[58] Wilson Fisk

Just a Quick Note: I don't own any of the characters, worlds, or universes mentioned here (aside from a few original characters). They all belong to their respective creators and companies.

This is a work of fiction, created simply for fun and maybe a bit of inspiration. No offense or infringement intended.

Warning: Themes of Violence ahead

***

During the day, New York City would always feel safe and bright. New Yorkers would have that vague feeling of being in control of their lives and whatnot. However, was that the whole truth? Could a normal plebeian have complete control over their lives, or was it just an illusion projected by the system—those in power, hidden within the shadows and in plain sight? Everything was under constant surveillance. They knew the loans you took, the debts sinking your credit score, your addictions—every vulnerability. And they could control you, all while you remained blissfully unaware.

This city was like a cake, carefully divided among those who controlled the system—be it economically, politically, or psychologically. But if they devoured the whole damn thing themselves, what remained for the common people? Just crumbs and even those wouldn't be enough. 

***

The full moon hung high in the sky, radiating its resplendent moonlight, bathing the city in a silver glow. Despite the seemingly purifying element of the moon, there existed places in New York where even light could be invalidated. Darkness and decay overruled any form of purification and hope. 

Hell's Kitchen was one of the places in New York that teemed with darkness etched into the fabric of its spatial layers. Light abstained from touching the darkness that oozed from there, for it was a forbidden zone. Hell's Kitchen was simply the highway to the underworld—It was Hades' favorite place. The streets teemed with ghastly shadows and shady figures making illegal deals. Homelessness had become a part-time job for the shrewd hobos, who lurked in the darkness, careful not to draw unwanted attention.

'Illegal' was the new normal there. 

Within an expensive establishment that stood out amidst the pulsating nightlife of Hell's Kitchen, something bone-chilling was happening. Inside a heavily fortified secret room, a shirtless man sat chain-bound on an iron chair. His figure was illuminated by a single, flickering fluorescent bulb that singled him from the room's unforgiving darkness. 

His head hung low, heartbeats faint and barely perceptible. His body was riddled with bloody, pus-filled cuts, and several fingers were missing. Even his shoeless feet hadn't escaped the brutal treatment, their thumbs surgically removed. On the ground, a few fat rats brazenly fought over his severed digits, but the man remained utterly unresponsive.

The chained man was eerily silent, cold, and dispirited. He had shivered enough until his body got accustomed to it. It was a miracle he still hadn't succumbed to hypothermia or hemorrhage. Crying had become a chore as all of his tears had gradually dried. He was a mere husk of his former self. 

A thick steel-reinforced door creaked open, making the chubby rats scatter into the darkness. 

Calm but heavy footsteps echoed in the dimly lit room. With each step, an ominous song played in the background. It was the theme of the towering Goliath's entry. Rats squeaked in the dark corners of the room, seemingly repelled by that person's menacing aura. The unresponsive, tortured man finally showed a reaction. 

His body instinctively shivered, his lowered gaze catching a glimpse of large black shoes from his peripheral vision. He very well knew whom they belonged to. It was the powerful individual behind his unjustified detention. 

Why me? Why did I have to endure those months of hell? This isn't the kind of atonement I envisioned when I retired as an assassin. But do people like me even deserve atonement? Maybe the deepest circles of hell are my true retirement plan.

Fuck you, Wilson Fisk! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! 

Even with years of training as a professional assassin, including torture resistance, Fisk was a monster who shattered all of it. He was the vilest demon the assassin had ever faced. His own bloody kill count paled compared to this man, who had left him psychologically and emotionally wrecked.

Finally, the new visitor came into the light. He stood at an imposing six-seven, packing 450 lbs of muscles that furiously strained against his pristine white suit. He looked like the epitome of purity amidst the darkness and filth of the room. But don't be mistaken: he was anything but pure. He was Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin of the underworld, an 'honest' businessman. 

If power had a definition, then Fisk represented it quite well. He was power incarnate, both illegitimately and legitimately. He was the baker of the cake which the influential men and women of New York distributed amongst themselves. Well, even that felt like an understatement. Fisk was the whole damn bakery. The system was him and him the system. 

"In all my years in the game, I've never trusted even the assassins under my contract list." Fisk's voice was low, disturbingly so. The overhead light frighteningly bounced off his bald head as he unhurried walked around the chained assassin. 

