Sheep, Predator And the Savior (II)

Three Weeks Ago.

Nameless street, New York.

In a certain silent street two chairs faced each other under the flicker of a dying streetlamp.

The empty road stretched endlessly in either direction, as though even the city had turned its back on this cursed place. The air smelled of rust and decay, a place where the desperate met their ends.

Anthony Ward, the former mayor of New York City, sat stiffly in one of the chairs. His knuckles were white as he gripped the armrests, his face lined with the kind of grief that turns to hatred. His suit, though tailored, hung on him as if it belonged to someone else, someone who hadn't been hollowed out by loss.

In the other chair sat David Graven, The Killgrave. He was composed, his posture relaxed, his tailored suit impeccable. His hazel eyes carried an unsettling glow, like embers hidden in the dark. There was a stillness to him, a predator's patience, as though every movement was calculated to waste neither energy nor emotion.

"You think this is power?" Ward hissed, "Dragging me out here like this? My daughter is dead because of you. She was raped...Do you hear me? She's dead. Six years old. Six! And the men who killed her worked for you. They were high on your poison, trafficking your filth. You think I'm just going to let that go?"

David Graven tilted his head slightly, studying the broken man in front of him.

"I'm not here to argue, You're grieving, Anthony. Grief makes men irrational. It makes them cling to... ideas."

"Don't talk down to me," Ward snapped. His chair creaked as he leaned forward, his voice rising.

"You think I'm afraid of you? I know what you are. I know what you've done. And tomorrow, so will everyone else."

Graven's expression didn't shift. His hands remained folded in his lap, his tone unchanging,

"You've always had a flair for theatrics. The press loved that about you. But this, this isn't a campaign. It's not a headline. You're not standing at a podium. You're sitting in a chair, in the middle of an empty street, with no one but me to hear you scream."

Ward's lip curled in anger, but Graven pressed on, his voice barely above a whisper, forcing Ward to lean in.

"Do you want to know the truth, Anthony? The truth is, I didn't have your daughter killed. I didn't even know her name until you made it my business. But her death? That's on you."

The words landed like a blow, and Ward's face twisted.

"Don't you dare—"

"You were the one who painted a target on your back, You were the one who made yourself the moral crusader. The untouchable mayor. And when the dust settled, when the men you pissed off needed to make an example, they didn't come for you. They came for the person you cared about most. Because they knew it would break you."

He leaned back, his voice softening, almost sympathetic.

"And they were right, weren't they?"

Ward's hands trembled, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"But now," Graven said, "you've convinced yourself you can undo all of it. That you can expose me, tear down my empire. Tell me, what proof do you have? Documents? Names? Ledgers?" His lips curved into the faintest of smiles. "Even if it's enough to start a scandal, it won't be enough to end me."

"I don't need to end you," Ward spat. "I just need the world to see you for what you are, a monster."

Graven's smile faded. He sat forward, his gaze locking onto Ward's, his voice growing colder.

"The world doesn't care about monsters, Anthony. They care about order. And I provide it. What do you provide? A sob story? A dead child? People don't rally around pain, they run from it. And the ones who don't?" He paused, his gaze unflinching.

"Well, I make sure they never get the chance to speak."

Ward's defiance wavered for a moment, but he shook his head, gripping the armrests tighter. "You don't scare me. You'll slip, and when you do, I'll be there to make sure you pay for every life you've destroyed."

Graven rose slowly, smoothing the front of his suit. He retrieved a small knife from his pocket, its blade catching the dim light.

"You've already lost, Anthony. The moment you stepped into my world, you became mine. All that's left now is to decide how much you'll suffer before it ends."

Ward's voice faltered. "What are you doing?"

"Please die, Anthony"

"Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"I'm not your puppet," the mayor spat, gripping the edges of his chair like they were the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes flicked to the men he'd brought for protection. Their presence had given him confidence earlier, assurance that he'd leave alive even if things went south.

Now, though, that confidence was slipping.

"You may think you're some untouchable, but I'm not weak. I won't play your game. Do you take me for a child? And I damn sure won't kill myself just because you told me to!"

Killgrave didn't flinch. Instead, he leaned forward, his smile razor-sharp, pointing toward the blade on the table between them.

"You're still clinging to the idea that you have a choice, Anthony. That's adorable. Truly. But this isn't a negotiation."

