Kingpin III

Fisk Tower stood tall and imposing, its sleek glass surface gleaming under the city's muted light. To the untrained eye, it was a symbol of modernity and success—an architectural wonder, dominating the skyline like a silent titan. But for those who knew the truth, Fisk Tower was more than just a corporate monolith. It was the heart of Wilson Fisk's empire, a fortress housing both his legitimate business dealings and his far more sinister operations.

Inside, the air was thick with power and danger. Every inch of the building, from the luxurious penthouse to the underground vaults, was designed with purpose. The state-of-the-art security systems, hidden passageways, and fortified walls were not just for show. They were the tools of a kingpin, ensuring no one entered or exited without his consent.

Employees moved with purpose, each one aware that they were under constant scrutiny. Whispers of Fisk's influence echoed in every corner of the building, a reminder that in this place, the line between ally and enemy was often blurred.

But not today. Today, the entrance to this tower speaks of the carnage happening inside. As one enters, they will find a plethora of headless corpses, but no blood, causing one to wonder just what killed them.

Fisk Tower was now a battlefield, though the chaos was contained within its walls. Four figures strode through the bloodied corridors with terrifying ease. Anyone who dared to oppose them fell lifeless before even grasping what had hit them. Security guards, armed and well-trained, stood no chance; their lives extinguished in an instant, like candles snuffed by an invisible force.

Dave Garcia walked at the head of the group, his movements deliberate and calm, as though this massacre was nothing more than an ordinary business meeting. He wore a tailored suit that spoke of power, though he carried himself without the pretense of a man who needed to flaunt it. There were no weapons in his hands, no show of force. Yet, the air around him was thick with an undeniable aura—he commanded the space effortlessly, his authority unquestionable.

Behind him, Diana, his secretary, moved briskly, holding a stack of files as though this bloodshed was a mere inconvenience in her busy day. Her focus remained on the papers, calculating, sorting, preparing, unaffected by the carnage unfolding around her. A glance at her might suggest she was cold, but in reality, she was just doing her job with precision, which was writing down everything she is observing.

Albert, Dave's bodyguard, followed closely. He looked every bit the part of a protector, yet something was off. One look at him will suggest he is not a protector, he is a traitor but no one is looking at him, cause he is same as those guards who came and fell every now and then.

And then there was Trish. Her presence was a storm in itself. As they moved through the tower, her energy crackled, her demonic power coursing visibly around her like a living thing. Lightning danced across her form, sparking and sizzling, reducing any who challenged them to ash before they could even scream. Her clothes remained immaculate, untouched by the chaos she unleashed. The lightning she summoned not only killed—it obliterated. Blood evaporated from bodies before it could even hit the floor, and the air smelled faintly of ozone, the unmistakable scent of raw, elemental destruction.

Together, they advanced through Fisk Tower, an unstoppable force. Nothing could stand in their way—not guards, not walls, not even the weight of the kingpin's empire. Today, the tower was theirs.

As the doors to the top-floor office of Fisk Tower swung open, they revealed the imposing figure of Wilson Fisk seated behind a grand, mahogany desk. Despite his corpulent appearance, it was clear that Fisk was a natural-born powerhouse—a veritable titan whose bulk belied the lean muscle beneath. His physique was the stuff of legends, a prime example of raw, physical dominance.

Dave Garcia walked in with an air of casual confidence, his tailored suit contrasting starkly with the grim setting. He made his way to a chair opposite Fisk and sat down, his gaze fixed intently on the kingpin.

"Mr. Fisk," Dave said lightly, the tone of his voice suggesting a casual conversation rather than an encounter in the midst of chaos, "it's quite hard to get a meeting with you."

Fisk's eyes narrowed, but his demeanor remained composed, almost amused. "Really? I thought your girl made it easy," he said, glancing at Trish, who responded with a cool, enigmatic smile.

"What brings you here, Mr. Garcia?" Fisk asked, his voice steady as he adjusted himself in his seat, the power dynamic clear.

"You owe me, Fisk," Dave said simply, his gaze unflinching.

Fisk's eyes narrowed further, his calm façade beginning to crack as the gravity of Dave's words settled in. His fingers drummed a steady rhythm on the desk, a subtle, almost imperceptible signal. The tension in the room thickened, like the calm before a storm.

"Really, Mr. Garcia?" Fisk's voice was smooth, but there was a dangerous edge to it. "Why exactly do I owe you?"

Dave's gaze remained unwavering, the resolve in his voice cutting through the room like a knife. "A life. You owe me a life, Mr. Fisk. And I'm here to take it back."

A sudden piercing pain drove through Dave's chest. His eyes widened in shock as he looked down to see a sword jutting from his heart. He turned his head to find Albert behind him, the blade still in his hands.

"Don't blame me," Albert said with a cold detachment as he twisted the sword, causing Dave to gasp and spit out blood. "I was just following orders."

Dave crumpled to the floor, struggling for breath. Diana rushed to his side, tears streaming down her face. "Dave, please! Don't leave me!" she cried, her voice cracking with desperation.

Dave's eyes fluttered closed, his body growing limp as Diana wept beside him.

Fisk glanced at Trish, who was impaled by numerous daggers but still very much alive. "He was an idiot, and I thought he must have been something special," Fisk said, a hint of disdain in his voice. "Thank you for not killing her, Bullseye."

"I know she did her job properly," Bullseye replied, appearing behind Fisk with a sinister grin.

Fisk stood, turning his gaze to Trish. "Now that he's dead, do you serve me?" he demanded.

"Either serve me or die like him," Fisk continued, his eyes shifting to Trish, who was glaring defiantly at him, and to Dave's motionless form on the floor. Diana's sobs filled the room.

Trish suddenly spoke up, frustration in her voice. "How long do I have to act like this?" Her irritation was evident, leaving others in the room puzzled.

Their confusion was quickly dispelled when Dave's voice cut through the tension, startling Diana, who had thought him dead. "You know, you could have stopped the sword," Dave said, rising to his feet with a bored look, blood smeared across his face. He fixed his gaze on Trish.

"I thought you wanted to test the loyalty of those around you," Trish said, pointing at Diana and Albert. "Well, here's your test."

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