The god & devil part 2

Matt followed the cab from the top of the buildings, not needing his eyes to know where it was. There were three people inside it: a blind passenger, singing what seemed to be a Chinese lullaby, and two Russians, one driving and one on the passenger seat.

At the moment the cab turned into a deserted street, Matt acted.

Moving with all the grace of an expert martial artist, he jumped from the edge of the building, delayed his fall by holding on the fire escape ladder, and twisted his body midair to finally land on top of the car. He fell so heavily over it that the roof bent, but Matt was already rolling, his hand grabbing the side of the cab's roof.

And then he twisted his body, kicking the driver's window with both feet, knocking him unconscious in one blow.

Before the second Russian could react, Matt climbed back to the top of the car, rolling again, just as the mobster opened the door. Matt fell on him with incredible precision, his knee colliding against the Russian's nose with such power that he was tossed on his back.

Matt grabbed the Russian by the neck and leaned over him, his masked face stopping inches away from him.

"No, please!" the Russian exclaimed just as soon as he realized who he was. "Oh, God, please! I'll tell you what you want, just don't cut my head off!"

Well, that was new, Matt thought, actually freezing for a moment. Where did that come from?

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"Anatoly!" the Russian cried. "We all know what you did to him! Everyone knows you took his head!"

Everyone but Matt, it seemed. Still completely puzzled by what the mobster told him, Matt heard police sirens approaching; the downside of working during the day, he realized. Someone must've seen him attacking the cab.

Sparing a glance to the cab, Matt confirmed that the blind, Chinese passenger was still in the cab, still singing, as if nothing was happening. He had no idea what that man was doing with the Russians, if he was involved in some capacity in their crimes, but he wasn't about to attack a non-hostile blind man. The police could deal with that.

So, looking back at the Russian, Matt punched him, knocking him out.

He had no clue of what was going on, why this man seemed to think he had decapitated his boss, but at least now he had someone to ask questions now, Matt decided. Lifting the unconscious Russian on his back, he ran towards the alley, away from the police cars, leaving the cab and the Chinese blind man behind. Hopefully this man knew where his bosses were.

Or was it "boss" – singular – now? Matt had a feeling this day would get even more weird.

Natasha couldn't say she particularly enjoyed walking through a dark tunnel several hundred meters underground, a place that might or might not be the mass grave of the entirety of Pyramiden, but at least she was doing it in good company.

After Clark flew them all the way down, they found out that the hole led to a large tunnel, just like Sergei described – no doubt excavated by the citizens of Pyramiden – and that the tunnel continued for a miles, probably passing under the mountains around the settlement. There was no source of light anywhere, no sound, and nothing to indicate what happened to the people of Pyramiden.

All in all, it was a horrible place to be, but after almost an hour of walking it became a boring place to be as well.

Clark had scanned the place with his super-vision and stated there was nothing in the tunnel, until the end, but Natasha couldn't help but to feel the adrenalin coursing through her body as soon as they arrived there, making her ready to fight; that changed after a while, once she truly accepted that Clark was indeed right.

So they walked. And walked and walked some more. There was nothing to see, not even with her brand-new Stark night-vision goggles, nothing to hear but their footsteps and nothing to do but move forward and think.

Seeing Sergei again after so long was not something Natasha ever expected to do. That part of her life was over, as far as she was concerned, and bringing people who were a part of it to the life she lived now was weird, to say the least. Even weirder was to introduce one of them to someone who had never met her as the Black Widow, master assassin of the Red Room.

Standing in a room with both past and present was uncomfortable. Natasha usually felt like two people, one that she had left behind when Clint gave her a chance, and a new one that had crafted a life trying to be better, working for SHIELD. Though the new person still carried the memories – and sins – of the past one, it was easier for Natasha to think of herself like this.

It was, however, hard to do it when she was in a room with Clark and Sergei at the same time.

"You must be curious about what you heard," Natasha caught herself saying, before she could actually think this through. Clark frowned, confused. "About the things Sergei said. About my past."

To her surprise, Clark shook his head immediately.

"You don't have to tell me anything," he said, before she could go on. "Yes, I'm curious, but it doesn't matter. If you don't want to tell me about it, I won't ask."

She raised a single eyebrow, looking at him.

"Aren't you curious about the person standing right at your side?" Natasha asked, knowing that she couldn't possibly fully trust someone knowing so little about them.

"I know the person standing right at my side," Clark retorted. "She was the one who kept my name out of SHIELD's database, even though she never had to. The one who kept my mother's identity a secret. The one who fought for the safety of this world countless times, even against terrible odds." He looked at her. "I don't need to know what you did back then, Natasha, to know who you are now."

That was oddly touching, Natasha admitted, even if she didn't really believe in it.

"I… I appreciate your trust in me, Clark," Natasha said, after a few seconds. "But I would like to tell you about it so you can make an informed decision."

He held her stare for a long while, then he nodded. "If you want to tell me, I will listen."

Natasha gathered her thoughts for a minute, imagining how to start.

"I told you before that I was raised as an assassin since I was a child," she began, remembering their talk in Clark's farm at the very day they met. "What I didn't tell you was who raised me: the Red Room."

"Sergei mentioned that name," Clark remarked.

"He would, the Red Room was famous back then. And incredibly feared by anyone with common sense." Natasha raised a single finger. "After the end of WWI, when Stalin took the reins of the Soviet Union following Lenin's death, he created an organization called Leviathan. Think of them as the Soviet's SHIELD. They were created to ensure that the USSR would become the world's leading superpower, using science, intelligence gathering and many, many others unsavory methods."

Clark was listening in silence and Natasha continued.

"At some point during that time, Leviathan created the Red Room Academy, a project designed to train assassins from a young age. Young girls, trained from infancy to develop complete loyalty and to become masters in the art of assassination. Capable of infiltrating anywhere, kill without guilt and taught to never question an order, no matter how… How terrible it could be."

"How… Why?" Clark couldn't help but to ask, his face showing true horror.

"The game of influence of the very powerful," Natasha shrugged. "A perpetual tug-of-war that the world has been playing ever since humanity existed. And the Soviet Union wanted an edge. As to the 'how'… Brutal training, experimental drugs, mind-conditioning, punishment… It's easier to mold a child than it is an adult. Adults question, they have a set of morals already instilled in them. Kids do not." She shrugged again, with an indifference she didn't actually feel. "Teach a little girl never to question her superiors, never to feel guilty by accomplishing her mission, never to hesitate… And she won't. It will become her default state of mind."

She could see by the look on his face that Clark was imagining vividly what those kids went through. What she went through.

"During the Cold War, the Red Room became Leviathan's greatest weapon," Natasha continued, "and the program grew. They created techniques, trainings, new forms to ensure loyalty, drugs to enhance their efficiency and new technology and soon the Soviet Union had spies and assassins all over the world." She stopped talking for a moment. "I wasn't a part of that. By the time I was born, the Soviet Union was already on its last legs, but the Red Room was still strong. It had collected information on, well, everyone. It had blackmail material, infiltrated agents, information on anything happening in the world. It had grown far more than its original purpose and it actually outlived the Soviet Union."

Natasha looked forward, trying to gauge the distance they still had to walk until the end of the tunnel, then continued.

"I don't really remember my parents," she admitted. "I have flashes, feelings, but no true memory of them. For as long as I remember, I was there, in the Red Room, amongst my sisters. We were part of a special program, called the Black Widow Program, supposed to create the very best assassins in all history. Weapons in human form. Leviathan's last gamble to try to win the war." Natasha chuckled, humorless. "It didn't work, but the Red Room survived and so did the program. They trained us… And then they unleashed us upon the world."

She glanced at Clark.

"There is a reason why even people like Sergei, who led cold blooded criminals, were afraid of us," Natasha went on. "Afraid of me. We did things, Clark, things that still haunt my dreams. Things that I wish I could undo. But the worst part? At the time I felt nothing. Nothing at all, as if killing innocents was as normal as breathing."

"When did that change?" Clark whispered, eyes fixed on her.

Natasha thought hard about that answer, without meeting his eyes.

"I don't know for certain. It happened slowly. But eventually, slowly, drop by drop, my ledger became soaked in blood and I started to question 'why?'. Why was I killing? Why did I have to kill? Why was I hurting all those people?" She tilted her head. "Even then, it wasn't enough to make me stop, to make me betray the Red Room. Not until Clint."

"Clint?" Clark asked.

"Clint." She smiled. "I became exceptionally famous, you see. Not in a good way. SHIELD took notice and sent Clint to eliminate the threat. He made a different call. He chose to give me a chance, to give me the opportunity to wipe out the blood on my ledger, even if a little bit." Natasha shrugged again. "I accepted."

"Did you?" Clark questioned, after a moment. She frowned, until he added: "Wipe it out?"

Natasha actually chuckled. "There isn't enough water in this world capable of that, Clark, that's something I already accepted." Then her eyes became resolute. "But that doesn't mean I will stop trying." She turned to him, suddenly. "Do you think people can change?"

Instead of answering, Clark pointed at his own chest, at the "S" symbol on his skinsuit.

"Do you know what this means?" he asked.

"Hope," Natasha answered, remembering the conversation they had.

Clark nodded.

"Yes. 'The symbol of the House of El means hope," he said, as if quoting someone, "and embodied within that hope is the fundamental belief in the potential of every person to be a force for good.' My father told me that." He looked directly into her eyes. "You have found your potential, Natasha. You can't change what you did, but you can still be a force for good. I can tell that you truly regret what you did and you gave everything you had to be better. You are not the same person you were, not anymore. You're Natasha Romanoff, Avenger, and my friend. Don't forget that."

Natasha was embarrassed when she felt her eyes getting wet and she was glad to be wearing the night-vision goggles; she would never be able to live that down otherwise, she knew it.

