In the early morning, the fog in Manhattan had not yet completely dissipated.
Inside the Fisk mansion on the other side of the city, the atmosphere was so oppressive it felt like water could be wrung from it.
When Wesley pushed open the heavy oak doors, his palms were covered in cold sweat.
He had been calling Mr. Fisk since early this morning, but no one ever picked up. Even the two trusted subordinates he sent to check on the situation half an hour ago had vanished like stones dropped into the ocean, with no word back.
This kind of sudden loss of contact had never happened in all these years.
"Mr. Fisk?" Wesley called out tentatively, his voice echoing in the empty mansion with a faint, imperceptible tremble.
No one responded.
A nauseating metallic smell of rust filled the air—the smell of blood.
Wesley's heart sank to the bottom. He hurried through the living room and pushed open the bedroom door.
In the next second, the sight before him caused his pupils to shrink and his breath to hitch.
The bedroom's blindingly white wall had been transformed into a shocking abstract painting.
Bright red blood was sprayed across it, mixed with bits of flesh and bone fragments, slowly trickling down.
And on the carpet in front of the wall, the two missing subordinates had been turned into piles of unrecognizable mush.
Wilson Fisk sat by the bedside.
He was still wearing the same tattered, dust-covered suit from last night, sitting like a silent statue, staring fixedly at the blood-stained wall.
Hearing the door open, the mountain of flesh slowly turned its head.
Wesley gasped.
What kind of eyes were those... bloodshot, sunken in their sockets, yet burning with a violent flame that bordered on losing control.
He clearly hadn't slept all night. The aura he radiated was no longer his usual calculated composure, but that of a severely wounded Beast driven into a corner, ready to devour anyone at any moment.
His massive palms were covered in blood and gore—remnants of when he had just beaten those two subordinates into pulp with his bare hands.
"Mr... Mr. Fisk..." Wesley took half a step back, intimidated by Fisk's ferocious gaze, but he forced himself to stay calm.
He knew that Fisk was currently on the verge of a breakdown; the slightest provocation could send him into a frenzy.
"Today's schedule..." Wesley took a deep breath, trying to use work to bring back Fisk's reason, just like always, as if the demon named Makima had never appeared last night. "It's about the Russians... the brothers Anatoly and Vladimir, regarding last month's territory division..."
"Wesley."
Fisk suddenly spoke.
His voice was hoarse and coarse, like two pieces of sandpaper rubbing together, cutting Wesley's report short.
He didn't turn around, still staring intently at Wesley, his bloodshot eyes flashing with a terrifying, neurotic light.
The feeling of powerlessness from last night, the humiliation of being toyed with like an insect, gnawed at his nerves like termites.
Now, everyone he looked at seemed like that woman's spy, and every sound he heard seemed like that woman's whisper.
Fisk slowly raised a massive, blood-stained hand, pointed at Wesley, and asked the question that had terrified him all night:
"Did you want to come..."
"Or did that woman... make you come?"
In that instant, Wesley felt as if his throat were locked in the sights of an ancient predator.
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