"The words of an assassin can be bought, but you once refused my kind first offer. But now, look at you." His penetrating pale blue eyes landed on the shaking assassin. PTSD was real, and the bound assassin was clearly suffering from it. He hated and feared Fisk to the bone. 

"Look at me," Fisk commanded as he stopped in front of the assassin. 

The assassin struggled to raise his head, his neck muscles protesting after not moving for a long time. 

A feeble, hoarse reply barely escaped from his lips. "I-I have told you everything you need to know. My contractor was fully anonymous. Only the bountiful reward mattered when I took the job."

"Beyond the simple job, I didn't care to look into it."

"That's the code we live by as assassins." 

"Hmm," Fisk calmly nodded, his rage threatening to be unleashed. He was a man who liked to be in control of every little detail. And control first started from within. He had to be a master of his own emotions and harshly decisive when the situation demanded it. 

The assassin before Fisk was involved in the secret clean-up of his men—the underlings he had delegated the task of kidnapping NYPD's captain's daughter. It was part of his grander plan to lessen the sharpness of George Stacy's claws. Fisk didn't give two hoots about those disposable minions. 

What bothered him was the person or organization behind it. Who sabotaged his plans? That's what he had been constantly asking himself, and he hated every moment of it. Concerning the unknown enemy, the control he had always wielded was slowly slipping away from his hands. It was utterly unforgivable. 

The few moles Fisk had planted in the NYPD failed to extract any clues from the street surveillance footage. He had been thoroughly outmaneuvered-Outsmarted. Whoever hired the assassin was meticulous, resourceful, and undeniably dangerous.

Maybe a new rival in town? No, it can't be. I always keep my enemies closer—mutual benefits for those cooperative and a painful death for the defiant. 

"Tsk, tsk, tsk..." Fisk frustratingly played with the silver ring on his ring finger. 

The assassin's hollowed eyes fearfully widened like a deer caught in the headlights. Trepidation washed over his skillfully honed senses as an experienced killer. It was a precognitive feeling of something he was entirely familiar with. It was the call of death. He had killed many to lose count and unconsciously embodied the last cries and perspectives of his targets. 

As a man who took lives for a living, death was always near—closer to him than most. Yet, that proximity didn't make him fearless. In fact, he wanted to live desperately. The irony wasn't lost on him. 

"I can't believe I prolonged your existence for months when I knew of the truth for some time now," Fisk said, shaking his head in desolation. He silently trailed his massive, rough hands across the assassin's shoulders. 

"P-PLEASEEEEE!" The assassin tearfully begged, disgusting snot dripping from his nose. His whole body was on high alert, squeezing the last bits of energy remaining inside him. It was his body's final attempt at survival. 

"I CAN HELP YOU!" 

"DON'T KILL ME!!"

Fisk feigned helplessness, his face a mask of contemplation. Then, without warning, his viper-like hands shot out, clamping around the assassin's throat with crushing force. In one swift motion, he hoisted the man—still heavily chained to his seat—up to eye level, their faces inches apart.

"Are you really an assassin or a fraud?" Fisk asked, a disappointed expression appearing on his face. 

"#$@&@%!!!" The assassin tried to speak, but only labored gibberish came out. His throat was being squeezed to nothingness, making the blood vessels on his temple pop out. The color of his face was slowly turning reddish purple. 

"Farewell." Uncaringly, Fisk forcefully twisted the assassin's neck. The sound of bones cracking and separating from the spine resounded in the room. 

With a cold gleam in his eyes, Fisk held the lifeless body like how a butcher would clutch a chicken. He then let the corpse find solace on the cold, damp ground. 

Killing the assassin didn't lessen the uneasiness he was feeling. It only made him want to just let out what he had been bottling up. Fisk was restless. He was out in the open, albeit masked by inky shadows. However, the enemy was unknown, probably laughing at him behind the scenes. 

It was humiliating. Fisk's frown deepened as he put his hands forward. Another figure dressed in complete black emerged from the darkness with a bottle of expensive alcohol. The figure then poured out the drink, and Fisk washed his hands. 

Fisk removed a white handkerchief from his breast pocket and dried his hands. After finishing, he dropped it on the dead assassin. 

"Have the crew deal with it," Fisk ordered before leaving the room, a gloomy aura lingering around him.

The night was still young. It was time to hunt. 

Ever since a childhood incident, Fisk had vowed to always be the hunter—the predator.

The prey's fate has always been bleak, with one conclusion: Death!

***

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[Word Count 1702]