Omnitrix in MCU

The dimly lit office of Wilson Fisk was filled with the hum of multiple TV screens broadcasting the news. Reports of the "Knight" and Spider-Man exposing the underground human trafficking bunker were on every channel. The footage played repeatedly—blurry shots of people being rescued, interviews with survivors, and shaky cell phone recordings of NYPD officers arriving at the scene.

Fisk sat in his oversized leather chair, his massive hands clenched into fists on the armrests. His jaw twitched as his cold, calculating eyes remained glued to the screen.

"This is a disaster," one of his men muttered, shifting nervously.

The room was filled with high-ranking criminals—four of them stood by his side, each responsible for different aspects of his empire. Some ran his money laundering operations, others oversaw his "merchandise"—humans smuggled in from overseas. But tonight, they had all failed him.

Fisk's grip tightened, the leather beneath his fingers groaning under the pressure. Then—

BAM!

His fist slammed into the desk, cracking the thick mahogany surface. The entire room jolted in shock.

"How in the HELL did these two get wind of my operation?!" Fisk's deep voice boomed across the room, shaking the walls. "How did two masked nobodies manage to undo what I spent years building?!"

His men looked at each other, exchanging panicked glances, but no one dared to speak.

"SPEAK, YOU USELESS SACKS OF SH*T!" Fisk bellowed, his patience snapping.

One of them hesitated before stepping forward, swallowing hard. "Boss, we—we don't know. The location was secure. There's no way the cops should have known. We had officials paid off, surveillance blind spots—we covered our tracks. It had to be someone on the inside who tipped them off!"

Fisk exhaled through his nose, his nostrils flaring like a raging bull. "Then FIND THEM. I don't care if it's a street rat or a politician—we bury whoever spoke."

Another one of his men cautiously interjected. "The bigger issue is that this is national news now. Politicians are gonna start poking around. Journalists are already demanding answers. If we don't get ahead of this—"

"THEN WE DISTRACT THEM!" Fisk snapped, standing to his full, towering height. His presence alone was suffocating, his sheer bulk making the room feel smaller. "We shift the media's attention elsewhere. We make this little incident… disappear."

He turned to one of his top enforcers, a bald man with a jagged scar across his cheek. "Make a statement. Something big. I want bodies piling up. Give the police something else to worry about—something so horrific that they forget about this entirely."

The enforcer hesitated before nodding grimly. "How big are we talking?"

Fisk's lips curled into a twisted grin. "A school, a hospital—I don't care. Make sure it's memorable."

The room went deathly silent.

Even his most hardened men flinched at the order. But no one dared to question him.

Just as the tension reached its peak—

A slow, deliberate clapping echoed from behind the doors.

A voice, dripping with sarcasm, cut through the silence.

"Well, well, well… Mr. Porkhead… You just keep pissing me off."

The double doors suddenly burst open, the force nearly ripping them off their hinges.

A figure stepped into the room, bathed in the dim light of the screens. His entire body shimmered, made of a crystalline, almost diamond-like substance that refracted the light. Sharp, jagged edges lined his shoulders and forearms, making him look more like a living weapon than a man.

Fisk's eyes widened, his usual unshakable composure cracking for a brief second. "How did you get in here?"

Diamondhead smirked. "Oh, you're wondering why your little bodyguards didn't alert you? Well, here's the thing, Porkhead—you only get the information I want you to get."

The men flanking Fisk immediately drew their guns, their hands shaking as they aimed at the intruder.

"Put him down!" One of them barked before opening fire.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

The gunshots echoed, but as the bullets struck Diamondhead, they shattered on impact, disintegrating into useless fragments. He didn't even flinch.

"Really? Guns? Against me?" Diamondhead scoffed. "Cute."

In a blur of motion, he lunged.

The first man barely had time to react before a diamond-plated fist slammed into his gut, sending him crashing into the bookshelf behind him, splintering wood and toppling shelves.

The second thug swung a baton—only for Diamondhead to grab it mid-air, his jagged fingers slicing through the metal like paper. He yanked the weapon from the man's grip before uppercutting him, sending him soaring into the ceiling before dropping like a sack of bricks.

The third goon tried to run, but Diamondhead was faster. He extended his arm, morphing it into a razor-sharp spear, and swept his legs out from under him. The man hit the ground hard, his gun clattering away as he groaned in pain.

The last thug desperately fired again—CLICK! His gun was empty.

Diamondhead tilted his head mockingly. "Oops. Out of bullets?"

Before the man could react, Diamondhead's fist shot forward, cracking against his jaw with bone-breaking force. The thug collapsed, his head bouncing against the floor as he wheezed in pain.

Fisk remained still, watching as his men lay beaten and bleeding around him.

"So," Fisk said, his voice low. "You've made your point."

Diamondhead rolled his shoulders, stepping over the unconscious men like they were trash. "Oh, no, Porkhead, I'm just getting started."

Wilson Fisk's Worst Nightmare

The dim glow of the screens flickered across Fisk's face, but he barely paid attention to the news anymore. His pulse was steady, but his mind was already calculating a hundred different ways to turn the situation in his favor.

