Three seconds after the blinds closed, Ron pulled up the system panel.
An unusual spiritual fluctuation in Lower Manhattan flickered on the panel.
Parker Robbins.
Ron dragged the fluctuation signal marker to the pending area with two fingers. Bucky's purification still had forty-eight hours. Before then, it wasn't advisable to split up forces.
He closed the panel, picked up the case file on the table, and left the office.
The fourteenth day since Kingpin's downfall. The entire New York underworld was in chaos.
But the real chaos hadn't even begun.
— Greenwich Village. A three-story brownstone building.
Parker Robbins crouched on the second-floor fire escape, an unlit match dangling from his mouth.
Twenty-three years old. Tall and thin, brown hair, a ring of stubble on his chin.
Underneath his denim jacket was a custom-made shirt given to him by Kingpin's former lawyer—the collar was still stiff, the cuff buttons were sterling silver.
He stared at the window of the third-floor apartment across the street. The curtains were drawn. The light was on.
That was Vito Castiglia's bedroom. The fourth-in-command of Kingpin's six remaining gangs. He controlled the Bronx's loan sharking and underground casinos.
Parker spat out the match.
A crimson cloak unfurled from his shoulders. The lining was jet black, with wisps of dark purple energy emanating from its edges. A musty smell of sulfur filled the air.
Parker's body began to become transparent from his ankles.
Calves. Knees. Thighs. Waist. Chest. Neck.
Finally, his pale gray eyes disappeared.
The fire escape was empty. Not even a shadow.
— The apartment across the street. Third floor.
Vito Castiglia was sitting on the edge of the bed, taking off his shoes. He was fifty-seven, bald, and his belly bulged from under his shirt.
A glass of whiskey and a Colt sat on the bedside table.
The window was locked. The door was locked. Two armed henchmen stood in the hallway.
Vito kicked off his left shoe and reached for his whiskey glass.
The glass was gone.
His hand hung in mid-air.
The whiskey glass appeared on the dressing table two meters away. The ice cubes were still at the bottom.
Vito's hand reached for his Colt on the bedside table.
The Colt was gone too.
"Looking for this?" A voice rang out from the center of the room. No one was there. The air reeked of sulfur.
Parker Robbins appeared before Vito.
A crimson cloak hung at his feet. In his left hand, he held Vito's Colt, barrel down, his index finger twirling the trigger guard.
A dark green flame burned at the tip of his right finger.
"Mr. Vito." Parker tossed the Colt onto the carpet.
"Gold's gone. Your protector is gone. Your casino was wrecked twice this week by the Puerto Rican gang in Queens. Not a penny of the loan shark money has been recovered." Parker crouched down, looking Vito, who was sitting on the edge of the bed, at eye level.
"I can solve these problems." Vito stared at the cluster of dark green flames. The flames were less than thirty centimeters from his face. There was no heat. But the mucous membranes deep inside his nostrils contracted violently—the smell of burning sulfur made him stiff.
"Who are you?"
"Call me Boss." Parker extended his right index finger toward Vito's bedsheet.
His fingertip touched the white Egyptian cotton fabric.
A charred handprint burned through two layers of sheets and a mattress protector, branding itself onto the latex mattress. The stench of melting rubber mingled with the smell of sulfur.
Parker stood up.
"Join, or next time it won't be the sheets that are burning." Fine beads of sweat appeared on Vito's bald head. He stared at the still-smoking handprint on the bed.
Hearing the commotion, the two henchmen outside began knocking.
Vito looked up.
"What…what are your terms?"
Parker pulled a business card from his pocket. White with black lettering. Only a number was printed on it.
"Call this number before noon tomorrow."
Parker took a step back.
His body became transparent again. He began to disappear from the top of his head.
The last thing left in the air were his light gray eyes and a wide smile.
"Don't make me do this a second time, Mr. Vito."
—The same procedure. Parker repeated it five times in two weeks.
The first three gang leaders—the one in the bathroom, the one in the garage, the one in the nightclub box—none lasted five minutes.
Parker didn't kill.
Not because he was soft-hearted. Because he understood one thing better than Kingpin—the living relay messages, the dead only attract the FBI.
The fourth was Vito.
The fifth gang leader was different.
Ivan Petrovich. A former KGB agent, now running an arms smuggling operation in Brighton Beach after his retirement.
Parker appeared in his office. Ivan pulled a shotgun from under the counter and fired at Parker's chest.
The lead bullet pierced Parker's body.
The cloak sealed the wound the instant the bullet penetrated. Parker glanced down at the bullet hole in his shirt.
A new shirt. A hole punched through the silver-buttoned collar.
Parker's smile vanished.
He extended his right hand, and malevolent fire erupted from between his five fingers.
The dark green flames shot straight at the bodyguard standing behind Ivan.
The bodyguard's right hand—the gun-wielding hand—was completely engulfed in the malevolent fire from the wrist.
The flames burned for only three seconds.
The pistol turned to molten metal. The bodyguard's right hand, from fingertips to wrist, was covered in charred burns; his five fingers curled up, unable to straighten.
The bodyguard rolled on the ground, his screams echoing throughout the building.
Parker turned to look at Ivan.
"He's alive. But his hand is useless." Parker put the match back in his mouth.
"Want to try?" Ivan put down his shotgun.
The fifth gang surrendered.
—Alexei, the leader of the sixth gang—the New York branch of the Russian Mafia—heard about Ivan's bodyguard.
He loaded his belongings into two vans overnight.
He left New York at 3 a.m. Direction: Chicago.
Parker stood on the Brighton Beach dock, watching the van's taillights disappear into the darkness of the highway.
He spat out the match.
"They're gone, so be it."
He didn't chase. Chasing one escaped gang was less worthwhile than using the same amount of time to secure five surrendered ones.
