Desperate Men - [1]

In the dimly lit elevator, a man stood motionless, his presence casting a long, shadowy silhouette against the polished steel walls. 

The faint hum of the machinery was the only sound, an eerie lullaby that seemed to whisper secrets as the elevator ascended with a relentless, mechanical precision. 

He wore a black suit, impeccably tailored, yet marred by intricate patterns of water trailing from the rain that had lashed against the building moments before. 

Each droplet clung to the fabric, shimmering like tears in the subdued light, a stark contrast to the dry, sterile interior of the elevator.

His face was partially obscured by the reflection on the mirrored doors, a ghostly image of a man caught in a silent storm. 

His eyes, hidden behind sleek, dark glasses, betrayed a tumult of emotions that churned beneath his calm exterior. 

Disappointment etched lines into his brow, anger tightened his jaw, and worry lingered in the set of his lips. 

Yet, there was a carefulness in his posture, a wariness that spoke of a man accustomed to navigating treacherous waters.

The elevator's ascent seemed interminable, each passing floor a marker of his rising tension. 

Outside the narrow confines, the city was shrouded in a veil of night, rain-soaked streets glistening under the dim glow of streetlights.

The windows of the skyscraper offered fleeting glimpses of a world blurred by the downpour, a landscape rendered abstract by the relentless assault of water.

Inside, the air was thick with a sense of foreboding. The man's hand, clad in a leather glove, clenched the polished metal railing, knuckles white with suppressed emotion. 

His reflection stared back at him, a doppelgänger in the twilight, sharing the same burden of unspoken fears and unresolved conflicts. 

The elevator's display panel glowed with an unnatural light, the numbers ascending steadily, each one a countdown to an unknown confrontation.

As the elevator climbed higher, the man's thoughts raced, a cacophony of scenarios and outcomes playing out in his mind. 

The rain's rhythmic drumming against the building's facade seemed to echo his heartbeat, a relentless, inescapable reminder of the storm both outside and within. 

The ceiling lights flickered momentarily, casting shadows that danced with sinister intent, before stabilising in their cold, fluorescent glare.

Finally, the elevator slowed, a soft chime announcing its imminent arrival. 

The man adjusted his tie, a practised gesture that betrayed none of the turmoil within. He straightened his suit, the water trails now drying into ghostly patterns on the fabric. With a deep breath, he prepared to step out, into the unknown, his emotions carefully masked beneath a veneer of composure. 

The doors slid open with a whisper.

As he stepped out of the elevator, the world outside seemed to dissolve into a grim tableau. 

The air was thick with moisture, each droplet hammering against the concrete and diffused glow through the deluge, transforming the urban landscape into a scene from a half-remembered nightmare.

His eyes scanned through the roof and there, dominating the scene, stood a behemoth of a man. 

His silhouette was imposing, a mountain clad in a pristine white tuxedo that clung to his massive frame, drenched and darkened by the relentless rain. 

He leaned slightly on a black cane, the polished surface gleaming under the sporadic flashes of lightning. 

His face was a mask of stone, devoid of any emotion except for a deep, inscrutable disappointment.

"Wesley." The man noted.

Wesley, accustomed to such dark and foreboding scenes, barely hesitated as he approached. 

His eyes, sharp and calculating, took in every detail with the precision of a well-tuned instrument. 

Standing beside the man in the white tuxedo was a figure equally as intimidating but from an entirely different world. 

This second man was a brute, his muscular arms exposed to the elements, crisscrossed with an intricate map of scars that told tales of battles fought and won. 

Draped over his broad shoulders was the hide of a lion, the wild mane forming a rough collar that framed his rugged, predatory face.

Around his neck, hanging on a long, rough thread, was a necklace made of sharp canines, trophies from his conquests, glistening menacingly in the wet gloom.

The brute's attire was a jarring contrast to the sleek, modern surroundings. 

The urban jungle of concrete and steel did not seem to faze him, though he looked every bit the forest warrior lost in an alien world. 

His presence, primal and raw, seemed to clash with the cold, calculated environment of the city, yet he stood there with a natural ease, a predator comfortable in any terrain.

His self-made leather belt was heavy with hand-forged daggers, each one a testament to his savage craftsmanship, their blades gleaming ominously in the faint light.

Despite the almost surreal juxtaposition, Wesley felt a calm familiarity with the scene.

His steps were measured and unhurried, his demeanour unflinching. 

The sight of these two formidable figures, one a kingpin of the city's underworld and the other a barbaric enforcer, did not stir him. 

He had long since grown accustomed to the intersection of power and brutality that defined his world.

The rain continued to fall, a relentless curtain that blurred the edges of the scene, yet every detail remained vivid in Wesley's mind. 

He observed the disappointment etched into the Kingpin's face, noting how it contrasted with the brutal calm of the hunter. 

The disappointment was like a silent accusation, aimed at an invisible foe, an unspoken challenge hanging in the sodden air.

Wesley's own thoughts were a fortress, guarded and impenetrable, as he moved closer to the two men. 

The wet pavement reflected the city lights, creating pools of flickering brightness that seemed to dance around the trio, casting long, wavering shadows. 

The noise of the city was distant, muted by the rainfall, as if the world outside had faded into insignificance, leaving only this grim meeting in stark focus.

