The Red Reaper and the Kingpin

Fisk Tower, Midtown Manhattan

Kingpin's Office

"How did it go yesterday?" Kingpin's voice was calm, almost bored, but his hulking frame radiated menace. "Was the problem taken care of?"

Wesley, ever the polished right-hand man, adjusted his tie and cleared his throat. "Yes. The mercenary handled it. After he checked in last night, I sent men to confirm. All our ambush operatives... well, they didn't make it. But the mysterious target? Dealt with."

Fisk leaned back in his custom chair, a fortress of steel and leather. His sharp eyes zeroed in on Wesley's hesitation. He let it slide—for now.

"Good," Fisk rumbled, tapping a meaty finger on the desk. "Spread the word. The matter is resolved. Business continues as usual."

"Understood."

"What about the mercenary? Can we bring him into the fold?"

Wesley's mouth tightened into a thin line. "He doesn't do allegiances. Strictly a freelancer. He's turned down or destroyed every other gang that's approached him."

"A pity." Fisk's hand flexed over the head of his cane, the metal gleaming under the dim office lights. "If another situation arises, we'll use him again. Efficient tools are worth their cost."

"Yes, sir."

Fisk rose, grabbing his cane as the faint sound of his expensive loafers on the polished floor punctuated the stillness. "That will be all, Wesley. Go home. Rest."

Wesley nodded, already halfway to the door. "Of course, sir."

...

Midnight, Kingpin's Mansion, Long Island

The sprawling mansion loomed against the dark horizon, its sharp angles cutting into the midnight air like a blade. Inside, the villa was eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of guards outside and the occasional clink of glassware from the housekeepers in the kitchen.

Wilson Fisk pushed open the front door, his imposing figure filling the entrance. Tonight, the house felt emptier than usual—hollow, even. He dismissed the thought as fatigue, loosened his tie, and headed straight for his study.

The moment he stepped inside, he stopped cold.

There she was.

A blonde woman lounged in his leather chair like she owned it, legs casually draped over the desk. One hand toyed with a sleek, futuristic firearm resting on her thigh. The other swirled his prized whiskey in a crystal glass.

"I've had better, to be honest," she said, her voice dripping with mockery as she took another sip.

Fisk's brow twitched, but his expression remained impassive. He shrugged off his jacket, carefully hanging it on the rack, and undid the top buttons of his shirt. With an air of unbothered authority, he crossed the room, opened the liquor cabinet, and pulled out a fresh glass. His movements were slow and deliberate, the calm before the storm.

He sat down opposite her, the chair creaking under his weight, and poured himself a drink from the bottle she'd helped herself to. Lifting the glass, he took a measured sip, his gaze never leaving hers.

"So," Fisk began his tone a mixture of amusement and suspicion. "You escaped my men. Impressive. Or perhaps Wesley... is no longer my Wesley?"

The woman smirked but said nothing, her confidence a weapon as sharp as the gun resting in her hand.

Fisk's eyes narrowed. This was the woman Wesley had assured him was "dealt with." Yet here she was, lounging in his chair like she'd planned it all along. Something had gone very wrong. He thought back to their earlier conversation—Wesley's usual poise had faltered just slightly. Not enough to suggest outright betrayal, but enough to plant a seed of doubt.

No, Fisk decided. Wesley hadn't turned against him. If anything, he'd likely been manipulated—perhaps controlled. The pieces were falling into place, but the bigger picture still eluded him.

Through it all, Fisk maintained his composure, his sharp mind already calculating his next move.

Sarah, for her part, studied him. The Kingpin's reputation wasn't exaggerated—this was a man who could stare death in the face and ask it to wait until he finished his drink. She admired that. Power. Control. An unshakable presence.

Too bad, she thought, that he was on the wrong side of the tracks.

..

Sarah finished her glass, a smooth motion of her wrist as she placed the gun down on the desk. Without missing a beat, she plunged her hand into the shadows pooling across the wood, and when she pulled it out, another bottle of whiskey was cradled in her fingers. She twisted off the cap, pouring herself a new glass.

"Now this is the good stuff," she said, a smirk curling her lips.

Fisk raised an eyebrow but didn't speak, surprised by the act but choosing to remain silent.

As she raised the glass to her lips, Sarah flicked her fingers casually over it. Two ice cubes appeared from thin air, falling gently into the glass, making a soft clink as they settled.

Fisk didn't flinch, though he couldn't hide the flicker of surprise in his eyes. He wasn't accustomed to surprises like that.

Sarah took a slow sip, savoring the taste, and was inwardly impressed. So, this is Kingpin. The rumors were right. Calm, controlled, never showing a crack in his armor.

For a moment, Fisk said nothing, letting the quiet stretch between them. He noticed she hadn't answered his question. She just kept sipping her whiskey, seemingly content to let the conversation hang in the air like an unfinished thought.