Neither of them said anything anymore, as Clark allowed Natasha to think about what he said. She wasn't sure if she truly believed him, if she shared that philosophy, but she realized that she wanted to. Maybe that would count for something.

Deep in thought, Natasha barely paid any attention to the minutes passing and before she noticed, they had finally arrived at the end of the tunnel: a huge stone door, that most certainly hadn't been crafted by the people of Pyramiden, stood in front of them.

That was the place the Hand was looking for, the reason for all those deaths.

It was certainly impressive, she had to admit, and it definitely didn't fit with the local architecture. The door was made of stone – which kind, she couldn't tell –, immensely big and sturdy, and in Natasha's opinion it wouldn't be out of place in an ancient temple. Its surface was filled with weird symbols, many resembling oriental alphabets, and in the middle there was a drawing, a long serpent.

Or a dragon.

"What language is that?" Natasha muttered, more to herself than to Clark, studying the symbols.

While not completely fluent, she could speak and read a bit of Mandarin and Japanese, enough to communicate. The symbols resembled the alphabet in some capacity, but it was clearly not the same language. Perhaps an older dialect?

"I don't know," Clark said, slowly, eyes never leaving the door. "It doesn't seem like anything I've seen before."

If he said so, Natasha would believe; she knew Clark had one hell of a memory.

"So what's behind it?" Natasha finally asked.

Taking a step back, Clark stared at the door. And, surprisingly, frowned.

"I can't tell," he whispered. She looked at him, as if she had heard him wrong. "I can't see through it."

Natasha's eyebrows shot up. That wasn't normal. She wondered if it had anything to do with the kind of stone the door was made or – god forbid – if it was something unnatural; she had enough of magic to last a lifetime already.

"Stay behind me, please," Clark asked, stepping forward and sinking his fingers in the huge door.

As soon as she took cover behind him, Clark forced the door open, his arms pulling both halfs of the door to the side, sliding the stone apart; with a thunderous sound, the immense doors were finally pried open.

A huge and dark room appeared behind it. Natasha unholstered her gun.

Alexander Petrov woke up with a gasp. For a moment, he didn't know what was happening, he couldn't remember where he'd been and why did his body – especially his face – hurt so much. He didn't know why he appeared to be held upside down and why he couldn't see anything.

Then the memories came flashing back: the Masked Man!

Holy fucking shit! His heart was beating like crazy now, pumping fear to the rest of his body. That son of a bitch had really kidnapped him! He had beat him up, strung him upside down like meat and put some kind of sack over his head, so he couldn't see anything.

Alexander had never been more afraid in his entire life.

"Finally up," a voice spoke from close by.

The Russian did his best to remain still, to pretend he was still unconscious, so he could gain time to find a way to survive; it wasn't easy. There was nothing unnatural about the voice, the Masked Man hadn't yelled or modified it somehow, but to Alexander it was like the Devil himself had spoken to him.

He'd seen what that man did to everyone that crossed his path. He'd heard what he did to Anatoly, the freaking boss of the Russian Mafia in New York. And now he was at that monster's mercy.

"I know you're awake," the Masked Man continued, speaking from the opposite side now; Alexander couldn't see with that damn sack over his head, true, but shouldn't he have heard his footsteps? Apparently not. "I can listen to your heartbeat, your breathing… You are right to be afraid."

Alexander very nearly started to sob.

"I'm going to ask you some questions," the Masked Man continued, his voice sounding even closer now. "Don't answer, I hurt you. Lie to me, I hurt you. Scream, I hurt you. Do you understand?"

He wanted to answer, he really did, but his voice seemed stuck in his throat; that is, until the Masked Man's hand closed around his neck.

"Yes, yes, god yes!" Alexander exclaimed, fast.

"Good," the Masked Man retorted. There was a second of silence. "What were you doing in the cab? What were you delivering? And to whom?"

Alexander knew that Vladimir would kill him if he told the Masked Man anything, but he wasn't the one being held upside down under threat of torture and death.

"W-we deliver t-the Chinese's heroin," he stuttered, feeling sweat dripping from his face. "That Chinese fellow on the backseat? He's one of them, their delivery guys. We pick them up at some random point in the city and deliver them somewhere. It's always different places, always different guys."

"He's blind," the Masked Man deadpanned.

"Hey, I think it's weird as shit too! I just do as I'm told." He breathed deeply. "Look, man, I'm just a grunt. They don't tell us anything. You can beat me up all you want, it's not gonna change that!"

There was a long silence and Alexander started to really regret his outburst.

"Not that I want you to beat me, y-you know," he added, fast. "I just–"

"Anatoly Ranskahov," the Masked Man interrupted. "When was he found? Where was he found?"

What? Why the hell would he even ask that? He was the one who killed the guy!

"Umm, today," Alexander answered, confused. "They found him in a parking lot… Minus the head."

"Who did?"

"I don't know! I just know they did. And now Vladimir is looking for you. He's called everyone back, that was our last delivery today. A whole army."

He felt the Masked Man approaching and started to shake.

"Good, because I'm looking for him too," the Masked Man whispered. "Where can I find him?"

"Please, they'll kill me!" Alexander begged.

The Masked Man said nothing for a while and Alexander dared to hope he would show mercy; that's when he heard the terrifying sound of a chainsaw right by the side of his head. Even tied upside down, Alexander started to struggle, desperately, trying to get away from the fucking thing. He twisted blindly like a worm, not even realizing he was screaming, until the Masked Man's hand grabbed his face, covered his mouth and kept him immobilized.

"I'm going to ask you again, just once," the Masked Man said, his whisper competing with the chainsaw sounds. "Where is Vladimir?"

"T-They told us to go to these places!" Alexander said, fast, almost crying. He tried to remember, before that son of a bitch really used that chainsaw. "47th and 12th, 48th and 9th, 42nd and 10th and – fuck, what was it? – 44th and 11th. Vladimir has to be in one of those, I swear!"

The Masked Man grabbed him by the head and pulled him closer.

"What about Fisk?" he asked. "Where can I find him?"

"Who?! I don't even know who this is!" Alexander screamed, desperately.

The roar of the chainsaw got even closer and Alexander could almost feel it against his neck. He was yelling all kinds of nonsense, praying to whoever would hear, begging… Then the noise simply disappeared.

"I believe you," the Masked Man stated.

And before Alexander could have the time to feel relief, the Masked Man punched his face and he passed out.

Matt sighed, not even glancing at the unconscious Russian mobster swinging softly like a pendulum. In his other hand, he was still holding his phone, the video he used to broadcast the chainsaw sound muted; the accessibility options for the visually impaired certainly were one of the marvels of the modern world, he thought for a moment.

None too carefully, he brought the tied up Russian down so the man wouldn't be permanently injured. At least this hadn't been a complete waste of time, he considered. Fisk remained a mystery, but he finally had the location of the Russian Mafia's boss, Vladimir Ranskahov.

The man whose brother's Matt had apparently decapitated; that tidbit of information was news to him.

Unless he truly was getting crazy, Matt had never killed anyone, much less taken anyone's head as a trophy. The only conclusion was that someone had killed the boss of the Russian Mafia and blamed him for it. And while he didn't mind all that much that scum like Anatoly Ranskahov was dead, he didn't like being blamed for it.

Nor did he like the dangerous tension it brought to Hell's Kitchen.

Vladimir, by all accounts, was a hothead. An impulsive, angry and highly violent man in control of an entire criminal organization. He would burn the city down to avenge his brother, Matt was certain of it.

Matt was not afraid of him, not even against those odds, but he was worried about all the innocents that would be caught in the crossfire.

He needed to find Vladimir and stop him that night, before he did something stupid. Before people began to die. If he could deal with the head of the snake, the Russians would go back to laying low in fear of Superman.

But with Vladimir out for blood? Superman or not, he would bring war into Hell's Kitchen. Revenge was a powerful motivator.

Calling 911 from a burner, Matt gave the location of the tied-up Russian to the police and hang up, jumping out of the window. He had four locations to scout and luckily Vladimir would be in one of those; with an army, yes, but right now was not the time to hesitate. The Russians needed to be stopped – for Hell's Kitchen and Claire's safety – and Vladimir could very well be Matt's only clue to find Fisk.

He could only hope things would go well.

"My god…" Clark whispered, amazed.

He was beyond impressed. Whatever he imagined they would find under Pyramiden, it wasn't that.

Before their very eyes, was what seemed to be an ancient temple or monastery, not unlike some of the Chinese temples Clark had already seen, both flying above them as Superman and in the movies. The architecture, though not exactly the same, was remarkably similar, with an extensive courtyard right behind the stone doors – complete with trees made of precious stones and even a well –, a main path that led forward sided by pillars, statues depicting long and fearsome dragons, the familiar gracefully curved roofs – with the upturned corners design – appearing on top of the many towers they could see in the distance, and a paved way that led to an immense stairway, wide and long.

The most impressive thing, however, was the sheer size of the chamber, able to house the entire temple as if it were above ground, the ceiling of the cave so high up that it didn't seem they were underground. The many towers, big as they were, were not even close to reach it.

It was as if someone had picked up an ancient Chinese temple whole and put it underground, in a chamber located under a Soviet mining settlement in Norway.

It made no sense.

Natasha was as impressed as Clark, seeing everything with her night-vision goggles because there was no light anywhere. Both of them stood still, gazing marveled at the temple, still trying to understand what that was.

More importantly, what the Hand wanted with it.

Still entranced, they started walking through the courtyard, looking at the trees made of precious stones, a work of art that stood immaculate. On the pillars, Clark could see more of those weird symbols, resembling an oriental alphabet.

"Kelex, can you tell what language that is?" Clark asked, wondering if Thor could help him decipher that with his Allspeak fluency; he had to learn that sometime.

The little robot assumed its drone form and floated closer to the markings.

