[Third Person POV]
While David was still caught in the warmth of that small, genuine moment, Gideon's voice drifted through the air like a cold wind.
"Sir, shall I remind you of your objective regarding the Iron Serpents?"
Just like that, the weight of reality came crashing down on him again. The fleeting reprieve vanished like smoke in the wind, replaced by the heaviness that had grown all too familiar.
David let out a breath and centered himself. His smile faded, the softness in his eyes replaced with steeled focus.
"I need to finish this before Sunday," he muttered to himself.
With deliberate movements, he rose from the floor and turned toward the hidden door that led to the underground bunker. His hand brushed over the familiar steel handle as the heavy door gave way to the faint chill below. Behind him, he heard the soft echo of Gideon's footsteps following.
He reached the top of the metal stairs, then paused at the threshold.
"Stay here," he said without turning. "Do not follow."
There was no response. Just silence and obedience.
David descended the staircase slowly, each step clanging with a hollow ring. The bunker remained dim and unmoved, a tomb carved from steel and concrete. He reached the bottom, where the light switch waited beside the rusted fuse box. With a flick, amber lights buzzed to life, flooding the corridor in a dull, flickering glow.
The air was cold. Stale. Heavy with metal, mildew, and something else beneath it. The scent of time, decay, and isolation.
In the far corner of the room was a cell. Welded bars reinforced with rebar mesh had been set into the concrete itself. Inside, sitting with his back to the wall, was the man David had spent weeks preparing.
Alan Sloane was awake.
David stepped forward slowly. Alan stirred, blinking as the light struck his face. Gaunt, grizzled, and sunken from neglect, he looked like a man who had lost time. Gone was the polished authority of the NYPD badge he once wore. In its place was a broken husk of a man, confused and groggy.
He stared forward, not really seeing. His eyes scanned the light, the walls, and the figure approaching. Then, as David stepped into the full glow of the overhead lamp and crouched in front of the cell, maskless, Alan's brows furrowed.
For a long moment, silence hung in the air.
David didn't speak. He just sat on the lone chair across from the cell, arms resting loosely on his knees, expression unreadable.
Alan blinked several times. His dry lips parted as recognition tried to claw its way through the haze.
"You..." he whispered, hoarse and uncertain.
David said nothing. He just watched.
Minutes ticked by. Then, piece by piece, like a puzzle falling together in Alan's mind, something clicked.
His expression twisted.
"You little bastard," Alan growled. He pushed himself up from the corner, his legs shaking, body swaying from malnutrition and sedation. But fury, raw and venomous, was waking up in his eyes.
He stumbled to the bars, gripping them with white-knuckled rage.
"It's you... You son of a bitch! You fucking piece of trash! You think you can do this to me?! Do you know who I was?!"
He slammed his fists against the bars, the clang echoing through the bunker.
"I should've put you down the second I saw your face! I knew something was off! I knew it! You smug little freak! What are you now, some kind of goddamn vigilante?!"
David's expression remained still.
Alan kept going.
"You think any of this will last?! You think hiding in your rat hole, kidnapping cops, torturing people, makes you some kind of justice crusader?! You're nothing but a coward! A scared, pathetic little kid playing games in a sandbox filled with landmines!"
He spit between the bars, the saliva landing near David's boot.
"Kill me then! Come on! Fucking kill me! What, you don't have the balls? You've had weeks. What's stopping you, you coward? You gutless piece of shit!"
His voice cracked. His rage peaked.
And then, like a candle burning through the last of its wax, Alan slumped back down to the floor.
He sat against the wall, panting, trembling. His face was red and streaked with sweat.
David finally moved. He leaned forward slightly, voice even.
"As much as I want to kill you, you still have your uses. So I will release you."
Alan's head turned, disoriented, eyes narrowing.
David continued. "But make no mistake. Once you're no longer useful, you will die. And it will be by my hands."
Alan stared.
Then he laughed. A short, hysterical cackle that built into full-bodied laughter.
"You...? You? Kill me?" Alan wiped his mouth, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're just a fucking kid. You don't have the guts. You had all this time to do it, and you didn't. You know why?"
He grinned, teeth yellowed, eyes filled with spite.
"Because deep down, you're weak and afraid. You're nothing but a scared little boy with a grudge and too much time on his hands. You don't have it in you. You never did."
David smiled then. A slow, cold smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Think what you want, you filthy piece of shit," he said softly. "But when the time comes, you'll know. Because you'll be staring into my eyes when you die."
He stood.
