After settling on Carson Wolfe as the next target, David threw himself into the work with barely contained excitement. He had been waiting a long time for a chance to go after that man, and the thought of finally getting revenge kept him wired almost nonstop. But Wolfe wasn't some street thug or low-level enforcer. As a senior federal agent, he was cautious, disciplined, and surrounded by layers of protection, which meant David had no choice but to treat this like a real operation and build the plan piece by piece.
While David disappeared into surveillance feeds, hacked files, and encrypted records, Locke was busy playing a very different role. For the first time in a while, Emma Church held a proper community gathering. There was singing, prayer, children's performances, and a free lunch for everyone who came through the doors. When Father Emma had still been around, he had never really had the extra time or energy to organize something this involved, so Locke's effort earned him sincere praise from both the church members and the residents nearby.
The whole church was full of motion and warmth. Children ran laughing through the aisles and across the yard, their footsteps echoing under the high ceiling, while older residents sat in folding chairs and smiled as though they had almost forgotten what peace felt like. Even David came downstairs and joined the prayer service. For a little while, the constant tension in his chest seemed to ease, and the anger he carried around every day quieted just enough for him to breathe.
By evening, the event was winding down. Locke was in the backyard, cleaning up lunch trash and stacking empty containers, when the sharp chime of a small bell cut through the air.
Jingle.
He paused for a moment, then looked toward the chapel interior. It was the bell from the confession booth. Someone had come.
When he stepped into the small hall, one of the confessional doors was already closed. Locke had only been acting as priest for a few days, but he had already heard several confessions. In Hell's Kitchen, pressure and misery piled up so fast that people were always looking for somewhere—anywhere—to unload them.
"Hello," Locke said as he took his seat. "I'm Father Locke. I'll be hearing your confession today."
The man on the other side sounded surprised. "You're not Father Emma?"
"Father Emma is in the Vatican," Locke replied evenly. "I'll be acting in his place for the next few months."
The man went quiet for a second, then let out a tired sigh. "Whatever. A priest is a priest."
He sounded young, but there was a strain in his voice that made him seem older. "My name is Wesley, and my life is a complete mess. I've got this fat female boss who's always nitpicking everything I do. She never shuts up. It's like having a fly buzzing inside your skull all day long." He gave a bitter laugh, then kept going. "I had a girlfriend too, but she cheated on me with my best friend. I live in the cheapest apartment I could find, and every time the subway passes, the whole place shakes like it's about to collapse. And my job? It's basically slavery. Feels like I'm a textile worker from a century ago getting squeezed dry by some heartless owner."
As Locke listened, a faint sense of recognition stirred in the back of his mind. Wesley. A miserable life. A certain tone of suppressed fury and self-contempt. He stayed quiet and let the man keep talking.
"I grew up without a father," Wesley said, his voice lowering. "And I've got this genetic condition. Sometimes my heart starts pounding like it's going to explode, my vision gets warped, and the only thing that calms it down is medication." He paused, and when he spoke again, the bitterness had sharpened into pain. "Tell me, Father… is God punishing me?"
That was enough.
Locke was sure now who this was.
Wesley Gibson—the man with absurd potential, the future assassin who could make bullets curve through the air.
For a few seconds, the booth stayed silent. Then Wesley suddenly became agitated, and his voice rose with the force of something he had clearly been suppressing for a long time.
"I want to kill them, Father," he said. "I've thought about it more than once. Kill all of them. Cut their heads off one by one. That cheating couple, that fat bitch at work… all of them deserve to die."
Locke let him vent. He didn't interrupt, didn't judge, and didn't rush him. Only after the anger had poured itself out did he finally speak, his voice lowered into something calm and steady.
"Wesley, all of us live under rules. Laws, morals, work regulations, society—this world can be cruel and merciless. But we're still living people. We walk under the sun, and we keep looking for light. Calm your heart. Believe that good things are coming, and believe that your fate is about to change."
Wesley let out a short, mocking laugh, the kind people made when hope sounded too expensive to afford. Locke didn't mind. He leaned back slightly and continued at the same measured pace.
"Wesley, do you believe in God?"
There was a brief pause. "What?"
"God has shown me that your destiny is about to change," Locke said. "But I want to remind you to be careful when the moment comes. If you ever feel lost, come back here. God will guide you."
The man on the other side went still. For a long time, he said nothing, as if he were chewing on every word and trying to decide whether any of it meant something real.
"Father, I…" Wesley started, then stopped.
