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Chapter 43 – The Web of Deception
🕑 Added 2025-03-19 07:39:41 +0000 UTCJack’s clones moved like shadows through the city, each group heading toward their respective targets.
The group moving into Cody Felan’s territory immediately felt something was wrong. As they arrived, an eerie silence clung to the streets like a disease. Then, they saw them. Druggies.
Not just one or two. Not just the usual handful of unfortunate addicts you’d find slumped in an alley. But hundreds.
They stumbled through the streets, muttering to themselves, eyes glazed over, their bodies trembling. Some collapsed in gutters. Some were dragging themselves forward on hands and knees, desperate for another hit.
Jack’s clones landed on the rooftops, surveying the disaster below.
One of them clicked his tongue. "Well, well, well… looks like someone threw a junkie apocalypse party and didn’t send me an invite."
Another clone crouched, his golden gaze flickering. "This isn’t normal. Even for Hell’s Kitchen."
The third clone sighed, stretching. "Yep. This is Kingpin’s doing."
They all knew it. This wasn’t just the usual drug trade running its course. This was a deliberate flood. A calculated attempt to poison the streets in retaliation.
And Cody Felan’s men are the ones who distribute it. The clone squad nodded at each other. "Alright, let’s split up. Time to clean house." Then, they leaped down into the chaos.
…
Meanwhile, another group of Jack clones arrived at the estate of the Stokes Crime Family. They expected resistance. Instead, they found silence. The huge mansion loomed before them, its lights still burning.
But the guards? Knocked out cold. One clone yawned, cracking his neck. "Man, this is gonna be easy."
Another clone frowned. "Too easy."
The rest of the squad nodded. Something felt…off. Carefully, they advanced. The doors were unlocked. The halls were empty. No gunfire. No shouts. No alarms. The whole house was just… waiting. A trap? Or something worse? The clones exchanged wary glances before stepping inside.
…
The last squad of clones descended upon Michael Adams’ territory. But before they could even begin their attack, they realized—The chaos had already begun.
Fires burned in the distance. People screamed in the streets. And Michael Adams’ men? They weren’t fighting back. They were running.
One clone rubbed his chin. "Did we attack early? Did the other groups make a mistake?"
Another shook his head. "No. We just got here."
A third sighed. "Well, either way… let’s go bonk some heads."
The clones scattered, diving into the mess.
Two of them landed near Michael Adams’ hospital, only to be met with a wave of panicked patients and staff. Doctors and nurses shoved past them, fleeing into the building, abandoning patients in the parking lot.
One clone stepped forward, raising a hand in greeting. "Hey there, beautiful people! Your friendly neighborhood clone has—"
A nurse screamed. Then, chaos. Patients started throwing whatever they could—plates, cups, even a crutch.
One man, his face pale and drenched in sweat, staggered forward and snarled. "Get the fuck out, you tyrant! I would've been in surgery right now if it weren’t for you!"
Jack’s clone caught a flying tray mid-air, his golden eyes narrowing. "...Oh, I see what’s going on here."
This wasn’t just a panic. This was orchestrated. And someone was feeding them lies. "...Kingpin, you sneaky bastard."
The clone grinned. "Alright, guess I’ll have to fix this mess too." As Jack’s clone moved to stabilize the hospital situation, the loud screech of tires echoed through the streets.
A news van arrived, its doors bursting open as J. Jonah Jameson stormed out, microphone in hand. His camera crew scrambled to set up their equipment.
Jameson adjusted his tie, took a deep breath, then began his live broadcast.
"Ladies and gentlemen! This is J. Jonah Jameson, reporting live from Michael Adams’ hospital, where, as you can see behind me, complete anarchy has taken hold! And why? Because of one man—no, one tyrant—JACK HOU!"
The cameraman panned over the parking lot, catching the chaos in full display—doctors and nurses fleeing, patients screaming, and Jack’s clones trying to de-escalate the situation.
Jameson dramatically turned back to the camera.
"We’ve long suspected that this lunatic wasn’t just another self-proclaimed 'guardian' of Hell’s Kitchen, but a dangerous terrorist! And now? The proof is undeniable! Jack Hou has expanded his reign of terror beyond his so-called 'Golden Peach,' attacking hospitals, burning down shelters, and threatening the lives of New York’s most vulnerable citizens!"
Then—An explosion rocked the hospital. The shockwave knocked people off their feet. Smoke and fire billowed out from the east wing, filling the sky with blackened ash.
Jameson’s eyes practically sparkled with excitement. "YOU SEE THIS, PEOPLE?!"
He pointed a shaking finger at the wreckage. "JACK HOU HAS NOW RESORTED TO DOMESTIC TERRORISM! MARK MY WORDS, THIS ISN’T A HERO—THIS IS A MONSTER!"
Jack’s clones braced themselves, their golden eyes darting around. That explosion? That wasn’t them.
One clone turned to the others. "Okay, hands up—who did that?"
The others shook their heads. "Not us."
A grim realization settled in. If it wasn’t them—Then its fucking Kingpin.
Meanwhile, another squad of Jack’s clones tried to assist at the city’s shelters.
But instead of gratitude, they were met with blind rage. "GET OUT, YOU MONSTER!"
