𝚆𝙰𝚁 𝙹𝙾𝚄𝚁𝙽𝙰𝙻. 3.26 Barely the evening, but the Red Bands make their move. This new Kingpin is tracking every Fisk operation in the belly of New York. Not just trying to make a name for himself —- trying to copy an identity.

3.28.26

On the move. Tonight.

I will 𝖲𝖠𝖵𝖤 her instead.

Doesn’t really shut up, does he?

𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙨 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚. 𝐈𝐭 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧.

Hm.

“No one is stopping you.”

Work.

“You’re coming to the defense of traffickers. Drug abusing, people snatching, child selling, traffickers. You are child who sees this as a game. I know what this is really. You’re a waste of breath and time. Maybe hang up that mask for awhile.”

❛ 𝖄𝖔𝖚 𝖈𝖆𝖓’𝖙 𝖗𝖚𝖓 𝖋𝖗𝖔𝖒 𝖜𝖍𝖔 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖆𝖗𝖊. 𝕰𝖛𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖚𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖞, 𝖎𝖙 𝖈𝖆𝖙𝖈𝖍𝖊𝖘 𝖞𝖔𝖚. ❜ ↻+♡

You bet.

. . . . . . . .Leaving.

Sure.

Not the one in a dick swinging fight with a guy dressed in blue and red.

Sympathy tournaments. Who is who. Sad dogs.

Eating each other alive.

I actually don’t care to hear from anyone wearing a shit costume.

Think you’ve watch too many movies.

Go check the paint job in Brooklyn, kid.

You’re all preachers. Afraid to get shit done.

“. . .” He shifts, not quickly, nothing to make the other jump. Subtle. The movement of carelessness, as if swiping at the wind. “I did what you clowns couldn’t. I’ve found out what you all still haven’t. It’s not my fault I’m ahead of the curve. Go play catch up somewhere else.”

Child.

Grow up.

𝚆𝙰𝚁 𝙹𝙾𝚄𝚁𝙽𝙰𝙻. 3.20 Noon. Work to do. The Red Bands, a new gang weaseling their way in under this new Kingpin, they are like cannon fodder. Simple rats put to disperse the true task.

Are you done?

There is a man out there that calls himself Kingpin. He is a shadow, but he is no Wilson Fisk. This is a new ruler, and usurper wishing to claim a throne that does not belong to him. War will pour into the streets. But he will be there too.

—- Dirty Work. Steely Dan.

Get a job.

Every version of you is annoying.

Front towards enemy.

You all have issues.

I am not giving you shit, kid. Red, lock her up or something. Do some good for once.

Get me out of this. Should’ve never opened my mouth.

. . . . . .Shut the hell up, Red. . . .Ms. Watson, claim her.

That would be dumb. For everyone involved. Again, whose kid is this?

I’m not breaking Spider-Man’s legs.

What do you want.

Christ.

Whose kid even is this?

I do not accept pay.

Don’t care.

Idiots.

Freak.

Three handguns. A sawed-off. A rack of smoke grenades. A trench coat as black as night.