"God already knows," Locke said quietly. "Don't let yourself be blinded by things that only look noble from a distance. And don't choose a road that leaves you drowning in regret. The door here will always be open to you."
Wesley left in a haze of confusion. Watching his back disappear from the chapel, Locke slowly curled his lips into a smile he couldn't suppress.
Wesley Gibson.
The protagonist of Wanted had actually shown up in this world.
There were too many valuable things tied to the assassin network behind him: curved-bullet techniques, the healing loom bath, and an entire organization full of elite killers. If the chance came, Locke would strip every useful thing he could from them.
Much later that night, just after he had fallen asleep, violent knocking slammed into his door.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Get up!" David shouted from outside. "Daredevil got jumped!"
Locke was upright in an instant. He threw the door open, crossed the hall, and rushed straight into David's room. The massive screen inside was showing a live drone feed. Under the darkness of the city, more than a dozen streams of gunfire were converging on one section of the street. Several vehicles had already exploded, and the spreading fire cast a savage red glow across the walls and pavement.
Locke tilted his head slightly. Even from that distance, he could hear the faint rumble of explosions carried through the night air.
"What happened?" he demanded. "Where's Daredevil?"
David was rubbing his hands together nervously, eyes locked on the screen. "He got dropped. Right in the middle of a swing. Somebody hit him with a cold shot from a hidden position, and then over a dozen armed men closed in and started unloading on him."
He jabbed a finger at several figures on the screen. "Look at them. Smooth mag changes, movement under cover, coordinated suppressive fire. Their discipline is nearly on par with Delta Force. These aren't gang idiots. They're professionals. Daredevil can't even get his head up." His voice tightened. "And the guy who clipped him first still hasn't shown himself, which means he's still somewhere out there with a bead on the whole fight."
Locke sucked in a breath.
Was this really how Daredevil died in this version of the world?
The scene on the screen was brutal enough that he genuinely couldn't picture a comeback. Unless someone else stepped in, there was no obvious path out. But at this stage, he couldn't think of a single hero likely to appear in time.
Curiosity rose hard in his chest.
He wanted to know.
At that exact moment, the system, quiet until now, suddenly chimed.
[Ding. Temporary mission issued: Punish Evil.]
[Mission content: Prevention is better than post-event judgment. Eliminate the team hunting Daredevil.]
[Mission time limit: Before Daredevil dies or after the killer dies.]
[Mission reward: Reward packs based on completion rating.]
Locke's eyes widened immediately.
Damn it.
He had just become Daredevil's support NPC.
After only a few seconds of thought, he made the decision. System rewards were system rewards. If saving Daredevil paid out, then saving Daredevil it was.
"Get the drone higher," he snapped. "Find the sniper."
David looked at him in disbelief. "What are you planning to do?"
"God says Daredevil's one of the good ones," Locke replied while already moving for his gear. "He doesn't die tonight."
"What?" David blurted out. "God's a saintly bitch?"
The words left his mouth before he could stop them, and the second he realized it, his face twitched. He glanced at Locke from the corner of his eye, suddenly aware that the man standing in front of him had already killed dozens of people.
Locke gave him a cold look. "The Virgin Mary is the mother of Jesus. A woman of God. Don't call her a bitch. Understand?"
David coughed awkwardly and swallowed. "Yeah. Got it."
Even though he often acted fearless around Locke, deep down he no longer saw him as just some odd priest with a gimmick. He saw a killer. A real one.
Locke changed fast, slipping into black clothing and pulling the devil mask over his face. Then he moved out and headed straight for the battlefield.
But he didn't rush in.
He approached carefully, using darkness and cover, waiting for David's voice in the earpiece. Another car exploded in the distance, and through the crackling sounds of the fight, Locke caught sight of blood bursting from Daredevil's body before the man rolled into an abandoned house for cover.
Then David finally spoke.
"Sniper spotted. Fifteen degrees southeast of your position." His voice suddenly sharpened. "He saw the drone. Damn it—he's engaging the drone!"
A burst of static crackled through the communicator, followed by David's furious voice. "Damn it… fuck! Knight, the drone's down, he—"
A few seconds earlier, the instant David shouted that the drone was under attack, Locke had already moved. He appeared behind the gunman on the right flank, his mental focus compressed to the limit, his Compound Eyes pushed to full output. In his vision, the movements of the dozen gunmen around him seemed to slow.
"Bang, bang, bang…"
Both pistols came up flat and level. Muzzle flashes bloomed, and bullets tore out.
....
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