Finally, he broke the silence. "Mind if I have one?" He nodded toward the drawer where he kept his cigars. His eyes flicked to the bottle she was enjoying—if she could take it so easily, perhaps it wasn't so dangerous to share a drink with her.

"Hmm?" Sarah glanced toward the drawer. "Ah, cigars."

"Not my thing, but I'm pretty sure they would taste better with my whiskey," she added, nudging the bottle toward him. "Try it. I don't often share, but I make an exception for friends."

"Friends, huh?" Fisk thought to himself. You consider me a friend? Then why destroy my business? Was it to get my attention? If so, you've succeeded.

He took the bottle and poured himself a glass, the liquid dark and rich. He raised it to his lips, savoring the first taste. The warmth spread through him, and for a brief second, he forgot the weight of the day. Incredible.

"Where did you buy this?"

Fisk was already thinking about how to secure a constant supply. His usual stock now seemed lackluster in comparison.

"It's exclusive," Sarah said with a half-smile. "Only I have them."

Fisk's interest piqued. "Then, how about a business deal?"

You've come here for a reason, he thought, eyeing her posture. And judging by your calm demeanor, I don't think you're here to kill me. A business deal wouldn't hurt.

"I can't do that," Sarah said dryly, the hint of a smile still on her lips. "The craftswoman only shares it with me. Since she's one person, she doesn't produce much at a time."

Sarah's mind wandered briefly to the image of Kara—her friend, the one who had the virtual substance to make whiskey by the barrel. It almost made her laugh. Now that's an idea…

She stopped herself from laughing out loud, keeping her face impassive as she watched Kingpin.

Fisk could almost see the wheels turning in her mind. He wasn't about to press her for more details on the "craftswoman," but the thought crossed his mind—Perhaps I could gather some intel on this mysterious person and find this 'craftswoman' myself?

"That makes it a bit inconvenient," he mused. "Perhaps I could gather information from this mysterious person and go find this so-called 'craftswoman' myself?"

"You're not interested in that," Sarah said, her voice cool and sure. "You're interested in what I want."

Fisk sat back, intrigued. He'd been expecting this.

"You came to see me for what purpose?" he asked, his voice steady, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"To make a business deal," Sarah replied, her gaze unwavering.

"Oh?" Fisk leaned forward, a flicker of curiosity crossing his features. "Interesting. Tell me more."

He took another sip of the whiskey, the smooth liquid sliding down his throat as he never took his eyes off her.

"You want to be the king of New York's underworld, don't you?" Sarah's voice was calm, each word precise. "I won't stand in your way."

Kingpin's brow furrowed. Her presence had already caused significant disruptions to his operations. His earlier calculations, estimating a few more years to unify the city's gangs, were clearly worthless now.

"And the cost?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

"Simple," Sarah said, swirling the whiskey in her glass. "No human trafficking. No forced prostitution. No drugs to kids. And most importantly, you stay the hell away from Karen Page. Outside of that, I don't care what you do. But if you cross that line—if you cross me—I'll kill anyone in my way. Including you."

Kingpin's lips curved into a faint smile. "Heh. Interesting. What makes you think you could deal with me?"

"This isn't a suggestion," Sarah said, lowering her legs from the desk and leaning forward. Her striking blue eyes locked onto his. "It's a warning."

Kingpin placed his glass down, the sharp clink breaking the tense silence. His right hand slid toward the cane resting beside his chair. His eyes darkened, a dangerous glint sparking within them.

It had been years since anyone dared to challenge him in his own domain. Not even Daredevil had stormed into his home, issuing threats. The audacity of this woman was almost... admirable.

"What happens if I refuse?"

Sarah leaned back again, casually snapping her fingers. "If you refuse, I'll start by beating you senseless and then make you accept the terms. But honestly? That sounds like a hassle. I prefer efficiency. Like this."

The air in the study shifted a "swoosh" echoing as black tendrils shot up from the ground around Fisk. His eyes sharpened, and he sprang to his feet, swinging his cane with surprising speed and precision.

The cane struck the writhing vines—but instead of cutting through them, it sank into their inky depths. The tendrils coiled around the cane like serpents, pulling it from his grip.

Kingpin released the cane immediately, his massive hands now gripping the tendrils wrapping around him. He strained against them, his legendary strength on full display as veins bulged in his forearms.

But it was futile.

Swoosh.

The floor darkened, and more black tendrils erupted, lashing out to bind his arms and legs. Within seconds, the Kingpin was restrained in an "X" shape, his immense strength no match for the unnatural magic holding him.

Sarah didn't move from her seat. She simply watched as the tendrils tightened, their energy visibly draining Fisk's vitality. His breaths grew heavier, his stamina visibly fading.