"I hope you get the job done, Kraven." Wilson said, his voice calm and collected, yet carrying a tinge of menace.

Kraven scoffed with a chuckle, pushing back his wet hair, and grinned like a cruel child ready to break his toys, piece by piece.

"The prey fears the hunter." He said, his grin widening to reveal his sharp, wolf-like canines. "This bug will be crushed beneath my feet."

Thunder cracked behind them, a grim punctuation to their exchange.

"If I may." Wesley spoke up, drawing a look from the hunter. "It would be wise to be wary of him. He's dealt with his fair share of powered freaks and men, none of whom have bested him in a fight."

The hunter scowled as he slowly walked towards Wesley, but Wesley stood his ground, merely glancing at Kraven's imposing figure as he halted a foot away.

Kraven, towering above with sharply narrowed eyes, looked down. 

"I am no ordinary man. I'm a hunter." He retrieved a dagger from his belt and dragged it against his arm, leaving a thin, blood-red line. "And I'm not going to fight him. I'm going to hunt him."

"Well." Wesley said with a sarcastic smile. "happy hunting, I guess."

Kraven turned around and began to run toward the edge of the rooftop. Wilson and Wesley watched with detached interest as he leapt into the void. In mid-air, Kraven pulled out a rope with a latch at its end and expertly threw it at a steel bar. 

The latch caught firmly, and he used the rope to rappel down with the ease of a seasoned predator. Once he reached the ground, he didn't pause but immediately sprang away, scaling another building's facade with fluid, cat-like grace.

The darkness swallowed him as he moved from rooftop to rooftop and soon he vanished into the night.

A heavy silence enveloped the rooftop as they watched Kraven vanish into the night.

"Do you believe he can finish the job?" Wesley asked.

Wilson remained silent for a moment, tapping his cane on the ground rhythmically, each tap a second counted.

"Whether he's capable or not is irrelevant. Kraven just needs to keep the bug distracted from our operations until one of his other foes resurfaces." Wilson replied, his grip on the cane tightening.

"What about Daredevil?"

"Bullseye is keeping an eye out." Wesley answered. "But no signs of him since their last fight."

Wilson grunted, his breaths growing long and heavy. He clenched the cane with such force that the metal began to crack.

"Arghhh!" He yelled, smashing the cane against the ground in a fury. He struck it again and again until nothing remained but a crumpled piece of metal in his hand.

He threw it away, taking a deep breath to compose himself. Adjusting his tuxedo, he regained his composure and turned to Wesley, who stood casually, having witnessed the outburst.

"The Spider is a temporary problem, but him." Fisk gritted his teeth. "he needs to be dead."

He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his bald head, and walked to the edge of the roof, Wesley following close behind. Gripping the railing, he looked out over the city.

"This city needs to be cleansed, perfected. It needs me, but he won't let me."

Wilson let out a shaky breath, clenching and unclenching his fists.

"What's the word from the Maggia?" He asked.

Wesley hesitated, looking at the downpour as he considered how to deliver the news.

"What is it, Wesley?" Fisk pressed.

"They've called for a vote, sir."

Wilson nodded, staring into the night as if he had expected this all along.

"They don't believe I can lead the families anymore." Wilson summarised, turning back.

"They don't, sir." Wesley confirmed.

Wilson sighed, nodding to himself. 

"Sharks." He muttered. "They smell blood and they're circling, waiting to see me fall, so they can have me chunk by chunk."

"Hammerhead is dead. Tombstone is plundering our business. The Triads are uncooperative. The Hand is in the shadows. And the Maggia has me in chains." He sniffed, letting go of his clenched fists.

He looked at his hands, feeling everything he had worked for slipping away.

"I stand in the dark, blind and shackled. What am I supposed to do?" He asked, more to himself than anyone else.

Wesley stepped closer, scratching his head.

"I've been thinking of a solution." He began. "I believe it's time to replace the heads at the table, sir."

"Go on." Wilson said.

"Silvio Manfredi owes you a blood debt. We can leverage that to start a war against Count Nefaria. If the families' resources dwindle, they'll get desperate. Our ports will be their only option for weapons. It will cost us, but it's salvageable."

Fisk shook his head. 

"Manfredi can't do it. His influence is waning, and his mind's been slipping since his son's death. They won't go to war on his word."

Wesley went silent, his mind racing for a solution. Then, an idea struck him, one he immediately dismissed as taboo. 

But they were desperate and desperate men knew no bounds.

"Then there's only one way, sir." He said, earning Fisk's full attention.

Fisk waited for Wesley to continue, but Wesley stared into his eyes, the silence speaking volumes.

Fisk's eyes widened as realisation dawned.

"No."

"Sir, it's the only choice." Wesley insisted.

"He's out, and he stays out." Wilson shook his head frantically. "I can't drag him into this. He won't come back."

"He'd understand. He's family."

"He has his own family now."

"You're still blood." Wesley pressed.

"I can't make him lose it all!" Fisk yelled.

"Wilson!" Wesley shouted, snapping him out of his panic. "'You' are about to lose it all! If you need this city, you need him!"

Wesley's glare was fierce as he spoke. 

"We need John."

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