Hell's Kitchen.
Atlantis Hotel.
The most luxurious hotel in the entire district.
Anyone who could walk through its doors with confidence was somebody. Power. Money. Influence. The Atlantis was where Hell's Kitchen's true upper layer gathered, and even then, not everyone qualified.
Its top floor was even more notorious.
Most of Hell's Kitchen's so-called big shots would have to reserve it one or two months in advance—if they were lucky.
And tonight, that entire floor belonged to one man.
Wilson Fisk.
Kingpin.
There was only one reason he would go this far.
The woman sitting across from him.
"Vanessa, I'm sorry." Fisk's heavy voice carried a sincerity that almost never appeared in public. "There's been too much happening recently. I truly couldn't make time. I've neglected you."
And he wasn't lying.
Since killing Nobu, Fisk had moved like a storm through Hell's Kitchen.
First came the Russians.
Then Nobu's Yakuza network.
Then, only a few days ago, he learned that the person who poisoned Vanessa had been Leland all along.
After that, there was nothing left to discuss.
He sent Bullseye.
One pebble.
That was all it took to end Leland's life.
And once Leland died, the rest of his empire naturally fell into Fisk's hands.
In just a short time, Hell's Kitchen's old five-way balance had completely collapsed. Three of the original powers had already been erased. Only Madame Gao remained.
So no—Fisk hadn't exaggerated.
These past few weeks had buried him alive in blood, deals, territory, and power struggles. Even if he had wanted to spend time with Vanessa, he simply hadn't had the chance.
As for Madame Gao?
Fisk barely took her seriously anymore.
A drug dealer from Hong Kong. That was all.
When the other major forces were still around, she had been a problem.
Now?
She stood alone.
She couldn't stop him.
If Fisk hadn't still been busy digesting the territory he'd just swallowed, he would have crushed her too.
It had to be said—
ever since he obtained a Devil Fruit, Fisk's confidence had swelled to an entirely new level.
And that confidence wasn't unfounded.
The recent expansion of his empire had gone this smoothly largely because of those powers.
Of course, Fisk rarely handled things personally. That had never been his style.
Killing Nobu himself had been an exception.
That had been for Wesley.
For revenge.
The rest?
He left those matters to Bullseye.
And once Bullseye ate the Chop-Chop Fruit, the man became a nightmare.
Before that, Bullseye had already been terrifying at long range.
But he had one fatal flaw.
If someone got in close, his threat dropped sharply.
The Chop-Chop Fruit erased that weakness completely.
Now he was deadly at a distance, deadly up close, and absurdly difficult to kill. With a body that could split apart like bladed steel, he had become a monster with virtually no blind spots.
In the collapse of the other factions, Bullseye had done most of the real killing.
The old order of Hell's Kitchen had been torn apart with ruthless efficiency.
Lately, Fisk had been in a very good mood.
His only regret was that he still hadn't found Elektra.
Pushing that thought aside, he focused on Vanessa again.
Tonight, he would not think about enemies, territory, or power.
Tonight was hers.
"Vanessa," he said softly, "you deserve better than this."
Vanessa reached across the table and gently took his hand.
"Fisk, you don't need to say that." Her voice was warm, calm, and steady—the kind of voice that could smooth out even a storm. "I'm not the kind of woman who needs constant company. I know what you're doing. I understand what kind of life you have. I don't want to distract you, and I definitely don't want to become your burden."
Fisk's hand tightened around hers.
"Vanessa," he said quietly, "that's exactly why I love you."
A faint smile curved her lips.
"And you're not a burden. You're everything."
Vanessa laughed softly.
"That was a little dramatic, even for you."
"Perhaps."
For the first time in days, a genuine smile touched Fisk's face.
Then he glanced at her and changed the subject.
"How is your fruit development going?"
At that, Vanessa's eyes lit up.
"You noticed, didn't you?" she said, almost pleased with herself. She tilted her chin slightly. "My skin's gotten even better."
"In my eyes," Fisk said without hesitation, "you've always been perfect."
His words were blunt, lacking grace, even a little clumsy—
but Vanessa clearly loved them.
Her smile deepened.
She was just about to speak again when the lights in the private dining room suddenly died.
Click.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Fisk's expression changed instantly.
At the same moment, screams echoed from outside.
Then came the sharp, violent crack of gunfire.
Rat-tat-tat-tat!
Bullseye burst into the room a heartbeat later, his face cold and alert.
"Ninjas," he said. "A group of ninjas broke in."
Fisk's eyes narrowed.
Ninjas?
He had personally wiped Nobu's people out. So where the hell had these come from?
But there was no time to think.
"I'll hold them off," Bullseye said. "Get out. Now."
"Vanessa, move."
Fisk rose immediately, shielding Vanessa behind his body as several bodyguards closed around them and started escorting them toward the exit.
Crash!
Crash!
The windows around the room exploded inward.
Glass rained across the floor as dark figures swung into the dining room on ropes, landing in silence.
In an instant, the path out was sealed.
Fisk stopped.
Vanessa's hand tightened around his arm.
Then one of the ninjas stepped forward.
He wore a suit.
A sword with a crimson hilt hung in his hand.
His eyes locked onto Fisk.
"Iron Fist…" he said in a low, cold voice.
Then his gaze sharpened.
"We meet again."
The moment Fisk saw his face, even he froze.
"Nobu?"
For the first time in a long while, genuine shock appeared on Kingpin's face.
He knew this man.
He knew him very well.
Because he had killed him with his own hands.
He still remembered the feeling of that punch. Remembered the impact. Remembered the way Nobu's heart had been crushed to pulp beneath his fist.
There should have been no chance.
No possibility.
And yet—
Nobu stood there in front of him, alive, sword in hand, like a ghost clawing its way back from hell.
For the first time that night, the atmosphere in the room turned truly cold.