Chapter 9: Kingpin III
Fisk Tower stood tall and imposing, its sleek glass surface gleaming under the city's muted light. To the untrained eye, it was a symbol of modernity and success—an architectural wonder, dominating the skyline like a silent titan. But for those who knew the truth, Fisk Tower was more than just a corporate monolith. It was the heart of Wilson Fisk's empire, a fortress housing both his legitimate business dealings and his far more sinister operations.
Inside, the air was thick with power and danger. Every inch of the building, from the luxurious penthouse to the underground vaults, was designed with purpose. The state-of-the-art security systems, hidden passageways, and fortified walls were not just for show. They were the tools of a kingpin, ensuring no one entered or exited without his consent.
Employees moved with purpose, each one aware that they were under constant scrutiny. Whispers of Fisk's influence echoed in every corner of the building, a reminder that in this place, the line between ally and enemy was often blurred.
But not today. Today, the entrance to this tower speaks of the carnage happening inside. As one enters, they will find a plethora of headless corpses, but no blood, causing one to wonder just what killed them.
Fisk Tower was now a battlefield, though the chaos was contained within its walls. Four figures strode through the bloodied corridors with terrifying ease. Anyone who dared to oppose them fell lifeless before even grasping what had hit them. Security guards, armed and well-trained, stood no chance; their lives extinguished in an instant, like candles snuffed by an invisible force.
Dave Garcia walked at the head of the group, his movements deliberate and calm, as though this massacre was nothing more than an ordinary business meeting. He wore a tailored suit that spoke of power, though he carried himself without the pretense of a man who needed to flaunt it. There were no weapons in his hands, no show of force. Yet, the air around him was thick with an undeniable aura—he commanded the space effortlessly, his authority unquestionable.
Behind him, Diana, his secretary, moved briskly, holding a stack of files as though this bloodshed was a mere inconvenience in her busy day. Her focus remained on the papers, calculating, sorting, preparing, unaffected by the carnage unfolding around her. A glance at her might suggest she was cold, but in reality, she was just doing her job with precision, which was writing down everything she is observing.
Albert, Dave's bodyguard, followed closely. He looked every bit the part of a protector, yet something was off. One look at him will suggest he is not a protector, he is a traitor but no one is looking at him, cause he is same as those guards who came and fell every now and then.
And then there was Trish. Her presence was a storm in itself. As they moved through the tower, her energy crackled, her demonic power coursing visibly around her like a living thing. Lightning danced across her form, sparking and sizzling, reducing any who challenged them to ash before they could even scream. Her clothes remained immaculate, untouched by the chaos she unleashed. The lightning she summoned not only killed—it obliterated. Blood evaporated from bodies before it could even hit the floor, and the air smelled faintly of ozone, the unmistakable scent of raw, elemental destruction.