"Some of the marks bear resemblance to a few ancient dialects spoken in the Chinese territory," Kelex started, "but they are not quite the same, sir."

"Take pictures," Natasha said, "lots and lots of pictures. Of everything, including these symbols. We can cross-reference with other databases later, see if we find a match or if we can translate it."

Clark agreed and nodded, giving Kelex permission to fly around, filming everything. He and Natasha went on, walking the paved path surrounded by pillars. The dragon statues were everywhere, carved in stone or metal, their likeness very similar to the Eastern dragons from Chinese and Japanese mythology – which lent credence to the theory of that language being an ancient Chinese dialect.

Both of them walked for several minutes, in stunned silence, going up the imponent stairway until they finally arrived at the upper courtyard, in front of the massive cave wall; a place that seemed more of an altar than anything else.

And then, once again, they were astonished beyond words. Maybe even more than when they saw the temple for the first time.

Because carved in the stone wall were the marks of what seemed to be a very old fossil; more accurately, where a fossil was supposed to be, except all that was left were the marks engraved on stone, as if an ancient skeleton had been pulled from the wall.

It wasn't the marks of the fossil or even its existence that shocked them, however. It was the size of it. The wall went up to the ceiling of the cave, so far that Natasha's eyes probably couldn't even see it; Clark could see the marks following the wall to its very end, hundreds of meters long.

Like a long, gigantic, serpent. A serpent suspiciously shaped like the several Eastern dragon's statues all over the temple. Could it be?

"What is that?" Natasha whispered, eyes fixed on the marks. "Some kind of dinosaur?"

Clark, stunned, shook his head. "There are no dinosaurs that big." He hesitated. "I think… I think that might've been a dragon."

Natasha's head turned so fast to look at him that he was surprised she didn't suffer whiplash damage.

"Explain," she demanded.

He simply raised his hands. "I don't know, it's just a guess. I don't even know if dragons are real or not."

She visibly relaxed. Natasha already had her share of headaches with aliens, gods and sorcerers on top of her usual problems.

Kelex shattered that relaxation with a single phrase.

"The beings you designate as 'dragons' exist in several planets across the universe," she said, "in several different species, subspecies and races. There was a species of dragon in Krypton, though they were long extinct before you were born, sir."

Both of them looked at the fossil marks again, eyes wide.

"Is that a dragon?" Natasha asked, her voice weirdly calm.

Kelex scanned the marks for a moment. "There is a high possibility, but without a sample I cannot be certain."

Natasha stared at Clark as if the whole thing was his fault.

"See if you can find a sample, Kelex," Clark asked, walking to Natasha. Kelex flew up, testing the stone wall for any remains of the supposed dragon. "Well, I guess we know what the Hand wanted here."

"Do you think they got the fossil?" Natasha asked.

With his super-vision, Clark studied the wall, seeing marks of tools. Slowly, he nodded.

"I think so. There are tool marks all across the wall. I just… Why would they go through so much trouble? Kill so many?"

Natasha turned to him. "Clark, I know people that would start a World War for a drop of your blood. Or Thor's. Or even Bruce's and Steve's. The secrets they could learn from it…" She glanced at the wall. "I don't know if that… dragon," she all but spat the word, "is anywhere near as powerful as you, but if it was, well, that's a good enough reason for some."

To make a biological weapon? Clone the creature? Develop some kind of Super-Soldier Serum out of it? Sell it to someone who would do even worse? All valid – and very worrying – possibilities. If there really was a way for such things to be achieved, then the Hand shouldn't be allowed to keep the fossil in any circumstance.

"You seem worried," Natasha said, eyes on him.

Clark nodded, agreeing. "I am. This is… far more complex than I thought. The Hand is much worse than just fanatics and criminals and then there's this." He gestured around himself, to the temple. "Who built this? When? What was a dragon fossil doing here? If, of course, Kelex confirms it really is a dragon, which I suspect it is. And more importantly, how did the Hand know about it? What's the connection?"

Natasha glanced at the wall again, tracing the fossil marks.

"Guess we'll have to ask them when we catch them," she finally said.

"Yeah," he nodded, somber. "And then there are all those people. I know they're most likely dead, for a long time even, but… I was hoping to find something here, some closure." Clark looked at Natasha. "No one deserves that."

She touched his shoulder. "No, they didn't deserve that. But not every story has a happy ending in the real world, you know that. All we can do is give them justice."

By ending the Hand and punishing all involved. He just didn't know exactly how they would do that yet.

Clark was about to say something else when his phone began to ring, distracting him. Obviously, given that he was in another country and underground, Kelex was the one redirecting the call; so, excusing himself for a moment, he touched the small Liquid Geo part Kelex left of herself on his bracelet and accepted the call.

"Clark, where the fuck are you?"

Clark didn't need to ask to know who it was.

"Hey, Jessica, how are you? I'm…" He looked around, seeing the underground quasi-Chinese temple in Norway that possibly contained the fossil of a dragon at some point. "I'm working," Clark simplified.

"Are you in New York? Or flying around solving everybody's problems?"

"The second one."

"Well, come back then, we've got a problem. A big one."

He got worried immediately.

"Are you okay?" Clark asked, fast.

"I'm fine… Look, I was doing this job earlier. A guy wanted me to follow his fiancé, to know if she was working as a stripper."

"…What?"

Whatever he was expecting Jessica to say, it wasn't that.

"Just listen, it'll get somewhere! So, there I was last night, following this chick, and she was indeed working at a strip club, just like hubby was afraid of. But, you know, I needed confirmation, so I pretended to play for the other team for a moment and got in, ready to take pictures with my phone. Long story short, the girl wasn't stuffing her panties with dollar bills, she was actually working at the bar."

"Happy ending," Clark said, pleasantly surprised. Most jobs Jessica took usually ended up with her taking horrible pictures of cheating couples.

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But no, the girl wasn't stripping, but she was fucking her boss. Not my problem though, I wasn't paid to find out that."

"Shouldn't you, you know, tell her fiancé about this little detail?"

"Why? So he can blame me for ruining his relationship? He didn't hire me to find out if she was cheating, he hired me to find out if she was a stripper. Mission fucking accomplished. Anyway, that's not why I'm calling."

"You didn't call me to talk about strippers?" Clark asked, getting a funny look from Natasha.

"No. Well, yes, but no. The club the girl was working happened to be owned by the Russians."

That made Clark pay complete attention to the conversation. "How do you know?"

"Not hard to know that when the bouncers speak Russian, the bartenders speak Russian, most of the fat guys drooling over the strippers speak Russian… It's obviously a front. But that's not what I wanted to tell you. You see, today I went there again, to get more pictures of the girl. She apparently took an evening shift. I followed her there, but the place was closed."

"Well, it was the middle of the afternoon, wasn't it?"

"Apparently some of those clubs are opened 24/7, if you can believe it. There are some sad fucks who actually spend their lunch breaks watching strippers. That was one of those places, it should be opened, but it wasn't. She went there and the bouncer at the door told her to take the day off. She didn't ask questions and left, but I was curious."

"Please tell me you didn't beat anyone up," Clark almost begged.

"No! I asked the guy, politely, if I could go in. He told me it was closed, said some bullshit about maintenance and something else and that they would re-open next week. So I asked if they were hiring new dancers."

"Oh, Jessica…"

"Shut it, Clark, I needed to go in and take a look."

"Did it at least work?"

There was a brief silence.

"No, he told me to get some new tits first, then he would think about it. That's when I hit him."

Clark didn't know if he laughed or reprimanded Jessica, so he chose the next best option: he shut his mouth.

"I dragged him to an alley and… Persuaded him to tell me what was happening."

"Did he?" Clark asked, letting the confession of violence slide for now.

"Yeah, he did." She sighed.

"And?"

"And you were right, Clark. The Masked Man did cross the line. Apparently he decapitated one of the bosses of the Russian Mafia, Anatoly Ranskahov, and his brother Vladimir is out for blood. He's calling everyone back, stockpiling weapons… Clark, you need to come back. Hell's Kitchen is about to go to war."

Clark felt his blood chill. He didn't know what was worse in what Jessica had just told him. The threat of a gang war, the fact that a man had died – bad guy or not, that didn't sit well with him – or the fact that the Masked Man had done what Clark feared he would.

He had let the Devil out and finally killed someone. And now Hell's Kitchen was about to burn.

"Clark, you're there?" Jessica sighed again. "Look, you can tell me 'I told you so' later. I fucked up, I know. But we really need you here. This Vladimir guy is a complete psycho and he's pissed."

Jessica wasn't usually wrong about someone's character and Clark could tell it was bothering her. But it wasn't her fault, of course; she thought the best of someone, just like Clark usually did. It truly was a pity that her trust had been misplaced.

"I'm coming back right now. And Jessica? Don't beat yourself up over this. You were not the one who made a mistake."

There was a second of silence.

"Yeah, whatever… Just try to come back before they wreck Hell's Kitchen again. The place is already a dump."

When she hung up, Clark looked at Natasha. She was looking at him puzzled.

"We need to go back, fast. And we need to talk to Sergei. The Russians are about to go to war."

Natasha just rolled her eyes and said: "When it rains, it pours, huh?"

Wilson Fisk couldn't stop himself from standing up when Vanessa appeared in the empty restaurant, looking as beautiful as she was suspicious. She spoke to the maître d' for a moment, glancing at him at every two seconds, and was finally directed to the table where she would, hopefully, dine with him; given that there were no other guests in the restaurant, it wasn't hard to point her the way.

It was clear to him she was scared – even though she had no need to be, not with him – but she held her head up. Brave and beautiful.

"I didn't know if you'd show," Fisk said, feeling incredibly nervous; a novelty to him.

After what Anatoly did, scaring her away from their first date, Vanessa would be well within her rights to never want to see him again.