Kingpin gritted his teeth, refusing to show weakness, but the helplessness in his eyes was impossible to mask. He wasn't afraid of guns or knives. He'd faced down armies of thugs, assassins, and even so-called heroes.

But this? This was something else entirely. Something beyond his control.

Sarah took another sip of whiskey, her expression calm and collected. "You've had your answer. What happens next is up to you, Kingpin."

Kingpin took a deep breath, his chest heaving as he struggled against the invisible hold Sarah's nanites now had on his very mind. He wasn't a man accustomed to losing control—over his empire, over his people, or himself. Yet here he was, reduced to a pawn in his own game.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice low but steady, though his labored breaths betrayed the strain he was under.

With a casual wave of her hand, Sarah moved the desk to the side, the heavy furniture gliding across the room like it weighed nothing. Kingpin's eyes narrowed, watching her every move as she floated effortlessly from her chair, her movements as smooth as the wind itself.

She stopped just inches from him, extending a finger to press against his forehead. The contact was brief, but her words cut deeper than any blow.

"I told you," she said softly, her tone deceptively gentle. "I won't stand in your way—not because I fear you, but because you'll be doing exactly what I want. And as it turns out, Hell's Kitchen is best served with you alive."

Before Fisk could respond, a sudden swarm of nanites erupted from Sarah's wristband. The invisible, mechanical creatures zipped through the air, silent as ghosts and efficient as a guillotine. Fisk barely felt the microscopic invaders as they breached his skin and made their way to his brain.

His breath hitched as the realization dawned. "This is... this is how you controlled Wesley," he muttered, the weight of the revelation hitting him like a freight train.

"What is this?" Fisk's voice was gruff, his eyes wide with both rage and fear.

Sarah tilted her head, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Technology far beyond your comprehension," she said, her voice calm, almost clinical. "Right now, I'm rewiring your neural pathways. Long story short? I control your thoughts, emotions, and actions. You'll still think clearly, though. Can't have you missing out on just how powerless you are, can we?"

Fisk's glare hardened, but his body betrayed him, frozen under her command. Sarah conjured a dozen razor-sharp ice shards behind her, and with a flick of her wrist, sent them hurtling toward him.

The shards embedded themselves into his body—not deeply enough to be fatal but enough to ignite searing pain. Fisk let out a guttural howl, his massive frame trembling as the agony coursed through him.

"Feel that?" Sarah asked, her tone light but her gaze cold. "That's me amplifying your pain receptors. I could crank it up further, but there's a fine line between agony and unconsciousness. Wouldn't want you missing out on the fun."

Fisk clenched his jaw, sweat dripping down his temple as he fought to keep his composure. The pain was unlike anything he'd ever experienced, a raw, electric torment that seemed to burn him from the inside out.

"Just so we're clear," Sarah continued, her voice almost conversational, "this isn't even close to the max setting. And I can keep it up indefinitely. Curious what that feels like?"

Fisk's breaths came in short, shallow bursts, but his face, somehow, returned to an eerily calm expression. "What is it that you want?" he asked again, his voice strained but steady.

"You already know," Sarah said, withdrawing the tendrils and letting him collapse into the chair, his body visibly relieved to be free from the restraints. She floated back to her chair and snapped her fingers, the desk sliding effortlessly back into place between them.

"I want information about your enemies. And I want you to shut down your human trafficking operations. Hand those over to your rivals—find scapegoats, let the police handle them. That's your specialty, isn't it?"

Fisk nodded slowly, his mind already racing through possible targets to pin his operations on.

"Good," Sarah said. "Next, clean up Hell's Kitchen. End the chaos caused by the small-time thugs. From now on, you're responsible for its security. Have your men collect protection money to ensure safety. I'm sure the locals will pay if it means peace."

Fisk narrowed his eyes but said nothing, silently weighing her demands.

"I want the women in Hell's Kitchen to stop living in fear of being robbed or disappearing," Sarah continued her voice steady but with a flash of emotion. "And stay the fuck away from my girlfriend. That's my only request. I don't care about your other operations—expand, consolidate, whatever. But if I hear about robberies or chaos again, I'll come for you."

Sarah's jaw tightened as memories of the events near the docks and later at the bar flooded her mind. From young girls to elderly women, it seemed that in both instances, women of any age weren't safe in New York.

Fisk leaned back, his massive hands gripping the armrests of his chair. "Understood," he said at last. He recognized a losing battle when he saw one. This woman wasn't just a threat—she was an unstoppable force.

"Good," Sarah said, standing. "Then we have an understanding. Don't make me regret leaving you alive."

As she turned to leave, Fisk watched her go. Unable to contain himself, he muttered, "Bitch," under his breath. But the moment the word left his mouth, agony ripped through his body, and he doubled over, falling out of his chair.