Two weeks. Six gangs, five taken down, one scared away.
The New York underworld completed its power transition.
But in the past two weeks, the three small gangs squeezed out by Parker clashed four times at the intersection of West 44th Street and 10th Avenue for their last remaining space.
Two civilians passing by were hit by stray bullets.
A twelve-year-old boy died in the crossfire of the third shootout.
Parker knew about it.
He didn't react.
— Kingpin's private club. Midtown Manhattan, Fifth Avenue.
An entire floor had been converted into office space. Oak floors, crystal chandeliers, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the New York skyline.
These things belonged to Wilson Fisk two weeks ago.
Parker Robbins propped his feet up on the oak desk. On the desk sat a box of matches and a bottle of cheap supermarket whiskey.
The Louis XIII that had been on Kingpin's desk was tossed away by Parker. Too sweet.
Four gang leaders stood behind him. The fifth, Ivan, stood the furthest back, his back ramrod straight, his face bearing the poker face typical of a former KGB agent.
Parker pulled a match from the box and held it to his lips.
"King didn't just disappear on his own. Someone made him disappear. A guy who can turn people into lava."
He pointed the match at the Fisk Tower in the distance outside the window.
The upper half of the tower was still surrounded by construction barriers. The thirty stories burned through by white lava were still under repair.
"I need to know who this guy is, where he lives, what brand of breakfast cereal he eats."
Vito raised his hand.
"Boss, this guy… I heard even S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't handle him. Captain America went himself, and couldn't take him."
Parker nodded.
"So I need information, not to send you to your deaths."
He stood up, his crimson cloak unfurling behind him. The light from the floor-to-ceiling windows illuminated the cloak's lining, revealing slowly flowing dark purple energy patterns.
"The guy who can take down Kingpin has his own territory, his own people." Parker flipped the match over and held it in his teeth.
"I need to figure out what he wants before I can decide whether to avoid him or—" He paused.
"Make a deal with him." Ivan's poker face finally twitched. A very shallow wrinkle appeared between his brows.
Parker opened a drawer and took out an envelope. A thick wad of cash.
"Feed the cops in Hell's Kitchen and Queens. Kingpin's twenty-year-old network has been broken for two weeks; we need to rebuild it quickly." Parker pushed the envelope toward Vito.
"You used to do this for Kingpin. Keep it up." Vito took the envelope and stuffed it into his suit pocket.
The four bosses filed out of the office. Ivan was the last. He paused at the door, glancing back at Parker.
Parker was drinking his cheap whiskey.
Ivan turned back and walked out.
The door closed.
Parker put down the bottle, picked up his phone from the table, and dialed a number.
Six rings. The other end answered. "Mr. Donovan." Two seconds of silence followed the call.
"Who are you?" Benjamin Donovan's voice came through the receiver.
"The guy sitting in your former boss's chair." Parker took the match out of his mouth and placed it on the table.
"Kingpin's gone, but his business is still going. I need a lawyer. You've been doing this for twenty years. Nobody knows the rules of the game better than you." Donovan didn't hang up.
Ten seconds.
"Five million a month." Donovan quoted a price.
"Deal. First payment tomorrow." Parker hung up.
He tossed his phone onto the table, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling.
The light from the crystal chandelier reflected in his pale gray eyes.
Three months ago, he was rummaging through expired cans at a Bronx dump.
Now he sat on the throne of a New York crime empire.
Parker pulled a new match from his pocket.
The dark green flame flickered at his fingertip. The match lit itself. The match burned down to the base of his finger. Parker flicked his finger away, the match landing on the oak table, leaving a black dot.
He didn't wipe it.
— Shipyard. Basement.
Bucky's body convulsed violently on the cot.
Jessica's mental shield flickered intensely. The purple light flashed.
She pressed her right hand firmly ten centimeters above Bucky's forehead, unleashing the full power of the Soul-Soul Fruit.
Bucky's metal left arm dented the edge of the bed.
Then he fell silent. His breathing became steady.
Jessica withdrew her hand and wiped the sweat from her brow with her sleeve.
The system panel popped up in Ron's view.
[Winter Soldier Purification Progress: 87%. Estimated Time Remaining: 19 hours.] Ron stood at the basement entrance.
He swiped the panel to the left.
Parker Robbins's soul fluctuation signal jumped out from the processing area. The fluctuation frequency was twice as fast as three days ago.
[Parker Robbins' expansion speed update: He has absorbed five gang branches formerly under Kingpin. Current control covers Midtown Manhattan, the Bronx, and Brighton Beach.]
[Hell's Kitchen infiltration expected to be completed within 48 hours.] Hell's Kitchen.
Ron's territory.
He looked up at the ceiling—Hell's Kitchen was just across the East River.
Ron closed his eyes. His Observation Haki extended southward towards Manhattan.
The soul fluctuations still flickered. Every few seconds, it released a wave of interference pulses. Forty percent positioning accuracy.
But this time, Ron caught a detail.
The underlying layer of Parker Robbins' soul fluctuations—the evil energy from the Abyss Cloak—hadn't completely merged with its host.
Two layers. The outer layer was Parker's own will. The inner layer was the Cloak's.
A parasitic relationship.
Ron opened his eyes.
If there was a gap between the Cloak and its host, then the Soul-Soul Fruit had a point of entry.
"Bucky wakes up tomorrow." Ron tapped his finger on the railing.
"The day after tomorrow, pick up a client in Hell's Kitchen." The communicator vibrated. Frank's channel.
"Ron. West 46th Street, Hell's Kitchen. There are three new faces collecting protection money from the shop. Not the original Kingpin. Their clothes are different." Ron pressed the communicator button.
"What's different?" Frank's answer carried the certainty characteristic of a gray wolf's sense of smell.
"Sulfur."