"Neither did I," Vanessa admitted. She looked around at the empty tables before saying: "I thought you didn't go in for grand gestures."

"No, it isn't… I didn't want to be interrupted again," Fisk explained. "We can go somewhere else if you like."

She stared at him.

"And if I just want to walk out that door by myself?" Vanessa questioned.

"Then I would dine alone," he answered immediately. "It wouldn't be the first time."

There was a long silence as Vanessa just looked at him.

"I've been lied to before," she said. "By men. Some were even decent ones, but they still felt the need to be dishonest about things that mattered. Do you feel that need, Wilson?"

Fisk met her eyes.

"I don't like to be in public," he started, "and I don't like to be questioned. But you can ask me anything, Vanessa, and I will always be honest with you."

And he meant that, despite the fact that he was afraid she would leave and never return.

For a whole minute Vanessa didn't say anything and Fisk was certain she would leave. Then she said:

"Let's start with something simple… What are we drinking?"

The happy smile that took his face was something that hadn't graced his expression for far too long.

Sergei felt like crap. He groaned, his vision blurry, and tried to move his inexplicably heavy limbs; his tongue felt too big inside his mouth.

Suddenly, his memory came rushing back, like a jolt of electricity.

"You conniving little bitch," he muttered, drooling all over himself as he tried to talk.

"You're hurting my feelings, Sergei," Natasha's voice answered. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a huge turd."

"As usual, then?"

"Ha-ha...Ha."

"Come on, get up. We need to talk, it's urgent."

Something in her tone made Sergei believe she wasn't just being a bitch. Fighting against the drug she injected him, the old mobster forced his head up, groaning as if he was trying to lift a ton of bricks. And then, finally, he stood back on the chair, eyes fixing on the redhead and the pretty boy by her side.

Both of them looked serious as fuck. Ah, hell, what happened now?

"Well, what is it?" he asked.

Romanoff's impassive expression softened for a fraction of a second.

"Anatoly Ranskahov is dead," she told him. "He was killed last night by the Masked Vigilante."

That fucking boy! Hadn't he warned them what they were getting into? He wouldn't say they were exactly friends, but he had groomed those two so that one day they could continue his work.

Sergei couldn't help but to feel a pang of sadness; quickly replaced by frustration.

"Goddamn it! I told them to stay out of it!" he roared, kicking the table. "What the fuck happened?"

"We don't know," Natasha answered, calmly. "As far as we know, Anatoly crossed paths with the Masked Man last night, they fought, he lost."

"And now Vladimir wants to blow up the city to find the Masked Man, right?" Sergei finished the story for her, knowing well just how close the brothers were.

This was a disaster, to say the least. The Russians were in no shape to start any kind of conflict, much less a war. They could barely keep up in normal times; what did Vladimir think it would happen if people started to die, the whole law enforcement took notice of them and, worse of all, they attracted Superman's attention?

It would be their doom.

But rationality was probably the last thing Vladimir was relying upon right now. He wanted revenge, no matter the cost.

Sergei sighed, looking at Natasha.

"What do you want of me, girl?" he asked, feeling tired in his bones.

"Help me to stop it before it starts," Natasha answered, right away. "Tell me where we can find him."

He chuckled, humorless.

"You're asking me to betray our family? I thought you were smarter than that, Natasha."

Natasha's expression changed. It was subtle, but he knew immediately that he was now speaking to the Black Widow. She leaned over the desk, face close to his.

"Let me tell you what's going to happen, Sergei," the Black Widow started, her voice calm and low. "Vladimir will start a war. Innocents are going to be caught in the crossfire. Superman won't like that." Sergei actually shook a bit just by thinking of it. "You know what he did to the violent gangs all over the world. You know what he thinks about the ones that harm innocents."

She pointed her finger towards the window.

"Vladimir is a pit of rage and violence. He just lost the only person in this world he gives a damn about. He doesn't care if he lives or dies in the end, as long as he gets the Masked Man. And for that he will send all your men to a war they cannot hope to win, just so he has enough time to find and kill the Vigilante. No matter the cost, no matter how many have to die."

Suddenly, the Black Widow grabbed his face and got even closer, her eyes unblinking.

"If that happens, Sergei, I promise you one thing: it will be the end of the Russian Mafia. Not only here, in Hell's Kitchen, but in the entire world. Superman will devote every bit of his power against you. He will find you wherever you are, he will destroy your shipments, he will make the very presence of a Russian mobster something to be avoided. He will break you." She pressed her fingers so hard against his cheeks that he flinched. "And I will help, alongside the full might of the Avengers. We will not stop until the last vestige of the Russian Mafia is wiped off the face of the Earth."

She released him and stepped back; her terrifying eyes, however, still hadn't left his.

"If you want to save your people, Sergei, now is the time. I want to know where he'll be and I want to know it now."

Sergei looked down, unable to hold her staring. When did the world change so much? That one person could threaten the entirety of the Russian Mafia and actually mean it? Natasha hadn't lied, he knew that. Sergei had indeed saw what happened to the gangs, cartels and minor mob families that tried to go against Superman, to keep their violent ways.

Simply put, they were completely torn to shreds.

Oh, he hadn't killed anyone, it wasn't his way, but that didn't make the statement any less true. He destroyed their business, arrested their men, found out every bit of evidence against them, took and broke their guns, even sent the most stubborn ones directly to the hospital, where they stayed for a very long time thinking about their mistakes.

Most importantly, he had sent his message: those who practice violence against innocent people are fucked. And everyone around them is too.

It got to the point that other gangs went out of their way to avoid those that kept doing it; in some occasions, they even helped Superman and the police to arrest them, just so they wouldn't be considered accomplices. The violent gangs became akin to lepers in the old days, something to be avoided and kept at distance for their own safety.

And now Vladimir planned the ultimate show of violence, a war.

All that without even accounting for the Avengers. Sergei could barely predict the shitstorm that would hit them in the face if they joined Superman against them. A literal god that could control storms, that big green monster that almost destroyed Harlem, goddamn Tony Stark and his fucking advanced weapons that made theirs look like stick and stones, Captain freaking America that would probably get a hard-on when beating up Russians… Shit, even that dude with a bow and arrow that liked to hang out with Natasha would probably singlehandedly dismantle their soldiers.

And of course, the Black Widow herself, a master assassin that knew the Russian Mafia with the back of her hand and almost made a career by killing them in increasingly gruesome ways in the old days.

Vladimir would destroy, in a single act, the entire organization. Everything they built, all their history, all their accomplishments… Tossed in the toilet by a revengeful brat, just because he needed to kill the man who killed his brother, the same brother who had entered this business fully aware of the risks.

Sergei was sympathetic to Vladimir's plight, he really was, but sometimes the good of the many outweighed the good of the few.

Breathing deeply, Sergei let out a long sigh; then he looked at Natasha.

"Vladimir is brilliant," he started, "but he's also predictable. Piss him off enough and he will get as many guns as he can and go after you. And as far as I know, there are four big weapon's deposits in Hell's Kitchen, where we hid all our guns once Superman made them useless: 48th and 9th, 42nd and 10th, 44th and 11th and 47th and 12th." Sergei looked at Natasha. "He's going to be in one of those places."

Natasha nodded, looked at the pretty boy who was silent all this time, and walked out, leaving him to deal with his guilt.

"You did the right thing, Sergei," she said, closing the door.

Alone, cuffed to a table and feeling like crap, Sergei had his doubts.

Clark was already back in his Kryptonian skinsuit when Natasha closed the door where Sergei was cuffed. She glanced at him.

"You're going?" Natasha asked, already checking her guns.

"Yeah, I'll get there much faster by myself," he answered. "If I'm lucky, I'll find Vladimir there, before they start anything."

The clock was ticking, after all. At any moment, Vladimir might launch an attack on the city, hoping to find or attract the Masked Man.

She nodded. "I'll start to evacuate the civilians around the locations, stealthily, without raising anyone's suspicion. Best to hold our cards close to the chest right now. A gas leak, perhaps? That excuse always works." Natasha opened the window for him. "I'll meet you there. Good luck."

"Thanks," Clark answered, and took off to the sky, booming when he broke the sound barrier.

Finding a bunch of armed Russians gearing up for war right in his neighborhood wouldn't be very difficult – not with his vision and hearing –, but he was still glad Sergei decided to help them. It would make things easier and, more importantly, it would make that much harder for Vladimir and his men to slip through the cracks during the confusion, so they could try something like this again when no one would be prepared to react.

Clark would not allow them to hurt any innocents. He would find and capture Vladimir, to stop him and to learn more about his deal with the Hand.

And then he would deal with the Masked Vigilante.

It would be quite the night, Clark decided, reaching the clouds over New York and looking down, searching for his target.

"This wine is even better than the others," Vanesa complimented, sipping the red drink. "Did you pick it?"

Dinner was going surprisingly well, Fisk thought, as Vanessa and he talked. The city at night was incredibly beautiful from the restaurant and, since they were the only ones there, they could talk in silence. And about anything.

Fisk sipped his own wine and gave her a tiny smile.

"I've never had it," he admitted. "My assistant." She arched an eyebrow. "I said I'd be honest."

"You did," she answered, amused.

"Wesley is more than an assistant, he's my friend," Fisk explained, slowly.

"So you do have those," Vanessa countered, smiling. "Yet the man says he was lonely when he looked at my painting."

His memory jumped back at the art exhibition where Fisk had met Vanessa, where she had caught his eye. Not only because she was beautiful and sophisticated, but because of her talent. When he looked at her paintings, he felt things he thought he would never feel again.

"So why does a man like you," Vanessa went on, "feel alone?"

"Nature of my business, I suppose."

"And what kind of business is that?"

There it was, the conversation he was dreading. But for good or ill, honesty was the way to go, he had promised her that. He looked at the windows, to the city under the night sky.

