Okamoto watched from the shrine, his heart hammering against his ribs.
In mere seconds, his remaining men were being systematically erased. He didn't actually care about their lives; he cared that once they were gone, he was next. Seeing his men drop their guns to engage in a desperate, bare-knuckle brawl against the giant, Okamoto lost it.
"Baka! Are you all morons?!" he screamed. "If you're out of ammo, use your blades! Have you been in America so long you've forgotten how to hold a sword?!"
The reminder snapped the survivors out of their stupor. Right—they were Yakuza. They were supposed to be masters of the blade. They couldn't win a fistfight against this monster, but surely twenty men with razor-sharp steel could carve him into mincemeat.
They drew their katanas with a synchronized hiss of steel, their confidence returning as they surrounded Toby with murderous intent.
"Bringing knives to a street fight?"
Toby let out a cold snort. There was no fear in his stance, only a deepening contempt. Since they wanted to break the "rules" of a good old-fashioned beating, he didn't need to treat them like punching bags anymore.
He crouched low and leaped.
Defying the laws of physics, Toby stuck to the underside of a massive branch of the century-old cherry blossom tree in the center of the courtyard. Before they could look up, he extended both hands.
Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!
White, viscous webbing exploded from his wrists. Each strand was a precision strike, wrapping around a gangster's head like a suffocating cocoon. With a violent jerk of his massive arms, Toby hauled all ten men into the air, leaving them dangling from the branches like macabre Christmas ornaments.
Thud.
Toby dropped lightly to the ground. The sound finally snapped Okamoto out of his trance. The Yakuza boss stared in horror as the high-fiving giant walked toward the shrine, while behind him, a dozen men kicked and thrashed in mid-air, clawing at the webbing over their faces as they slowly suffocated.
Okamoto scrambled backward, but there was nowhere left to go. He backed straight into the altar, knocking over the lacquered tablets of his ancestors. It was as if his forefathers were already reaching up from the grave to pull him down with them.
"Wait! Wait!" Okamoto stammered, one hand hidden behind his back while the other reached out in a plea. "You can't kill me! I work for The Hand! If I die, they will hunt you to the ends of the earth!"
"Besides, we can talk! I have money! More money than you can spend!"
Toby didn't miss a beat. His footsteps were heavy and rhythmic—the steady march of a reaper. When he was exactly seven paces away, Okamoto's face twisted into a mask of desperate malice. He whipped a pistol from his waistband and squeezed the trigger.
"Die! Die! Die!!"
At seven paces, the gun is king. At three paces, it's a god. Okamoto didn't believe anyone—unless they were Superman—could dodge a point-blank execution.
Toby wasn't Superman, but his Spider-Sense was screaming. He tilted his head a fraction of an inch, the bullets whistling past his ears in a blur of hot lead.
"Nani?!"
Okamoto's eyes nearly popped out of his skull. He tried to fire again, but a massive hand clamped around his throat, hoisting his feet off the floor. He tried to pistol-whip Toby's head, but Toby caught his wrist in a crushing grip.
Cr-crack!
The sound of metal and bone fusing together was sickening. Toby squeezed until the handgun and Okamoto's palm were a mangled mess of steel and pulp.
"AAAGH! You bastard! Do you know who I am?! I am Okamoto of the—"
"You talk too much."
Toby's hand shifted, clamping over the man's face and silencing the scream.
"I... I'm sorry... I'll give you... anything..." Okamoto muffled out through Toby's fingers.
Toby grinned under his mask. "Anything? Then I'll take that useless head of yours. You won't be needing it where you're going."
"Wait—"
Okamoto felt his neck tighten. The world spun. Suddenly, he saw a headless body collapsing onto the floor.
Whose body is that? he wondered. And why is it wearing my clothes?
It was a question he wouldn't live to answer.
Ten minutes later. Fisk Tower.
Ding.
The private elevator reached the penthouse. When the doors slid open, it wasn't the Kingpin who stepped out, but Toby.
He was carrying Okamoto's severed head by the hair. Blood trailed behind him, staining the pristine, expensive carpets of the lobby. The secretaries and security guards didn't move. They lowered their heads, refusing to make eye contact with the blood-drenched giant. They knew better. Looking too closely at a man like this was a good way to get your own head added to his collection.
Toby kicked open the double doors to the main office.
Inside, two figures waited. Standing was Bullseye, his cold eyes fixed on the newcomer. Sitting behind the massive desk was Wilson Fisk—the Kingpin of Crime. A man whose mountain of muscle made him look like something other than human.
Fisk didn't look angry about the ruined carpet. Instead, a wide, paternal smile spread across his face as he stood up.
"Ah, look who's come home. My finest partner, my dear friend Toby!" Fisk gestured warmly. "But why bring the head? Surely you didn't think your Uncle Fisk wouldn't take your word for it?"
Toby tossed the head onto the floor at Fisk's feet. It rolled to a stop, eyes wide and glazed.
"It's not about trust," Toby said, his voice flat. "It's professional ethics. Put the money on my black card. I'm using your shower."