Ultimate DMC Sytem In Marvel

After the little episode with Kingpin, unknown to Alex, he had unknowingly stepped under the eyes of many powerful forces. Wilson Fisk wasn't just a criminal warlord—he was the face of the underworld, the top dog. That's why he held the title of Kingpin. But now that Alex had killed him, the weight of that crown had shifted.

And now it was on Alex's head.

People had started digging into his name, from state officials to secret organizations.

It wasn't just rival crime lords aiming for the vacant throne that began to move. SHIELD, and even remnants of the hidden Hydra network, were watching as well.

In a dimly lit SHIELD operations center, a monitor displayed Alex's face with an encrypted tag.

"Demonic Doctor?" Fury read the name aloud, frowning slightly.

Agent Coulson stepped forward and tapped the file open. "Yeah. That's what they've started calling him on the streets of Hell's Kitchen—Demon Doctor. According to scattered reports, he used to be just a back-alley medic, helped some good kids, kept a low profile. But now?"

He glanced at Fury.

"Now he's become something else entirely. People say he can't be killed. That he deals with real demons. That he's not just healing people anymore—but dealing judgment."

Fury's jaw clenched. "What's Charles Xavier's take on this? Could he be a mutant?"

Coulson shook his head. "We already checked with Charles. Alex doesn't register as a mutant on Cerebro. He's not one of theirs."

Fury narrowed his eye. "Then what the hell is he?"

Coulson looked back at the screen, the image of Alex flickering in the dim light—calm, unreadable, dangerous.

"That's what we're trying to find out."

Fury's eye narrowed.

"Send Widow," he ordered. "I want her to infiltrate his clinic. Find out more about him. Get close. Observe. See if he's capable enough to even be considered for the Avengers Initiative."

Phil Coulson gave a small nod. "Understood."

Fury leaned forward on the table. "What about Tony? Any new updates on him?"

Phil sighed. "You already know most of it. He's being held by a terrorist group in Afghanistan. They're forcing him to build missiles—but our embedded agents inside the cell reported something… interesting."

Fury raised an eyebrow. "Interesting how?"

Phil tapped a button and a blurry image of a crude, armored figure appeared on the screen.

"He's building something for himself. Not a missile. A prototype exo-suit made from scrap—rough as hell, but functional. Stark armor perhaps, our people have pieced it together."

Fury studied the photo carefully. "Smart kid. Reckless, but smart. I always said that Harvard genius was wasting his time partying. Maybe this'll finally put him on the right path."

Phil nodded. "It might. This might have dealt an blow to him. And if he manages to get out of that cave… he'll be forced to confront his family's legacy. He may finally start using his brilliance for something that matters."

Fury nodded with his usual serious expression. "Let the dogs run their course. If Stark makes it out of there alive, he'll have earned more than just freedom—he'll be ready for the truth."

Phil gave a final nod and exited the room, the glass doors sliding closed behind him.

Fury remained alone, looking at the two screens side by side—Tony Stark in a cave, forging metal with fire and grit… and the mysterious "Demon Doctor" standing amid the ruins of Fisk's empire.

He muttered to himself, voice low.

"I don't know how long I'll be able to keep all of this contained. There's something stirring. If one more lab experiment or mutant decides to start a riot in the middle of Manhattan…"

He let the sentence fade, already reaching for another report.

The storm was coming.

And Nick Fury want to be prepared for it.

HELL'S KITCHEN – FORMER FISK MANSION – NIGHT

The mansion no longer belonged to a tyrant. Its cold marble floors, golden chandeliers, and overbearing portraits of Wilson Fisk had been stripped or replaced. Now, it bore traces of a new owner—stronger, quieter, far more dangerous.

Alex lay sprawled across the king-sized bed, his silver hair a mess against the black silk pillows, his bare chest rising and falling steadily. Around him, five women slept peacefully—curled up under the thick velvet sheets or draped lazily across his limbs. The low hum of demonic energy pulsed faintly from beneath the floorboards, resonating in rhythm with his heartbeat.

Cypher was tucked close to his left side, her arm resting across his chest, breathing slow and steady. Zephyra had claimed her space to his right, one leg hooked over his and a slight crackle of lightning still flickering in her hair. Maria was snuggled up just behind him, her hand resting near his shoulder. Colleen lay sideways at the foot of the bed, one arm dangling off the side, tucked under the blanket as always. Sue slept near the window, light from the city bathing her in a soft glow.

Alex slowly opened his eyes.

For a moment, he said nothing. Just stared at the ceiling with a calm, thoughtful expression. The mansion was quiet, save for the ticking of an antique clock and the occasional shift of sheets.

"Now this…" he whispered, barely above a breath, "this is what I call living the second chance at life perfectly."

He wasn't talking about wealth. Or the luxury. Or even the warmth of so many beautiful women resting beside him.

He was talking about how he is living a life he wants with no one to disturb him, as fro those who disturb him, they all have died.

He slid one arm out from under Cypher gently and sat up, careful not to wake the others. The room was dim, lit only by moonlight cutting in through the massive glass wall behind the bed. Outside, the New York skyline glittered like a sea of stars.

Alex stood and walked to the edge of the balcony, letting the cool night air wash over him. The city felt different now—like it belonged to him.

A thin smile curved Alex's lips.

He remembered the weak, broken man who had once been lost in some forgotten corner of the city—no name, no power, just a wasted Drug addict.

And now?

That same man was lying in silk sheets, surrounded by women, owning the mansion of the most feared criminal in the city. The former throne of Wilson Fisk was now his bed.

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