According to a local attorney who preferred to remain anonymous, Hell's Kitchen experienced one criminal act every ten seconds.
One. Every ten seconds.
In this part of New York, crime was no longer an anomaly—it was a lifestyle. Breathing and committing crimes had become equally natural for some. Even by global standards, Hell's Kitchen had earned itself a notorious reputation, and all of it stemmed from one source:
Gangs.
Every gang in the city wanted a piece of Hell's Kitchen. Territorial disputes were common. Turf wars happened weekly, sometimes daily. Police intervention barely scratched the surface, and trying to stop the violence without dismantling the root—these crime syndicates—was like trying to put out a forest fire with a squirt gun.
The worst part? The violence wasn't decreasing.
If anything, it was getting worse. As old criminals were taken out or arrested, new ones sprouted like weeds. The residents—ordinary working-class folks—were exhausted. And scared.
That's when a street hero took up the burden. A shadow in the alleys. A whisper in the dark.
Matt Murdock.
By day, he was a defense attorney with a calm smile and sharp tongue. But by night, he became something else. Dressed in dark red leather armor, horned cowl pulled low, he moved through the streets as Daredevil, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen.
A masterclass in time management.
Tonight, Matt stood atop a squat rooftop, just above the most gang-infested section of the district. His masked face tilted upward, nostrils flaring slightly as his heightened senses filtered the chaos below.
Earlier that day, he and Foggy had picked up a new case, which meant long hours chasing leads. Even with his superhuman endurance, Matt was running on fumes. And yet, here he was again—hunting for information on the resurgent Ross Gang.
The Russian syndicate had been unusually active lately. Murders, shipments, strange meetings... something was happening. Something big.
Matt had been tracking them for days now.
With his radar-like perception, he stood perfectly still, listening. Cars, footsteps, rats, the flutter of pigeons. Dozens of sound layers unfurled before him.
Then—an anomaly.
Two blocks away. An alley.
There were voices. Raised. Joking? Arguing?
And then... something odd.
Had someone just mentioned a piggy shirt?
Matt frowned.
That... couldn't be right. Could it?
He sprang forward, muscles coiling like steel. With a single fluid motion, he launched across the rooftops, cloak trailing behind him like a flickering flame. He dropped silently into the alley—and stopped dead.
"…I'm telling you, green brings out the war veteran in you," Robert said, holding up a neon tank top.
Frank stood stoically nearby, arms crossed, his blood-stained body already halfway into a stolen leather jacket. His face—still bruised and swollen from the previous fight—looked like it had lost a boxing match with a cement truck.
In front of them, three gangsters stood rigidly against a brick wall, dressed only in their boxers, shivering under the streetlights.
They posed like models. Unwilling models. One even had his arms lifted like he was on a Parisian runway.
Robert pointed at the third thug, who still had a shirt on.
"I'm just saying, the piggy logo suits you," he said, grinning. "Frank, look at that—cute, stylish, and vaguely threatening. Just like you."
Frank didn't reply. He stared blankly, his silence louder than any objection.
Matt landed just behind them, his boots barely making a sound.
He froze.
This… this was not what he expected.
When he heard the word robbery, he envisioned a hostage situation. Guns. Screaming.
What he found looked more like a bootleg fashion show.
Frank turned, sensing movement. His eyes locked with the newcomer.
"Someone's there," he muttered, stepping forward.
The three thugs turned too. When they recognized the horned mask, they shouted in unison.
"It's him! The red devil guy!"
Matt stepped forward slowly, baton in hand, posture cautious.
"What's going on here?" he asked, voice low. "Who are you, and what exactly are you doing?"
Frank didn't answer.
How was he supposed to explain this?
That he'd let Robert talk him into robbing a group of small-time gangsters... for clothing?
Robert, however, had no shame.
"We're just passing through," he said with a shrug. "Pure coincidence."
Matt's head tilted slightly. "Really."
One of the gangsters saw his chance.
"Help us!" the thug cried. "They robbed us! That Asian guy—he made us strip! Said he needed fashion options for his 'fine brother'! They even rated our poses!"
Before he could say more, Robert planted a solid kick straight into the thug's stomach, doubling him over instantly.
The others went silent.
Matt didn't intervene. He smelled something in the air.
Drugs.
Faint, but there. Traces of powder on their clothes, consistent with the same narcotic residue found at multiple Ross Gang stash houses.
They were dealers. Small fry, but still part of the bigger picture.
Still, something about Robert… unsettled him.
The smell of blood radiated from both Robert and Frank, heavy and undeniable. Matt almost gagged.
This wasn't residual. This was fresh. Recent.
Someone had died. Multiple people, possibly.
Matt adjusted his stance, baton flicking open in his hand.
"I'll ask again," he said, voice firm. "Who are you two really?"
"Already told you," Robert said, grinning. "Passersby."
Matt narrowed his eyes beneath the mask.
The voice… it sounded familiar.
But more importantly, his heartbeat…
Matt focused. Most people's heartbeats fluttered or accelerated when they lied.
This man's? It was... unpredictable.
In fact—it was musical.
Boom boom ba-ba boom, boom boom...
Matt's face twitched.
Was that… Beethoven?
Yes. Ode to Joy.
In rhythm. With perfectly timed beats.
Matt clutched his chest, blinking in disbelief.
"You…" he whispered, realization dawning. "It's you."
Frank turned to Robert, confused. "He knows you?"
Robert simply smiled, folding the piggy-logo shirt under his arm like a proud tailor.
Matt took a shaky breath, baton lowering just slightly.
No normal criminal could manipulate their heartbeat like a symphony.
Who the hell was this guy?
"Your scent…" Matt muttered. "Your lies… your humor… You're chaos in human form."
Robert beamed. "You've been listening to me?"
Frank facepalmed. "Can we not flirt with Daredevil right now?"
Robert turned to him with mock offense. "I'm just being friendly!"
"Let's just go," Frank grumbled, grabbing a pair of jeans from one of the still-shaking thugs.
Matt didn't stop them. Not this time.
Something told him these two weren't done stirring trouble in Hell's Kitchen.
But one thing was certain.
They weren't villains.
They weren't heroes either.
They were something… in between.
Wild cards.
And wild cards had a way of reshuffling the entire deck.
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