A bottle smashed against a clone’s face. Another was pelted with garbage, shoes, even bricks. One clone dodged a flying can of beans and muttered, "Okay, what the actual fuck?"
The homeless, the poor, the ones Jack had been trying to protect—Now they were attacking him. Their faces twisted with desperation, their eyes filled with fury.
One elderly woman, frail and trembling, raised a shaking fist. "Because of you, my grandson was kicked out of the hospital!"
A man, clothes ragged and eyes hollow, screamed, "You burned down our shelter! You’re just another crime lord!"
Another clone turned to his comrade, whispering. "This is too coordinated. They’ve been fed this narrative."
"Yeah," the other replied. "This isn't panic—this is planted."
Before they could react further, more projectiles came flying. A clone sighed, rubbing his temples. "Okay, everyone, calm down! I get it, you’re mad. But let’s just—"
A chair broke against his head. The clone groaned. "Alright. That’s it. Plan B." The clones all simultaneously took a step back—Then, they ran like hell.
…
Meanwhile, the squad of clones storming Cody Felan’s sector had just finished wiping out his men.
But before they could celebrate, the streets became flooded—Not with gangsters, but with news vans.
Reporters in hazmat suits spilled out onto the streets. They pointed cameras at the clones while holding their mics with gloved hands, as if they were standing in the center of a nuclear meltdown.
One woman, her voice shaking with manufactured urgency, spoke into the camera.
"We are standing in what can only be described as a ground zero for a bio-attack unleashed by Jack Hou himself! Eyewitnesses say that his men have been distributing a toxic new drug meant to turn people into mindless addicts!"
Another reporter continued.
"A terrifying new method of warfare! An entire population, chemically enslaved by the self-proclaimed ruler of Hell’s Kitchen!"
The clones stared, dumbfounded.
One crossed his arms. "Okay. So, uh… Apparently, we’re evil masterminds now?"
Another nodded. "Yeah. Creating a drug plague is totally something we’d do. Very on-brand."
A third clone sighed. "This is some next-level bullshit."
They had expected resistance. They had expected gang fights, dirty tricks, maybe even a few corrupt cops trying to stop them.
But this? Kingpin had weaponized public perception against them.
One clone cracked his knuckles. "Alright. Let’s clean this up." They disappeared into the night.
…
Meanwhile, at the Stokes estate, another clone moved carefully through the eerie silence. The house was abandoned, save for the occasional unconscious guard.
Then—A soft sound.
Crying.
One clone pushed open a heavy wooden door, stepping inside. A young woman, no older than her early twenties, sat on the floor, sobbing.
Her wrists were bruised, her body trembling. Jack stepped forward cautiously, kneeling down. "Hey. Are you alright?"
He reached out, his hand gentle. The moment he touched her—She ripped open her own dress. "HELP! HELP ME!"
Jack’s clone froze. His mind worked in overdrive, piecing together what just happened. Then, his eyes darted up. In the corner of the room, a camera’s red light blinked.
And suddenly, everything clicked. Peter Stokes, the man responsible for maintaining Kingpin’s public image, had set the perfect trap.
A false assault scandal. A PR nightmare. The door burst open. More clones rushed in. They saw the woman, bare-chested, crying. And they saw the camera. Silence hung in the air for a moment.
Then, one clone muttered, "…Oh, fuck." They were in a trap.
…
In the dimly lit control room of Fisk Tower, multiple screens flickered with live footage from Peter Stokes' mansion. A young woman, no older than twenty, sat in front of the monitors, her fingers dancing over the keyboard as her sharp eyes scanned every camera feed.
She was efficient, precise, and more than anything—ruthless. Then—Her screen caught movement. A Jack Hou clone entered the mansion. She clicked on the camera feed, enlarging the view.
A few seconds passed, and then she saw it—The moment the woman inside ripped open her dress. The clone froze. The scene was perfect.
Her lips curled into a smile. She quickly clipped the footage, rewound it, and played it again. The camera angle was carefully placed—just behind the woman’s back, obscuring the truth.
To the uninformed viewer, it looked damning. She didn’t hesitate. She saved the footage and transferred it to a flash drive.
Then, without missing a beat, she stood up and walked over to her uncle—Peter Stokes, the mastermind of Kingpin’s public image.
"Here, Uncle," she said, handing him the flash drive.
"The footage only shows the scene from the back. It’s perfect for the narrative."
Peter looked down at his niece, pride flickering in his tired eyes. He reached out and gently stroked her head. "Good work," he murmured.
Then, he turned, walking toward his gathered subordinates. He held up the flash drive. "Make copies of this."
His voice was cold, commanding.
"Send it to every news outlet, every tabloid, every digital platform that will take it. Make sure social media gets a hold of it too. If anyone refuses to air it—pay them off, blackmail them, or break them."
His men nodded and immediately went to work. As the operation kicked into motion, Peter let out a slow, tired breath.
He rubbed his temples, his thoughts clouded with regret. "If only I had listened to my father..."
His father had always warned him—never play the kingmaker unless you’re prepared to be the scapegoat when things fall apart.
And now, things were falling apart. Kingpin was desperate. The Stokes family was backed into a corner.
Jack Hou had pushed them to the brink, and this was their last card to play. But there was no time to dwell on regrets. There was still more work to be done.
