Marvel: Monkey King

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Jack stepped out of the steaming bath, shaking the water from his long hair like a dog. His body was fresh, his skin smooth—no sign of the wounds he'd taken last night.

No gashes from Logan's claws. No bruises from their vicious exchange. It was as if the fight had never happened. Jack flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders. The feeling was exhilarating.

He had fought Wolverine. And loved every second of it. Logan was one of the few people who could push him in terms of combat knowledge. For the first time in a while, Jack didn't have to hold back as much. He relished it.

But as his golden eyes met his own reflection in the mirror—his expression shifted. His grin faded into contemplation. Was he strong enough? Sure—he could beat Logan in a straight fight.

But there were gods out there. Celestials. Cosmic horrors. Beings beyond comprehension. Even if this world didn't know it yet—Jack did. Somewhere out there, forces existed that could erase him with a flick of their wrist.

Jack stared at himself. A man wrapped in power, yet still just a man. Then, he grinned again, shaking his head. "No need to worry for now."

He had time. He could still get stronger. And he would.

Jack opened the closet, raising a brow. Inside—a row of traditional Asian robes, hanfus, and hanboks neatly folded. "Gao, you nosy old woman. You knew exactly what I'd like, huh?"

His fingers brushed over the fabrics before stopping on a black and gold hanbok. Sleek. Regal. Just dramatic enough. He threw it on, tying the sash lazily.

Then, he headed to the kitchen. Jack opened the fridge and blinked. Neatly arranged were raw meats, vegetables, rice, and traditional ingredients. Everything is fresh and prepped, waiting to be cooked.

Jack grumbled. "What do they think I am? Some kid on a diet?" Then, his eyes landed on a different shelf. A single box of Cap'n Crunch cereal sat there, untouched.

Jack's grin returned. "Ah, there we go. The breakfast of warriors." He grabbed a bowl, poured the milk first—because he is a lunatic—then dumped the cereal in. 

Jack took a seat at the table, map spread out in front of him, TV playing in the background.

Each commander's territory was marked. Some handled entertainment—casinos, clubs, money laundering. Others were straight-up hellspawn, running human trafficking, drug rings, and black-market organ trades.

Jack munched thoughtfully, eyes scanning the names.

To kill or not to kill, that is the question. Which ones could be useful? Which ones deserved the blade? His golden gaze lingered over the map.

Then—something on the TV caught his attention. The screen showed a news segment, replaying Wilson Fisk's speech from last night.

Jack had been too busy giggling over his clone artistic corpse arrangement to watch it before.

Now—he listened. Fisk stood before the cameras, looking devastated. His voice is heavy, yet calculated.

"Friends, colleagues, fellow citizens... I stand before you today, not in anger, but in profound fear."

Jack raised a brow, spoon mid-air.

"For too long, I've poured my heart and soul into building this city... from hospitals to shelters, fighting for reform, creating my foundation to help the people."

Jack snorted.

"Oh, this motherfucker is good."

"But recently... recently, I've been met with a wave of... malice."

Fisk paused dramatically.

Jack tilted his head.

"Oh wow, you almost sound like the victim here."

"I don't understand the vitriol, the accusations, the attempts to tear down everything I've worked for."

Jack's fingers curled around his spoon.

"It feels like... like I'm being punished for trying to help."

His grip tightened.

The ceramic bowl in his hand cracked slightly.

"I need to know that there are still people out there who believe in good."

Jack's jaw clenched.

"I don't know if I can keep trying to do good... if the world refuses to protect those who try. I just… I just want to make a difference."

The bowl shattered. Jack's hand crushed the ceramic effortlessly, milk and cereal spilling across the table.

The room was silent except for the hum of the TV news. Then—Jack laughed. A low chuckle at first. Then—a full, manic, gleeful burst of laughter. "KEKEKEKEKEKEKEKE—"

His shoulders shook as he grinned at the screen, eyes glowing. "Ohhhh, Fisk. You slimy little bastard. You're good. Real good."

Jack leaned back, dragging his tongue across his teeth. His gaze flicked back to the map. Every name—every commander under Fisk—He had considered taming some of them. Recruiting. Integrating them into his rule.

But now? Now—it was too late. Wilson Fisk had sealed all their fates. Every single one of them. Jack cracked his knuckles. His grin widened into something wild. "No need to tame motherfuckers who willingly do your bidding, Kingpin."

His voice dropped, a low growl vibrating in his throat. "You just signed every one of them up for a six-feet-under retirement plan."

He chuckled again, standing up, stretching. "And, of course..."

He turned back to the TV, eyes gleaming. "That includes you."

…

The morning light poured through the blinds of a modest office space, casting long shadows over stacks of legal documents.

The sign outside read:

NELSON & MURDOCK ATTORNEYS AT LAW.

Inside, Foggy Nelson sighed, rubbing his temples as he watched Matt Murdock run his fingers over a stack of braille documents. The scent of cheap coffee and old paper filled the air.

Foggy leaned back in his chair, stretching. "Y'know, Matt, I gotta ask—why do I let you rope me into these things?"

Matt didn't look up, his fingers gliding over the raised text. "Because, Foggy, your whole approach to life is 'think later, act now.'"

"Not true."