"Rebuilding this city," Fisk finally said. "I want to carve something beautiful out of its ugliness, set free its potential."

Vanessa held his stare without flinching. When he remained in silence, she said:

"We've been sitting here talking for a long time and you're going to insult me like I have no idea what you really do?"

Fisk kept looking inside her eyes.

"What I said, about what I want for this city is the truth," he said. "But money and influence is not enough to usher change on such a scale." Fisk turned and looked at the city. "We're living, perhaps, a new Age of Heroes. We have the Avengers, we have Superman, we have SHIELD keeping the world safe. I ask you, though: have things really changed?"

Vanessa listened raptly to him, eager to know what truly drove him.

"From high up there, from the top of the Avengers Tower and the sky, I'm sure New York looks beautiful, even peaceful," Fisk continued, "but down here? Amongst the men and women? Things remain as they were. Crime still exists, victims are made every day, the powerful prey on the weak."

"Things got better, surely," Vanessa argued.

"To some. And for now," Fisk countered. "How long do you think it will take until the criminal underworld learns to survive in a world that has Superman? How long do you think they'll take to adapt? I can tell you, from personal experience, not very long. Soon enough, crime will be rampant again, stronger, but since we have such brave heroes to protect us," he said, sarcastically, gesturing to the sky, "most will say all is well. And all the while, the city will fester."

He looked into her eyes again.

"Crime is part of the human nature, Vanessa, we cannot eliminate one without the other. While there is mankind, there will be those behind the shadows to prey on them. And the ones supposed to protect us? Politicians, law enforcement, judges… You'd be surprised at how easily most of them can ignore horrific things happening all around them with the right incentive. The entire system is corrupt to the core."

"So what's the solution, Wilson?" Vanessa asked. "Do nothing? Become powerful enough to defend your own and abandon the rest?"

He leaned forward.

"These… heroes have good intentions, I don't doubt that. So do many other men and women in positions of power. But their mistake is to think they can end crime, erase the underworld as if it never existed. But that is impossible." Fisk stopped for a moment, looking at her. "No, the solution is to rule both worlds, Vanessa. To keep both in check, to force them into the right direction from within. That is what I want. I love this city. It is a part of me. When I was a boy, I dreamed about setting things right, making it a better place so we can all live in harmony." He breathed deeply. "But to do so, I will have to sully my hands, to conquer the criminal underworld as well as the lawful world of heroes and politicians and cops."

There was a long silence, where Vanessa's eyes never left his.

"Would you like to leave?" Fisk finally asked, resigned.

She reached across the table and grabbed his hand.

"No, I'd like a reason to stay."

His hand closed around hers, gently.

"I've done things that I'm not proud of, Vanessa. I've hurt people… And I'm going to hurt more. It's impossible to avoid for what I'm trying to do. I take no pleasure in it, in cruelty. But this city isn't a caterpillar, it doesn't spin a cocoon and wake up a butterfly. A city… Crumbles and fades. It needs to die before it can be reborn."

Slowly, Vanessa let go of his hand and reached for her purse. Very carefully, she opened it and pulled a pistol from within. A .22 that Fisk already knew it was there, since the beginning. Without saying anything, he watched as she pulled the pistol from the purse.

"So I don't need a gun?" she asked.

Fisk smiled at her.

"No. By my side, is the safest place that you could ever be."

Without ever taking her eyes from his, she put the pistol – and effectively herself – in his hands.

Wilson Fisk vowed that he would never betray that trust.

He looked at his watch and got up, offering his hand at her.

"It is almost time… I want to show you something, if you allow me."

Hesitantly, puzzled, Vanesa took his hand and got up. Fisk led her to the immense windows, gazing at the beautiful city; at the corrupt city.

It was time to begin changing it.

In the distance, an explosion illuminated the night.

Clark's eyes pierced the cloud veil, looking down from very high up, focusing directly on one of the Russian warehouses. His x-ray vision revealed the warehouse's interior, showing him the small troop of mobsters, opening crates and more crates of guns, bombs and various weapons. Obviously, their entire armory, hidden away when criminals realized guns were a sure way to draw his attention.

For a moment, he wondered what Vladimir's plan was. Would he spread his men all over the city and order them to find the Masked Vigilante at any cost? Would he unleash his troops at various targets across Hell's Kitchen, hoping the chaos would draw the man who killed his brother?

But what about Superman? What was Vladimir's plan to deal with Clark himself? Would he simply sacrifice his men as bait, throwing them at different locations in Hell's Kitchen for him to capture, while he could find the Masked Man by himself? Or he didn't even have any plan and all this was just pure wrath?

Clark had no idea, but at the moment it changed nothing. He still needed to stop the Russians and find Vladimir.

At the second he reached that conclusion, something weird appeared near the warehouse. While the interior was buzzing with movement, full of Russians grabbing weapons to fight, the two men stationed outside were manhandling what seemed to be a blind Chinese man that had just arrived, for some reason very decided to go into the warehouse.

He hesitated, confused at the sight. Was the blind Chinese man a civilian that took the wrong turn? A hostage? Someone they kidnapped?

That moment of hesitation almost cost him the chance to react, when the blind Chinese man pulled a small trigger from his pocket and pressed the button.

"NO!" Clark yelled, already flying down, going so fast that the clouds parted on his path.

Clark's reflexes were so unbelievably sharp as he accelerated that he could see things almost moving in slow motion. The blind Chinese man wasn't a hostage or a civilian, like he previously thought.

He was a suicide bomber. And he had just activated the bomb he was carrying.

As he flew down, the air booming as he pushed himself to go even faster, Clark watched as the explosion formed. The trigger activated, the bomb's mechanism reacted and the whole thing ignited, generating flames and unbelievable force. There was absolutely nothing he could do to save the suicide bomber, nor the two Russians that tried to stop him; Clark could only watch in horror as the explosion engulfed them, the impact killing them immediately.

But there was something he could do to save the other people that would soon be caught in the blast radius.

Filling his lungs as he descended, Clark unleashed a powerful blow, the air coming out like a concentrated tornado. The wind blast clashed against the explosion, stopping it just in time from reaching the warehouse and the men within, redirecting the flames and debris towards the empty parking lot by the side of the building.

The shockwave generated by the clash of his super-breath and the explosion wasn't stopped, though.

Every window of the warehouse shattered immediately and the brick walls cracked. The lights turned off and everything shook, tossing down every single man inside it. The crates filled with guns broke and the weapons were thrown everywhere, just like everything else in the warehouse, from tables and furniture to the heavy machinery.

But at least the explosion was stopped before it could destroy everything, killing everyone.

Clark arrived a moment later, breaking the ceiling of the warehouse as if it weren't there, entering the place like a missile. The Russians were still on the ground, groaning in pain, confused, but Clark had no intention of allowing them to get up; on that day, he wouldn't be gentle.

They had crossed the limits.

The first mobsters didn't even see him, as Clark clashed like a blur against them, slowing down just before making contact to not kill or permanently injure them, but otherwise hitting them with enough strength to send them flying and unconscious. One, two, three, four… The men on the upper level didn't even have the time to react before Clark was done with them, breaking the floor to reach ground level.

The Russians there were finally getting up, some still holding their guns, all of them as confused as they could possibly be.

And they were all tossed down again when Clark landed, his legs hitting the ground so strongly that the entire warehouse trembled again, a crater forming under him. The Russians were thrown away, some falling immediately, other flying away with the impact.

Before their minds even had the chance to understand what was going on, Clark moved.

He was a blur of red and blue, hitting the Russians still in the air with enough power to put them to sleep, and at the same time directing their fall so they would collide against each other in the center of the warehouse. The ones that fell down were simply picked up, bashed against the head, and also tossed with the others, without a chance to even see what was happening.

In few seconds, all hostiles were unconscious, piled up in the middle of the warehouse, and Clark took off, flying with all his speed to the next one.

He didn't know who the blind Chinese man was and why he had blown himself up in a suicidal attack, but he had a few theories and the Hand appeared in most of them. The war Vladimir was planning couldn't be good for the Hand's business and they would be interested in stopping them, if possible. That could be it, Clark imagined, but as he saw the approaching second warehouse down below he put those thoughts – and his regret for being too late – away for the moment.

Because there was another blind Chinese man walking towards it, a trigger already ready to be pressed in his hand.

Without thinking twice, Clark's eyes glowed red and he unleashed a powerful – but incredibly precise – blast of heat vision. The pair of red energy beams cut off the blind man's backpack and before he could even notice, Clark flew down – so fast that the man wouldn't see more than just a blur even if he wasn't blind – grabbed the backpack, knocked-out him and flew back up in the air.

The explosion that followed lit up the sky, but Clark was the only one caught by it and the heat and impact didn't even bother him.

The sound and light-show, however, were enough to draw the Russians' gaze, some of them running outside the warehouse to see what was happening.

Superman, smoke still around him, looked down at them. His eyes were glowing red.

"FUCK!" one of the yelled, tossing his gun to the side, turning back and running away from him.

The rest of them weren't far behind. As if they could possibly escape.

Clark floated in the sky for a second more, then he dashed down, a sonic-boom echoing, and clashed against the warehouse's wall. The brick wall turned to dust when he touched it and he stopped an inch away from one of the mobsters inside, the impact of his body against the air sending the man flying without the need to even touch him.

Not allowing the mobster to fall back to the ground, Clark advanced, moving faster than the human eye could perceive, and grabbed him, smashing him back down with just enough strength to incapacitate him.

The rest of the Russians could only look, eyes wide, shaking with fear. And then Clark attacked.

Calling it a battle would imply that both sides at least had the chance to fight; it wasn't what happened. The Russians didn't shoot, didn't throw grenades, didn't even try to punch or stab. Not because they were too afraid to do it – which they were –, but because they simply couldn't react in time.

