavy burgundy hair and striking features placed the cup before him. She wore a café uniform, yet nothing about her presence felt ordinary.
Karl's pupils contracted — but his expression did not change.
"Thank you," he said calmly.
"Enjoy," she replied, giving him a brief wink before walking away.
Karl watched her retreating figure and exhaled slowly.
Natasha Romanoff.
S.H.I.E.L.D. operative.
Black Widow.
Her presence confirmed it:
S.H.I.E.L.D. had taken notice of him.
Karl glanced at the coffee.
Black Widow had personally served it.
Would he drink it?
No.
From behind the counter, Natasha observed him discreetly.
Karl continued staring out the window as if lost in thought.
Both of them knew.
Neither acknowledged it.
The game had begun.
...…