Matt grinned. "Really? Like that time you started studying Punjabi just to impress that girl in college?"

Foggy snorted. "Okay, first off—that was years ago. Second, it worked. For, like, two whole dates."

Matt chuckled. "Still not letting that go. Not until I can see again."

They both laughed. But then, Foggy sighed, shaking his head. "Jokes aside, I really think we need to hire a secretary, man."

Matt raised a brow. "Already? We've only won one case."

"Yeah, and we're drowning in paperwork." Foggy gestured toward the mess of files stacked on their desks. "If we don't get some help, we're gonna spend more time sorting cases than actually fighting them."

Matt leaned back in his chair, tapping his cane against the floor. "We're still in the early phase, Foggy. It's not exactly wise to hire someone when we can barely afford rent."

"I don't care. I'm going to a headhunting office. You can thank me later." Before Matt could argue, Foggy grabbed his coat and walked out.

Matt just shook his head, chuckling to himself. "Classic Foggy." With Foggy gone, Matt turned his focus back to the cases in front of him.

One by one, he sorted through them. And one by one… he realized something. Nearly every single case was tied to Kingpin. Either directly—or through some tangled web of crime, bribery, and corruption.

Matt exhaled sharply. This was why they had set up their firm in Hell's Kitchen. Because people here needed them. Because no one else would take these cases. He wanted to help. He had to help.

But Fisk? Fisk was a monster. Not just physically. Not just in the streets. Fisk's power wasn't just in his fists—it was in the courts, in the system.

Matt had fought him as Daredevil. But if he lost to him as a lawyer? If he let these cases slip through his fingers? It would be disastrous.

Fisk had money, influence, connections. The world outside New York didn't know what he truly was.

But Matt did. And if he failed? Hell's Kitchen would drown. He pressed his fingers against his temples, exhaling.

Then, his mind drifted. To the man he fought that night. The one who held back against him. The one who moved like a phantom, fought like a demon, and laughed like a madman. And the one who stole his billy club.

Who the hell was that guy? His movements weren't normal. His muscles barely tensed before a strike. His entire being radiated something unnatural. Meta-human? Something more?

Matt clenched his fists. "No time to think about him right now." He had a war to fight. Both in the streets. And in the courts. And it was only getting started.

…

Marco Crusetti sat in the backseat of a black, heavily tinted SUV, rolling a gold-plated lighter between his fingers. The engraving on it read 'C.R.U.S.E.T.T.I' in bold, capital letters. A family name that had once stood for power, tradition, and honor.

Now? It stood for whatever the hell Marco wanted it to stand for.

His father? Dead. Killed by Wilson Fisk during his rise to power.

His siblings? Dead. Murdered when they resisted Fisk's takeover.

And Marco? Marco chose to survive. No—he chose to thrive. Unlike his idiot siblings, he saw which way the wind was blowing. So he bowed. He kissed the ring.

And now? Now, he was one of Kingpin's six commanders. The proud ruler of his own little kingdom within Hell's Kitchen.

But Marco? Marco was hungry.

And greed? Greed was a beautiful thing.

As the SUV rolled down the street, Marco's mind raced. News had just come in—Madam Gao just loosen her control of her human trafficking monopoly.

And Marco? Marco had a piece of that pie too. He ran his own operations. Human trade, illegal organ markets, high-end 'exclusive' services.

But now that Gao was out? The rest of The Hand would try to take the scraps.

And Marco? Marco wasn't going to let them. He could expand. He could cut out the middlemen. He could take everything. Because in the end. It wasn't about revenge. It wasn't about honor.

It was about who was smart enough to take what they wanted before someone else did. And Marco had already proven he was smarter than most. His lips curled into a smirk as he lit a cigarette. 

But then—The car suddenly stopped.

Marco jerked forward in his seat, nearly dropping his cigarette. "The fuck—?" 

Outside, his driver sat frozen, hands gripping the wheel. Marco's eyes snapped to the windshield. There, standing dead center in the road, was a man. A young man.

Dressed in black and gold traditional Asian robes. Long dark hair draped down his back. A lazy grin on his face, like he wasn't standing in the middle of a goddamn street blocking an entire convoy.

The golden sunlight made him glow. Like a specter out of a legend. Marco felt something cold slither down his spine.

The man wasn't moving. He just stood there, smiling. Marco's fingers twitched. His gut—the same gut that kept him alive when his whole family got slaughtered—whispered a warning.

This wasn't normal. This wasn't good. But Marco didn't listen to gut feelings. He listened to power. And right now. He had five SUVs full of men and firepower at his disposal.

So he did what any arrogant crime boss would do. He snapped at his driver. "What the fuck are you waiting for?! Get out there and chase that lunatic away!"

His men immediately scrambled out of the cars, weapons drawn. The man in the robe. He just smiled wider. Like he was waiting for this.

Marco flicked his lighter, taking a long drag of his cigarette. "Time to teach this asshole a lesson."

A/N: There is a slight changes if you notice, Matt should've still in the Columbia University in the timeline, I change it slightly so he already on his early establishment of his law firm. Anywayy... thanks for reading my silly little fanfic, stay tune for the next chapter of drago–I mean Marvel: Monkey King

~🧣KujoW