His eyes locked onto the crystalline figure standing before him, the very same being who had just annihilated four of his men like they were nothing.

And yet, Wilson Fisk did not flinch.

Instead, he chuckled. A deep, rumbling laugh, low and full of menace.

"What's your plan now?" Fisk leaned forward, placing both hands on his desk, towering over it like a lion staring down prey. "Kill me? That would be the dumbest move you could make."

Diamondhead didn't move. He only tilted his head, his jagged edges gleaming in the dim light.

Fisk smirked. "You think you're untouchable? The moment you walk out that door, you'll be a hunted man. The public's opinion will shift in an instant. Right now, they call you 'The Knight'—a hero. But if you take me down?"

He leaned back, spreading his massive arms. "Then you become a terrorist. The military, the government, hell—even the so-called 'heroes' out there will have a reason to put you down."

His voice was calm, calculated, filled with an undeniable confidence.

"Face it. You don't win this fight. Even if you get out of here, you'll have a hit list on your back for attacking an influential American businessman."

Fisk's smirk widened. "That's the difference between you and me." He tapped his own chest. "I own the game. You're just another piece on the board."

For the first time, Diamondhead let out a chuckle of his own. A low, sharp laugh—like crystal grinding against stone.

"Oh, Porkhead… I knew from the start that the law would never touch you."

Fisk's smirk faltered—just a fraction.

"I know how this plays out," Diamondhead continued. "Even if I hand the world proof of every crime you've committed, the courts will drag it out for years. Trial dates after trial dates… until suddenly, a 'key witness' disappears, a 'lack of evidence' is discovered, and—just like that—you're a free man."

Diamondhead took a slow step forward, his crystalline body grinding slightly with each movement.

"I can't bring you down with laws, Fisk. But I don't need to."

Fisk's eyes narrowed. "What are you playing at?"

Diamondhead smirked. He tapped his chest—a flash of light engulfed his body, and in an instant, the Knight stood before Fisk.

The black suit gleamed under the dim light, his glowing visor displaying a single, cold-white streak across its face.

Knight walked over to the large monitor on the wall, reaching out with a single gloved hand. Tap.

The screen flickered.

Numbers and charts plummeted before Fisk's eyes.

His company's stock.

Dropping.

Hard.

His blood ran cold.

"No… No, they wouldn't—"

Fisk stumbled back, his massive frame wavering for the first time. His hands gripped the edge of his desk as his brain scrambled to process what he was seeing.

"They did." Knight's voice was calm, sharp—almost amused. "Your investors, your supporters… they're all pulling out."

Fisk's breathing turned shallow.

"You're bluffing."

"Am I?" Knight tilted his head, his visor glowing ominously.

Fisk's hands clenched into fists. "They'd never abandon me. I have too much power, too many connections—"

"And they like money more."

Knight's voice cut through the room like a blade.

"Your entire empire is built on their investments. The moment they think you're a sinking ship—they jump. And, Porkhead…"** Knight leaned in, lowering his voice. "You're sinking."

Fisk's legs almost gave out. Almost.

But he wasn't done yet.

His rage built back up, pushing away the creeping fear. His massive chest heaved, his nostrils flared, and then—

FWOOOSH.

Fire.

Fisk's breath hitched.

In an instant, the Knight morphed again—his body engulfed in swirling orange flames. His black suit melted away, replaced by molten skin, a body made of pure fire.

Heatblast.

Fisk stumbled backward, his mouth dry. A burning man. A monster.

For the first time, true fear flashed in Fisk's eyes.

"Y-you…" he stammered, sweat forming on his forehead from the sheer heat radiating off Ben's body.

Heatblast took a slow step forward. The carpet beneath his feet started smoldering.

"Fisk," he said, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "You have a habit of leaving marks on your merchandise, don't you?"

Fisk's breath hitched.

Then—

A burning hand clamped onto Fisk's face.

"AAAAAGGGHHH!"

Fisk screamed.

The heat seared into his cheek—not enough to melt flesh, but enough to brand him, to leave an unmistakable burn.

He thrashed, trying to yank away, but Heatblast's grip was like iron.

The flames licked across Fisk's skin, scorching, branding—

And then, just as suddenly as it started—

It stopped.

Fisk collapsed onto his knees, panting, his body trembling from pain. His hand clutched at his now-burned cheek, his eyes wide with horror.

Heatblast tapped his chest—a flash of light—

Knight stood there once more.

"Now, Porkhead," Knight said, his voice calm. "Let this be a reminder of your limits."

Fisk shook, rage boiling beneath his humiliation.

"You… You think this is over?" His voice was rough, seething with hatred.

Knight turned away, walking toward the door.

"No, Fisk. This isn't over." He paused at the doorway, looking over his shoulder. "This is me letting you off easy."

And with that—

He was gone.

Fisk remained on the floor, panting, his vision blurring from the pain. His hand pressed against his scorched cheek, his rage festering into something more dangerous.

This wasn't over.

power stone plz

buymeacoffee: buymeacoffee.com/ riteshjadhav0869 plz🥹🤧

Discord https://discord.ggvqcGrgs