Clark was holding back enough not to kill and not to cripple them, but that was all. He blurred from one mobster to the other, slowing down just in time not to destroy them, and hit one after another. His punches, taps and sometimes finger flicks were enough to send the men down immediately, before their reflexes could even comprehend that someone was attacking.

What followed was a few seconds of blue and red blurs zooming across the warehouse, mobsters flying everywhere, men being put down against the ground strongly enough to shake it and guns and knifes being broken, as if they simply disintegrated out of nothing.

And then there was one Russian left, eyes filled with terror, as he stared at Superman while holding a small radio.

Clark glanced at the terrified man, not a shred of his usual good mood present in his expression. Someone was screaming on the other end of the radio, asking for their status, probably confused by the explosions and all the recent noise.

"Su-Superman!" the Russian stuttered, falling down as he tried to walk away, his expression taken by true fear.

He looked at the man for another second, then dashed forward.

"AHHHG!" the Russian yelled, before Clark bashed his palm against the side of his head, tossing him down.

The small radio fell down, but Clark had already taken off, flying to the third warehouse.

"Holy–"

"–Fuck!" yelled the Russian, dropping the radio when he heard the sonic-boom in the sky.

Near the second-floor window, the Russian mobster could only watch as Superman descended from the heavens like a vengeful god, flying directly to the guards at the entrance – who were, at that point, trying to turn away one of Madame Gao's blind delivery boys that for reason was trying to get inside – and landed just by their side.

With such force that the three men were sent flying, the street breaking under him.

Superman completely ignored the two Russians as they fell, using his time to grab Gao's delivery man while he was still in the air and take his backpack, only to put the blind Chinese guy on the ground again – gently, but with enough force to knock him out. Then he kneeled down, crouched over the backpack, as if using his body to completely cover it.

The Russian's jaw was agape when the backpack Superman was holding blew up, breaking the ground beneath it, letting out smoke and a bit of flame, but otherwise completely contained by Superman's indestructible body.

"Holy fuck!" he let out again, almost pissing himself, way too afraid of Superman to even process the fact that Gao's delivery man was carrying a bomb in his backpack.

That was when Superman decided to crash against the warehouse, flying so fast that the man wondered if he had teleported.

The walls and windows provided the same amount of protection that they would against a nuclear warhead, which was nothing at all. The entire front of the building cracked when Superman hit it, pulverizing the big door to enter the ground floor.

What the hell was going on?! The man was frozen on spot, his hand clutching the useless fucking gun by his side, the little radio he used to talk to the other soldiers echoing the terrifying sounds from whatever the fuck was going on down below.

Crashing noises, screaming, things – or people – hitting the ground and the walls, glass breaking, metal screeching as it was ripped apart… The place trembled from time to time and the sonic-booms that Superman made every time he moved were enough to dislocate everything around him, sending things flying everywhere.

He still hadn't been able to move an inch from his previously spot, paralyzed by fear, when two motherfucking red beams appeared from the level below, cutting the floor, machinery that happened to be in its way and even the ceiling like they were all made of butter.

The whole thing collapsed at the next second, taking himself and every soldier with him on the second level alongside it.

It was like time itself stopped as he fell down. The could see the pieces of the broken floor, the furniture, the machinery and every one of his men floating for a but a moment, as if someone had turned off gravity.

Then they started to fall, screaming.

Except none of them actually crashed against the ground. Superman – moving so fucking fast that the Russian had to wonder why the hell they were still on business – flew against them, grabbed the falling people midair and tossed them out the warehouse, not allowing a single one to hit the floor or be crushed by the debris but putting them to sleep nevertheless.

The Russian mobster actually shrieked like a 9-year-old girl when he felt Superman grab him.

No rollercoaster, no race car, no plane, absolutely nothing he ever felt could compare to the feeling of being grabbed by a super-powered alien and carried to the sky in a split-second. Everything was a blur around him, the sound was horrific, and before his brain could even process what was going on, he was being held by Superman high up in the sky of New York.

Holy fuck, he thought again, this time pissing his pants for real.

"Your boss," Superman said, his voice hard and his eyes glowing red.

The Russian could only point towards the general direction of their last warehouse, shaking like a leaf in a storm, before yelling like a 9-year-old girl once again when Superman flew back down with him, fast enough that his heart almost stopped.

It was almost a mercy when Superman flicked his forehead, knocking him out. His last thought before passing out was that he would never commit a crime again, not after this.

Matt listened to the people inside the warehouse, perched on the roof above it while covered by the shadows of the night. There were a lot of people inside, a lot of guns and bombs. Like the Russian he captured told him, the Russians truly were preparing for war.

A war not only against him, but against New York as well. Revenge against the Masked Vigilante that had killed Anatoly Ranskahov.

When Matt found out who killed Anatoly and pinned the blame on him, he would have a very lengthy conversation with him. Fists would be involved.

It was madness. He knew it, the entire Russian Mafia knew it and Vladimir probably knew it too, but they were still going on with it. What was the plan here, if there even was one? Start shooting around New York, hoping the Masked Man would show up? Superman would be there in a matter of seconds and 90% of these men would go to jail – for a long time – before even firing the first shot.

Vladimir was willing to sacrifice the entire organization to find him and that told him a lot about his motivation. He would not stop, he would kill anyone that got in his way and he was even prepared to use his men as bait to lure Superman away and give him the opportunity.

Madness or stupidity, he didn't know how to call that plan.

And yet, Matt was there, so maybe the plan had worked in some capacity.

There was an upside to all this, at least. Vladimir was unlikely to be thinking clearly right now. He was furious and he wanted revenge and he probably didn't even care if he died or not at this point. It made him dangerous, yes, but liable to make mistakes.

Also, it made him a poor leader. It was unlikely that the Russians would continue to follow him if their boss was using them as cannon fodder against Superman.

If Matt could stop him, now, then it was over. At least for a while. Claire would be safe, the Russians would be unwilling to start killing innocents and Matt would have a lead on Fisk, the true mastermind.

Leaning forward without really needing to, Matt concentrated, trying to listen to the beginning of a conversation happening in the room right below him. It was in Russian, he couldn't understand most of it, but he did understand a single word:

"…Vladimir…".

He also recognized the voice that answered, from the time he almost captured Anatoly Ranskahov a while back; if his memory served him right, the voice that answered to this conversation was the same that had called Anatoly "brother" back then, before attacking him like an enraged pit bull.

Vladimir was there, Matt realized, eager to finally put an end to this.

But when he realized that, he also noticed the probable topic of the conversation between the Russian boss and his underling. Tilting his head slightly, Matt listened to a discussion between the two guards on the front, trying to send away a man that was answering only in Mandarin. Immediately, his memory went back to a point earlier that day, when he captured the Russian mobster to interrogate; to the Chinese blind man sitting on the backseat of the cab, supposedly a delivery man for the Chinese mob.

Before he could actually understand why the Chinese was making a delivery now, at that very moment, Matt listened to something else with his enhanced hearing; something in the distance, that even the Russians could probably hear if they paid attention to it, but that to him was so incredibly loud.

Three explosions, one soon after the other. In the general direction of the other Russian hideout's addresses that the mobster he interrogated had given him.

Matt froze for a second, his brain working fast to understand what was going on, but there was just one answer: someone had attacked the Russians. Probably the same "someone" that had killed Anatoly and blamed him for it, making sure the Russians would ready themselves for war, like they were doing right now.

And the one piece of the puzzle that didn't fit in all this was the Chinese blind man trying to enter the Russian hideout.

At that moment, he heard a small – but very significant – click.

Matt jumped from the roof and grabbed the fire escape, almost as if by reflex alone, twisted himself to go into the warehouse's direction and curled himself into a ball midair just before crashing against the warehouse second-floor window, falling inside with a thunderous bang. Every Russian inside turned, alarmed, weapons pointing at him.

Then it happened.

BOOOOM!

He was expecting it, but not even Matt could remain standing when the entire warehouse shook, sending everyone down. The windows shattered and the dim lights went off instantly; the noise was almost unbearable to Matt's enhanced hearing and he felt the heat of the flames, even from afar, almost as if they were running on his skin. The vibrations of the blast shook every single bone in his body and he was so utterly lost for a second that he might as well have been blind.

But he couldn't allow Vladimir to die there, not without telling him about Fisk.

Somehow, the warehouse didn't collapse and the second-floor was remarkably undamaged, even though some parts of the floor had, indeed, crumbled. Flames spread through it and sections of the ceiling were falling down. Matt's senses were going haywire, making him incredibly dizzy, but he forced himself up, trying to focus so he could follow Vladimir's voice, breathing, heartbeat… Anything.

He heard a groan, a piece of wood hitting the floor, a curse in Russian; every single one uttered by the voice he was looking for.

At the same time, he heard the ceiling finally giving away, right above Vladimir.

Matt was running towards Vladimir before he even realized what he was doing, screaming to try to follow the vibrations of his own voice against the surfaces in front of him, not unlike a bat. Vladimir heard him and turned, his heartbeat fast, his expression going from pained, to startled, to finally realization.

And then fury.

But it was already too late, because Matt clashed against him, sending them both through the second-floor shattered window, just at the moment the ceiling caved in. It was a long fall and they might break bones, Matt knew that, but there was nothing he could do; it was either that or being crushed by the collapsed building and burning to death soon after, if they survived the first one.

Matt couldn't help but flinch, waiting for the impact.

Out of nowhere, a loud sonic-boom shook the sky. A second later, something appeared under them, impacting them hard, but not the unforgiving clash against the ground, like he expected. Instead, it was something that actually slowed them down for a moment, before finally stopping their fall and dropping them safely on the ground.

Not "something", Matt suddenly realized, but "someone".