The chair scraped as he pushed it back. He didn't look down again. Just turned, silent and calm, and began walking toward the stairs.
Alan remained where he was, eyes locked on David's back, the laughter now long gone. His breathing slowed, the silence around him once again settling like dust.
He said nothing as the lights dimmed behind David's exit.
And in that quiet, something inside Alan shifted.
For the first time since he'd woken up in that cell, he understood something: he wasn't dealing with a boy anymore.
He was staring at a reckoning.
---
---
[Third Person POV]
The black luxury van glided through the heart of Manhattan, its tinted windows muting the chaos outside. Inside the cabin was spacious, modified, with two leather seats facing each other across a wide mahogany-finished divider stocked with bottled water and a silent touchscreen interface built into the panel.
Wilson Fisk sat perfectly still, his large hands resting against each other, elbows tucked onto the padded armrests. He stared through the dim reflection on the window behind James Wesley, but his focus was elsewhere.
Opposite him, Wesley reached down to his briefcase. The click of the latch seemed louder in the silence. He opened it, withdrew a sleek leather folder, and placed it on the divider between them.
"We've had some movement," Wesley began, his tone even, deliberate. "The Iron Serpents have taken a hit."
Fisk turned his attention back to Wesley, though his body never shifted.
"The warehouse in Hell's Kitchen. Burned from the inside out. Twenty-seven casualties on their side. Drugs and weapons completely wiped."
Fisk was silent, processing.
"We're still confirming the identity of the assailant," Wesley continued. "But whoever it is, they're not sloppy. This anomaly slightly concerns me."
"Our talks with Morales have slowed," Wesley added. "He's grown more paranoid. Doesn't trust that we can protect them if they agree to fold under us. He's even started rotating lieutenants differently. Salvador Reyes and Dante Vasquez are taking a more visible role in street operations. I think Morales is getting desperate."
Fisk inhaled deeply, slowly. "So our investment is bleeding. And Javier is too stubborn to accept the hand that could keep him afloat."
Wesley nodded. "At this rate, if they keep hemorrhaging manpower and product, we may not have much left to integrate i.e. their man power. Which brings me to our backup."
He pulled another folder from the case and slid it forward.
"The Russians," he said. "They're more motivated. They're eager to expand, and unlike the Serpents, they haven't drawn as much media attention yet. We've already got shared fronts in the docks and distribution routes through Brighton Beach."
Fisk opened the folder with deliberate care, his fingers spreading the contents without a word. Photos, surveillance stills, charts of movement.
"They'll fall in line quicker than the Serpents ever did," Wesley said. "But if we play it right, we can keep both in motion long enough to let one devour the other and absorb the winner."
Fisk looked up, his eyes steady.
"And if neither survives?"
Wesley didn't miss a beat. "Then we seed new roots. There's no shortage of desperate men willing to sell their souls for a slice of the city."
Fisk let that hang for a moment.
"Control," he said, his voice gravel low. "Control is what matters. Not chaos. Not blood for its own sake."
"Of course," Wesley said. "Which is why I've also begun preparing for longer-term expansion. If we want stability in the Hell's Kitchen, we'll need more than dealers and smugglers. We'll need leverage inside the walls of the precinct."
He reached into the case one last time and removed a slimmer folder—this one marked in NYPD blue. A photo was paper-clipped to the inside flap. Two plainclothes detectives, mid-thirties, standing side by side in front of the 15th Precinct building.
"Detectives Carl Hoffman and Christian Blake," Wesley said. "They've been in the game a while. With the right offer, the right push, we could bring them under. Quietly."
Fisk studied the photo without touching it.
Wesley said. "They're already used to turning their heads when necessary. We provide convenience, financial padding. In return, they help control the flow of intel coming out of the 15th."
Fisk's fingers hovered over the photo, then finally settled on it.
"And if they resist?"
"They won't. Not both. And one is all we need to begin."
The car slowed briefly at a light, the soft hum of passing traffic barely registering. Outside, the last traces of early spring still clung to the sidewalks. March was slowly fading, and New York was waking up from winter.
Fisk finally leaned back, placing the photo file beside him.
"We'll proceed," he said. "But keep pressing Morales. I want to see how much pressure it takes before he breaks."
"Understood," Wesley replied. "And the Russians?"
"Keep them warm. If the Serpents fall, I want the replacements in position by the next quarter."
"I also need the assailant to be tracked. He could be a suitable ally that could be used when needed."
Wesley nodded once folding his hands neatly on his lap.
To Be Continued...