Silver Superman (Marvel)

"Boss Fisk, the NYPD has been watching us too closely lately," one of the men complained.

"There are several shipments of goods we can't move at all."

"Wilson Fisk is the boss, same as always," another chimed in.

Seated at the head of the table, Wilson Fisk, also known as Kingpin, listened in silence as his lieutenants voiced their grievances.

The room buzzed with tension, a few men even beginning to argue amongst themselves.

"Enough!"

Fisk's voice was calm yet commanding, and the room fell silent at once.

"George Stacy is just trying to gather evidence. For now, keep a low profile," Fisk instructed.

"It doesn't matter if you make a little less money. Just don't get caught, or you'll regret it."

The men nodded, tension easing slightly—until one younger member, brimming with arrogance, spoke up.

"Boss, he's just a police captain. Why should we be afraid of him? I can find someone to take him out—"

Fisk's icy stare cut the man off mid-sentence.

The room grew colder as the others watched the young thug shrink back in his chair.

"Recently, Stacy's been watching us closely. If any of you screw this up…" Fisk paused, his voice dropping to a dangerous level.

"Don't expect me to show mercy—brotherhood or not."

The weight of his words seemed to lower the temperature in the room.

"Understood, Boss Fisk," the men responded in unison.

A more confident voice spoke up.

"By the way, Boss Fisk, what about the plan to secure the rights to those popular novels? Any progress there?"

The man closest to Fisk smirked.

"I heard we're picking actresses soon. The boys are looking forward to some fun."

At this, several of the men chuckled knowingly. Living a life of crime, they chased pleasure as much as profit.

They'd sampled countless women, but the idea of getting close to celebrities excited them.

However, Fisk's next words surprised them.

"I miscalculated on that one."

Miscalculated?

The men exchanged confused glances.

After all, when Wilson Fisk wanted something—be it money, power, or women—he always got it.

Fisk sighed, disappointed by their short-sightedness.

"The man named Ethan is most likely a mutant."

The room fell quiet.

"The men I sent to 'negotiate' with him… are no longer in working condition."

One of the more aggressive lieutenants clenched his fists.

"Boss, want me to hire someone to kill him? He's just a mutant."

Several men murmured in agreement.

They had bloodied their hands with mutant blood before.

To them, mutants were dangerous, unpredictable—and better off dead.

"Stacy is already watching us closely," Fisk warned.

"Don't—"

Suddenly, the room's alarm blared, red warning lights flashing as sirens echoed through the underground safe house.

"What the hell—?!"

The men leapt to their feet, panic spreading as they looked around.

Fisk's eyes narrowed. His finger pressed a hidden button beside his chair.

A monitor descended from the ceiling, displaying live security footage of the factory above.

The sight froze everyone in place.

Dozens of guards—some of the best money could buy—lay sprawled on the ground, unmoving.

Whether they were unconscious or dead was unclear.

These guards had been handpicked, trained to fend off even military-grade threats.

Yet someone had taken them down without so much as raising an alarm.

"This… this can't be happening," one man stammered.

"Boss Fisk, what do we do now?!"

Fisk's grip tightened around his mahogany cane.

"Calm yourselves!"

His voice carried the weight of a man who had stared down death too many times to be afraid.

"No one knows the entrance to this underground safe house except me. Even if someone found the factory, they can't get down here."

Fisk's confidence seemed to steady the others—if only slightly.

"When you were brought here, you had to walk blindfolded, hands on the shoulders of the man ahead of you. Without me, none of you would've known this place even existed."

Though the words reassured his men, a knot of unease coiled in Fisk's chest.

His instincts—those same instincts that had kept him alive all these years—were screaming that something was wrong.

Pressing the button again, Fisk switched the monitor to the corridor leading directly to the safe house.

The moment the feed appeared, Fisk's eyes went wide with shock.

"No… impossible! How does he know about that passage?!"

Though he hadn't seen the intruder's face, Fisk knew who it was.

Ethan.

That damn writer.

"Boss, you said no one could find this place!"

"Who the hell is this guy?!"

"Did he take out all those guards by himself?!"

Their panicked shouting grated on Fisk's nerves. His fingers clenched the cane tighter as he bellowed:

"Enough!"

Even with fear clawing at their throats, Fisk's presence alone silenced them.

"This safe house is constructed with 4.5 meters of high-density alloy. Even a missile would only leave a scratch."

He smirked coldly.

"So what if he found the entrance? He can't break through."

"Boss, look!"

On the screen, Ethan paused in front of the reinforced door.

Slowly, he raised his fist.

Fisk snorted.

"Hmph. What does he think he's going to do? Punch through solid alloy?"

BOOOOM!

The explosion that followed shattered the air with a deafening roar.

The walls trembled as a shockwave blasted through the room, knocking over chairs and sending papers flying.

Before anyone could react, a powerful gust of wind swept through the chamber, accompanied by a low, mocking voice:

"Found you, Fisk."

Time seemed to slow as every hair on Fisk's body stood on end.

In that instant, he knew—

He was staring death in the face.

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