Turning his head up unnecessarily, Matt gazed with his blind eyes at Superman, floating in the sky.

That was not something he had planned on happening, that was for sure. But what Matt really hadn't planned was for him to actually recognize the man flying above them. Eyes could be easily deceived, but his senses couldn't. It was the same almost too slow heartbeat, the exact same shape of the body and face, the same smell, the same shockingly unwavering body temperature, the same high density of his skin, bones and organs, the same calm way to breathe, even though the situation they were in was anything but calm.

The man flying above them, clad in Superman's clothes, was the same man that he and Foggy met during their "guys' night out". The same man that played pool against them, the same man that was happily drinking alongside Thor and Captain America, both using terrible disguises. The same man they helped get out of jail after they fought the biker gang.

Clark Kent was Superman, Matt confirmed, surprised by the turn of events. And by the expression in his face, he somehow also knew exactly who was under that mask; and he was not happy with what was happening.

Clark was too late to arrive before the suicide bomber detonated his charges, killing himself, the two guards at the entrance of the last Russian warehouse and three others close to the entrance. But at least he got there in time to minimize the casualties, breaking into the warehouse and redirecting the blast outside with his super-breath, preventing the death of all the remaining survivors in there.

It was not the outcome he wanted, but at least the lives of most there were spared. He would have to settle for that; he should not have lost precious seconds to confirm Vladimir's location with the mobster on the previous warehouse.

After the bomb blast was stopped, Clark blurred through the warehouse, getting everyone out – while knocking them out at the same time –, saving the Russian mobsters from burning to death or being crushed by the debris.

That was when he heard someone screaming on the second-floor and jumping against another person; right through the window.

Taking off fast, Clark went through the wall, breaking the sound-barrier to arrive just in time to stop their fall, slowing down under them to be able to save them from quite severe wounds or maybe even death.

It was only when the two of them were already saved that Clark realized who he'd just saved: the Masked Vigilante and the Russian Mafia's boss, Vladimir Ranskahov. Both alive and relatively unharmed.

Floating above them, Clark glanced at the two men, both groaning in pain, when the Masked Man finally turned and looked back at him; his eyes widened when he used his x-ray vision to look through the man's black mask.

Because the man under the mask was someone he'd already met before: Matthew Murdock, the lawyer that had played pool against he, Steve, Thor and Jessica in Luke's Bar, the same one that helped them out of jail after they fought against the Dogs of Hell.

Matt Murdock, the blind lawyer, was the Masked Vigilante.

The same Masked Vigilante that had been beating criminals to a pulp all over Hell's Kitchen and forcing the entire Russian Mafia into despair. The same Masked Vigilante that had already captured, with his bare hands, several other escaped or non-convicted criminals, sending them to jail so injured that they probably would never recover.

The same Masked Vigilante that had decapitated Anatoly Ranskahov, one of the two bosses of the Russian Mafia, and sent the entire mob into a war frenzy.

Clark really had no idea how that was possible, how could the same blind lawyer he met that night be the Masked Vigilante, but Matt was clearly not just a blind lawyer. Using his x-ray vision he could confirm that Matt wasn't simply a man in the wrong place at the wrong time – wearing the wrong outfit –, because his skin was littered with scars and bruises, his bones were full of old lesions and his muscles were clearly built through years of martial-arts training.

There was no mistaking it: Matt Murdock and the Masked Vigilante were the same person.

And unless Clark was very wrong, by the surprised look on Matt's face, he had also realized that Clark Kent and Superman were also the same person. Whatever allowed Matt to "see" the world was clearly better than mere eyesight, that was for certain.

Neither of them spoke, neither of them moved, they simply remained there – Clark floating and Matt on the ground –, staring fixedly at each other. Until Vladimir groaned in pain again and opened his eyes.

"You!" the Russian mobster roared, his voice slurred, but before he could even raise his arms to do anything, Matt punched him in the jaw, knocking him out.

There was silence, broke only by the far away police and fire trucks' sirens, the sound of the fire and the debris from the warehouse that would occasionally fall.

"So, I guess we both have questions… Clark Kent," Matt finally said, looking at him with his blind eyes.

Clark stared back without answering for a moment, studying more than just Matt's face and old injuries, more than just his lack of sight – because he didn't doubt for a second that he was really blind. No, Clark was remembering the conversations he had with the man, more importantly, the impressions he had. Clark was a pretty good judge of character – and so was Jessica, despite her suspicious nature – and the vibe he got from Matt that night wasn't of a crazy, murderous vigilante.

In another universe, Clark might have taken the Masked Vigilante directly to the police, without question. He was a vigilante, he was extremely brutal and he apparently had killed a man, criminal or not. Things would only escalate from there, there was no doubt. A clearly trained man, possibly enhanced, with no morals was not something Clark could tolerate.

But in this universe he had met Matt before, he had talked to him, found out more about him. He also talked to Jessica, who had advised him on the matter, stating that while violent, the Masked Vigilante was not a killer.

Clark had thousands of questions right now, but he would settle for Matt answering just one.

"Matt Murdock… Did you kill Anatoly Ranskahov?"

Matt's face twisted in annoyance.

"I never killed anyone," he retorted, immediately.

Clark opened his arms, looking around. "What do you have to do with this?"

"Nothing, unless you count trying to stop it as 'having anything to do with it'," Matt said, getting up. "Someone blamed me for killing Anatoly, this guy wanted revenge. I wanted to stop this war before people got hurt." He turned and looked at the unconscious Russian. "And I needed to ask him some questions."

Matt wasn't lying, Clark could tell that by his vitals. Words were often twisted into lies, but something in the body always gave it away; Matt wasn't showing any signs of that.

A brutal vigilante he might be – and Clark would have words with him about that –, but he had never killed anyone. Someone else was responsible for Anatoly's death and Clark was beginning to think that it was the same person responsible for this attack against the Russians.

The sirens began to sound closer and both he and Matt looked in their direction; it seemed his hearing was indeed enhanced, like Jessica theorized.

Thinking fast, Clark grabbed Kelex and sent a quick message to Natasha.

"Grab him and take him to that street," Clark said, suddenly, startling Matt.

"What?" Matt asked, confused.

"Vladimir," he clarified. "The police is coming and they will arrest you and him on the spot." Clark sighed. "And I have on good authority that if they do, you two will probably not last the night." He pointed to the dark street passing by the warehouse's side, in the opposite direction of the sirens. "Go through there, I will handle things here."

"They'll probably surround the entire place," Matt argued, but he was already lifting Vladimir off the ground.

"They will, that's why I have someone waiting for you there," Clark said. "Put Vladimir in her car, take off your mask and go home. The police won't stop a blind lawyer."

"The perks of being blind, huh?" Matt sighed, groaning with the effort to lift Vladimir. "What will you do with him? I need him to answer my questions."

"What questions?"

"I want the man in charge."

Clark nodded. "So do I." He stared at Matt. "I still have question for you, Matt, a lot of them. Depending on your answers, I'll share what I find."

Matt met his stare, silent.

"You're putting a lot of trust in a 'crazy Masked Vigilante'," he said.

"I am," Clark agreed. Not only he was allowing Matt to take Vladimir, he was also letting him go knowing he knew Clark's true identity. "Someone I know thinks you're not that bad. I want to know if she's right." He tilted his head a bit. "But also, I will find you in seconds if you break that trust, so I would behave if I were you.

Matt chuckled, not even remotely bothered by the threat, and started to walk.

"Perks of being a super-powered alien, I suppose," he said. "Well, you know where to find me, Clark. Or you can find out. We'll talk later."

"Later," Clark agreed, turning to greet the police cars that arrived in the distance.

He hoped he wouldn't regret allowing Matt to go. His options were a bit limited, true, but he was allowing Matt to take Vladimir and shielding him from the police because he wanted to believe in him. Even if the man knew his most precious secret.

Hope in the potential of every person to be a force for good.

The die was cast. Right now, he had criminals to deliver to justice and fires to put out. The night would be long.

"Oh, my God," Vanessa whispered, watching the explosions in the distance.

As she watched the fires of a new world, Wilson Fisk watched her. He could see she was shocked, even afraid, but she wasn't turning away.

"Wilson?" she asked, her voice weak.

He got closer to her.

"Every one of those places belonged to one of the most violent mobs in the world," Fisk explained, gently. "They were gathering their men to start a war that would bathe New York in blood. Now, they will no longer infect this city."

Vanessa listened to his every word, never glancing away from the fires. But her expression changed, from scared and shocked, to determinate.

"Good," she said.

Fisk smiled as he looked tenderly at her.

Clark smelled like smoke and he was certain it would take more than just a quick shower to remove that barbecue smell from him.

Not that Natasha hadn't offered, but he was pretty sure that getting naked in her apartment would lead to some terrible prank, that might or might not involve her asking to join him as a joke or something even worse.

Best not take any chances.

As they walked the stairs to Natasha's apartment, Vladimir being carried by him inside a body bag – very much alive and unharmed, of course –, the sun was beginning to rise over New York. It had taken him a bit of time to help the fireman to extinguish the flames on the warehouses, but at least it was done.

The members of the Russian Mafia captured by him – excluding Vladimir himself – were taken by the police to a hospital, where they would be constantly guarded by Natasha's people, even after they left to prison; Clark wasn't certain how right Sergei was in claiming the Hand had eyes everywhere, but it was best not to take chances.

And the dead… There was nothing anyone could do about them, unfortunately. They were criminals and they were preparing for war, but Clark would still morn for them. And for the Chinese suicide bombers as well. He had no idea the level of fanatism that took for someone to do such a thing, but those people were victims as much as they were murderers.

The Hand was the one to blame for this, most likely, and he would get to the bottom of this.

Matt had delivered Vladimir to Natasha, as agreed, and then left, probably back to his home. That was probably the biggest surprise of the night, right after the bombs, of course. Clark was very curious about him, his motivations as well as his abilities, and he would probably meet him later on.