The mayor's body stiffened as Killgrave's voice dropped into a low, commanding whisper, each word slicing through the air like a verdict of death. "This is worship. And every man must kneel before his god."

A cold shiver ran down Ward's spine, freezing him in place. His hands betrayed him, trembling as they moved toward the knife. He gasped, choking on his own fear, his voice breaking.

"No… no! Men, stop me! Stop me!"

Ward's desperate plea hung in the room, his eyes darting to his men for help. Helplessness filled his gaze, begging them to snap him out of this nightmare. But they stood motionless, their faces blank, their bodies unresponsive.

"I paid you! Three million! Kill him for me!"

His voice cracked, panic rising like a wave threatening to drown him, but his guards didn't move. Their silence swallowed him whole, dragging him deeper into despair.

Killgrave watched it all with detached amusement.

"Ah, the struggle. Fascinating, isn't it? That moment when a man realizes his will isn't his own. Tell me, Anthony what is it that breaks you? The fear of death? Or the despair of knowing you were never in control?"

Ward's breaths came in ragged gasps. His chest heaved, and tears blurred his vision. He fought to throw the knife away, but his grip only tightened, his own fingers betraying him. The steel felt cold and inevitable.

"Stop this!" he begged, desperately.

But Killgrave's smile only deepened, cold and merciless.

"You misunderstand. I'm not making you do this. This is worship.."

Ward's arm jerked forward, the knife trembling as its tip pressed against his chest. Pain bloomed as the blade pierced his skin, sharp and unrelenting.

"Please…" Ward whimpered, tears streaming down his face as the fight drained from his voice.

"Shhh," Killgrave murmured, tilting his head as if comforting a frightened child. "It's not the pain that matters. It's the surrender. Feel it, Anthony. Your heart racing. Your lungs burning. Your skin tearing. That's power."

The knife plunged deeper, tearing through flesh with a sickening crunch. Ward's scream died in his throat as white-hot agony exploded in his chest. Blood bubbled up, warm and thick, soaking his shirt as his hand twisted the blade, driving it further in.

Every beat of his heart felt like thunder in his ears, pumping life into a dying body. His muscles locked, forcing the blade deeper into his chest, through muscle, bone, and into the very core of his being.

Killgrave observed, bored yet faintly amused, like a man watching an insect struggle on its back.

"You see, Anthony, power isn't about control. It's about inevitability. No matter how hard you fight, no matter how much you resist, the outcome is always the same."

His voice turned to ice. "You. Lose."

Ward's body convulsed, his legs kicking weakly against the chair. His lips moved soundlessly, forming words that would never reach the air. The light in his eyes flickered, then dimmed, leaving only a lifeless husk slumped over in the chair.

"My Will...my Word...my World..."

Killgrave stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his suit. He glanced at the pool of blood spreading beneath the mayor, the dark stain soaking into the cracked pavement.

"Pathetic," he said, "But I suppose even gods must deal with insects now and then."

Soon...

He ordered the mayor's men to get rid of the body, staring blankly at the crowd of mobs disappearing into the cold December night. He lit up his cigar, the smoke curling in the air, each puff visible in the freezing temperature.

Then a certain memory hit him like a wave, distant, yet vivid, as if it happened yesterday.

Back when he was just another shadow in the game, a spy named Dr. Zebediah Killgrave. Back before the accident. One mistake, one moment, and he was exposed to that chemical nerve gas.

It didn't kill him. It changed him. Gave him the power to control minds with a single word.

The first thing he did with that power? He killed his parents. The second? He took over the identity of David Graven, the most feared mob boss in New York.

But even with all that power, it never felt like enough. It was empty. Hollow. He had a purpose, to control the entire world, to become its god, but it was boring. The thrill was gone before it even started. He was alone in the race, unstoppable, untouchable.

There was no competition, no challenge. His will was law, his words were verdict, and the world bent to him. It wasn't a life; it was just existence.

He took a long drag on his cigar and decided to disappear for a while. Maybe leave New York. Let the dust settle. There was no real threat to him now. Media was easy to deal with, and with the mayor dead, his grip on the city was ironclad. Nothing could touch him.

But then, he heard it. A scream. Someone shouting for help. It wasn't his problem. It shouldn't have mattered. But his feet moved anyway, drawn toward the voice without a second thought.