He was innocent of killing Anatoly, but he was still incredibly brutal and angry and Clark wanted to talk to him about that.

"Are you tired?" Natasha asked, glancing at him. "Or it takes more than that to tire one such as you?"

The line was, obviously, full of inuendo. He rolled his eyes.

"I'm good. What about you?"

"Oh, I can last a whole night, no problem," Natasha answered, not giving away even a smile as she said it. "I still have to interrogate this one." As she said this, she tapped – rather hard – the body bag. Lucky for him, he was heavily sedated. "I'm looking forward to it."

Clark knew she wouldn't torture him – not because she had qualms about it, but because she respected him enough not to do it –, but he still wouldn't want to be in that guy's place. Or Sergei's, for that matter.

As they turned the corridor to get to Natasha's secret apartment, Clark finally noticed something.

"I can't hear anything," he said, suddenly.

"What?" Natasha asked, her hand automatically grabbing her gun.

"In your apartment," Clark clarified. "There's no one there."

They stared at each other for a second, then bolted to the apartment. Natasha quickly opened the place and ran to the room where Sergei was supposed to be cuffed, but no one was there. There was only a note on the table.

Natasha grabbed it and read it.

"'Girl, it was very good to see you, but I'm not a snitch. I already told you plenty. I hope you find those sons of bitches and put a bullet in their heads, but I'm not counting on it. Just try not to die, I actually happen to like you. Yours, Sergei.'"

Slowly, she put it back down, looking for the room where she had cuffed his two bodyguards, which was also empty.

"That stupid…" she finally said, shaking her head.

"Where would he go?" Clark asked. "His apartment?"

"First place we would look, so no," Natasha answered. "He'll go to his hideout, that he thinks I don't know about. Probably going to grab cash and documents and leave the country." She stopped. "He's going to get himself killed."

Clark put his hand on her shoulder. "Well, what are we waiting for, then? Let's go."

Her smile – tiny as it was – was able to brighten his mood.

Wilson Fisk entered the car after Vanessa was safe inside her home. He waited for a moment, until a second car stopped by their side and Wesley walked out, entering his car a moment later.

"So, how did it go?" Fisk asked, too impatient to for the news.

Wesley sighed as he sat down.

"We had some… Unforeseen complications, sir," he finally admitted.

Fisk closed his eyes for a moment.

"What kind of complications, Wesley? The bombs went off, didn't they?"

"They did, sir, but… You-Know-Who somehow showed up just as they did," Wesley explained, serious. "He managed to stop Madame Gao's men or at least prevent the bombs to blow up as they should. Most Russians survived." He sighed again. "We cannot hope to get rid of them all, sir, it would draw too much attention."

Wilson was still thinking about what he said about Superman. How did that alien managed to do this? Was he that powerful? Could he actually predict the future, as some feared? Read minds? Or did he uncover some of his secrets?

This was worrying, but not exactly critical, at least not now.

"They know nothing of importance," Fisk dismissed, after a second. "They can prove nothing and they know even less." Suddenly, he stared at Wesley. "What about Vladimir?"

"About that…"

Fisk took both his hands to his face, frustrated.

"We don't know yet, sir," Wesley said, fast. "His body wasn't recovered, but the state of some of the corpses were… Bad, to say the least. He could be one of them. The bodies are being tested by the police as we speak, we'll know when they do."

He didn't share Wesley's optimism. Not even Wesley shared Wesley's optimism, he noticed.

"Find him, Wesley," Fisk ordered. "If Vladimir survived… He knows some things. Nothing that would destroy us, but surely some that will hinder us. I would rather he not spoke at all."

"I'm already on it, sir," Wesley guaranteed. He waited a second. "And what shall we do about the explosions?"

Fisk was looking outside the window, thinking.

"The Masked Man killed one brother and he wanted to finish the job. Tell our people in the media to focus on that. He's a criminal, everyone will believe it." He turned to Wesley. "I want you to take Leland to a safe house, at least until we find Vladimir. Vladimir knows nothing of use, but he knows Leland's name and Leland is the map to our treasure."

It was Wesley turn to be frustrated, even though he masked it well.

"He will not like that, sir," Wesley mentioned.

"Tell him I insist."

They drove in silence, back to Fisk's apartment. Hell's Kitchen was still in chaos and soon people would want someone to blame; the Masked Vigilante was a convenient choice to all of them. Without the Russians, he would probably focus on someone else and Fisk would rather deal with him fast. The public opinion would force the police to act and maybe even push Superman to do something.

Something that didn't involve almost destroying his carefully laid plans, if at all possible.

The situation with Vladimir was worse than he cared to voice, though. Vladimir was rash and sometimes single-minded, but he was dangerous and he knew things that he shouldn't. If he survived, and if he somehow found out that he was to blame for Anatoly's death, then he could become a problem.

He needed to be dealt with, fast.

"I've been thinking, Wesley…" Fisk started, suddenly, his mind back on Vanessa. "Maybe it's time for us to leave the shadows and embrace both worlds."

"Sir?" Wesley asked, startled.

His friend was confused and Fisk couldn't blame him. They went through great lengths to hide his identity from the world, to make him disappear completely from the public. A veil of shadows so thick that not even his underlings knew anything of consequence about him. Not even his name was allowed to be spoken aloud.

Wilson Fisk ruled from the shadows, but maybe, like his tentative relationship with Vanessa, he could embrace both worlds.

If anything else, it would be an excellent shield against whatever Vladimir might say and to whom he might say it to, in case it really got to that. As a criminal, Fisk was easy to hate and persecute; as a beloved member of the community, set on helping New York to grow into a beautiful city, the people would shield him in case of false allegations of murderous mobsters.

"Just something on my mind," Fisk said, finally, shaking his head.

He would wait and see how things would play out.

Clark and Natasha arrived quickly at Sergei's hideout, but not quickly enough. Sergei was still there, but someone got to him first.

And cut off his head with a katana, that was still impaled in Sergei's dead body. The Hand had found him.

Natasha was staring at Sergei's corpse without blinking. Clark knew it wasn't her fault. Her calculations about Sergei's absence not being noticed by the Hand was spot-on. He wasn't dead because they had taken him, nor because he told them about Pyramiden, the Hand or even the Russian's warehouses.

He was dead for the same reason someone had turned against the Russians and sent suicide bombers against them. The Hand had disposed themselves of the Russians and Sergei happened to be a part of that organization, active or not. He was a loose end and now they had no more use for him.

Clark didn't know why, but the Hand – or someone under their orders – had started this war just so they could finish the Russians. They were to blame.

But Natasha probably wouldn't want to hear that, so he just said:

"I'm sorry, Natasha. I really am. I know he was your friend–"

"He wasn't my friend," Natasha interrupted, still watching the body unblinking. "Barely an acquaintance, really." She got in silence for a while, then said, suddenly: "Did you know he had a daughter?"

"I didn't," Clark answered, hesitant.

"She passed a long time ago, when she was still a kid," Natasha continued. "Pneumonia, I think. She was pretty little thing, blue eyes, red hair… Sounds familiar?"

Clark turned to look at Natasha, trying to understand what she was saying.

"That was the reason the Red Room sent me to make contact with him. They thought that the memory of his daughter would be enough to give me an edge, a way to approach him." She nodded, still staring. "They were right."

He was glad Natasha wasn't looking at him, because he couldn't hide the horror in his expression. What kind of monsters these people were?

"Sergei knew about this, of course, he was not an idiot. But he didn't care. I reminded him of someone he loved very much and sometimes I would catch him looking at me as if I were her. He wasn't a friend," Natasha repeated, "but he was one of the few people that looked at me back then and saw more than an assassin. It meant something to me."

After almost a minute of staring at Sergei, Natasha turned to Clark.

"I want whoever did this to pay," Natasha said.

The Hand had just made a powerful enemy. And Clark would be right by Natasha's side every step of the way.

Matt landed on the roof of his building, feeling tired in his bones. That night did not go as planned, at all. He was framed for the murder of a Russian boss, made a target for the entire Mafia, survived a suicide bomber, met Superman and discovered his true identity at the same time Superman discovered his, finally captured Vladimir only to surrender him minutes later to the Black Widow herself and then escaped a police siege.

Hell's Kitchen was in chaos, his phone was filled with worried messages from Foggy, Karen and Claire and he needed to be up for work in a couple of hours.

All in all, a very busy night, but at least a fruitful one. Vladimir was captured, war was averted and if Clark kept his promise he would have more information on Fisk soon enough – he just hoped Clark would not turn out to be a problem as well, because that would push things a bit too far out of his dept. Claire was safe now and could go back to work, since the Russians had way more important things to worry about now than her.

The Russian Mafia in Hell's Kitchen was over, at least for now. They would come back, Matt had no doubt about it, but it would take time. It was victory, a tremendous one.

Still, Matt couldn't help but feeling something was wrong.

He found out the 'something wrong' quickly enough, when a blade passed right where his head was a second ago.

Rolling away from the attacker – that had somehow approached him without being heard –, Matt readied himself for the fight.

Only to stop when he saw who was attacking.

"Good to know you haven't forgotten every single thing I taught you, Matty," Stick said, sheathing his sword. "Now get rid of the woman in your apartment, we need to talk."

Matt could only stare at the blind old man in front of him, thin and rugged and grayed, but still one of the most dangerous men in the world. The very same who had taught him how to fight and, more importantly, how to control his gifts, back when he was just a kid living with the nuns. A man he hadn't seen in years.

"There's a war coming, Matty," Stick said, his voice rough and sarcastic, just as he remembered. "If you're done playing vigilante, it's time to prepare. The Hand is coming to New York and they're bringing their biggest weapon."

Matt had no idea how to respond to that.