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Chapter 31 – The City’s Most Wanted
🕑 Added 2025-03-09 15:32:52 +0000 UTCCaptain George Stacy sat at his desk, skimming through the latest case files. The faint hum of the precinct filled the air—detectives typing up reports, officers chattering over coffee, the occasional ringing phone.
But George? He felt like he was staring at a goddamn joke. A stack of half-assed investigation reports lay before him.
All pertaining to the same bizarre incident—the mass execution of Kingpin's men, their bodies arranged in a crude 'FUCK YOU' right outside Fisk Tower.
The case had come across his desk a few hours ago. He'd expected resistance.
But this? This wasn't just resistance. This was surrender. The detectives barely put any effort into it. Their reports were vague, their conclusions flimsy. It wasn't incompetence. It was intentional. They had already given up.
And George Stacy knew why. Because this case was in Hell's Kitchen. It had always been a lost cause. A crime-ridden dump that everyone—including the NYPD—pretended wasn't their problem.
It had been like this since before he even joined the force. And despite years of rising through the ranks, despite becoming Captain, despite all the work he had done—Hell's Kitchen had not changed. It was still the same rotting corpse of a neighborhood, crawling with criminals that the city had long abandoned.
George ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Damn it..."
He wanted to give his all to this. But he needed help. He needed someone who shared his vision. Someone who hadn't already given up.
But who? Before he could dwell on it further—A voice rang out. Not in his precinct. Not from his radio. But from everywhere.
A booming declaration, echoing across New York, just like several days ago. Another claim. Another piece of Hell's Kitchen falling into the hands of the unknown meta-human.
The precinct fell into a stunned silence. Some officers froze mid-coffee sip. Others glanced at each other, whispering nervously.
George stared at the ceiling as if he could glare at the source of the voice itself. Then—he muttered. "Fuck. My investigation isn't even done, and he's already claiming another part of the city."
Detective Ruiz, one of the precinct's veterans, let out a dry chuckle. "Well, Cap, looks like Hell's Kitchen has a new landlord."
Some of the other officers snickered. George rubbed his temples. "Doesn't this bother any of you?"
Ruiz shrugged. "What's there to be bothered about? We already lost Hell's Kitchen to Fisk years ago. Now it's just a different asshole sitting on the throne."
George gritted his teeth. "That doesn't make it right."
Ruiz exhaled through his nose, leaning against his desk. "Cap, I respect you. I do. But you've been in this city long enough to know how this works. Hell's Kitchen isn't just a problem—it's a black hole. You put effort into it, it'll just swallow you whole."
George scowled. He knew that. Hell, he had seen good cops try and get buried for it. But was that really it? Was that all they could do—just roll over and let criminals decide the fate of an entire neighborhood?
His fist clenched on the table. No. He refused to believe that. Because if they didn't fight for this city… Then who would?
Ruiz sighed, noticing the fire in his Captain's eyes. "Alright, Cap. Let's say we actually dig into this. What's the plan?"
George exhaled, staring down at the reports again. Then—he made a decision. "We start by figuring out who the hell Jack Hou really is."
Ruiz blinked. "Jack Hou?"
George nodded, tapping a document on his desk. It was a printed report from an anonymous informant. One name kept appearing in connection to the recent takeovers.
A name nobody could find in any system. No birth certificate. No social security number. No arrest records. Nothing. Jack Hou was a ghost.
George tapped his fingers against the desk. "I don't believe in ghosts."
Ruiz chuckled. "Well, Cap... looks like we're about to chase one."
…
Jack mockingly wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, letting out an exaggerated sigh.
The broom in his grip lazily pushed the last bits of flesh and blood into a neat little pile. "Whew. Hard day's work."
He leaned on the broom, grinning like a man who had just finished a satisfying workout instead of committing wholesale slaughter.
The remaining clones arrived, flickering into place like echoes of himself. Their expressions—identical grins, smeared in blood but utterly unbothered. One of them held up a hand.
"Boss, cleanup's done. The Crusetti men are either dead, missing body parts, or gift-wrapped alive but traumatized, specially handed for the cops."
Jack smirked. "Good. That should give Captain Stacy something interesting to wake up to."
He then spun on his heel, stretching his arms. "Alright, boys, you know the drill. Divide and conquer—pass out the protection papers to the homes and businesses in our new kingdom."
The clones let out synchronized snickers before dispersing like shadows at dusk, leaping from rooftops and sprinting into alleyways.
Jack watched them go. His gaze shifted toward the sky. The day had darkened into a hazy orange. Time to go home.
Jack walked toward the main road, his black-and-gold hanbok soaked with blood, looking like he had just escaped a warzone. A taxi rolled by.
Jack lifted a hand, signaling it down. The cab screeched to a stop. The driver, an older man with a cigarette between his lips, didn't even bat an eye at Jack's appearance.
He had driven through Hell's Kitchen long enough to know better than to ask questions. Jack hopped into the backseat, sighing dramatically as he leaned against the window.
The driver, unfazed, glanced at him through the rearview mirror. "Where to, sir?"
Jack let out a wistful sigh, placing a hand on the window, looking past the horizon as if he were in the final scene of a romantic drama.
"Home," he said, voice deep, dramatic. "It's time for me to go home."
The driver raised a brow. "I don't know where your home is."
Jack blinked. Then chuckled, scratching his head. "Right, right, my bad." He handed the driver the address for his new house.
The car rolled forward, merging into the night traffic of New York City. Jack leaned back, smirking. It had been one hell of a day. And tomorrow? Tomorrow would be even better.
…
The Mayor of New York stood at the podium, sweat beading at his forehead despite the cool night air.
This press conference had been hastily thrown together. He hadn't even had time to prepare a proper speech. Because this wasn't his speech. This was Wilson Fisk's command, disguised as policy.
The cameras clicked and flashed as reporters eagerly waited. The city was in chaos. Two territories in Hell's Kitchen had been claimed in broad daylight.
Crime lords were being wiped out like insects under a boot. And now—New York's Mayor was here to set the narrative. He adjusted his tie, exhaled, then leaned into the microphone.
"Ladies and gentlemen of New York… I come before you tonight not just as your Mayor, but as a concerned citizen. As a father. As a man who loves this great city and fears for what is happening within it."
The reporters quieted. Some even nodded, already invested. The Mayor continued, voice heavy with false sincerity.
"Over the years, we have fought against crime. We have worked tirelessly alongside the NYPD, alongside community leaders, to ensure that the people of this city feel safe in their homes, in their neighborhoods."
"But tonight… that safety is under threat."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The Mayor paused, allowing the tension to settle. Then—he pressed on.
"A new force has emerged. A rogue element. A violent individual who has taken it upon himself to challenge the very fabric of our society. A terrorist who operates outside the law—who believes that through brute force, he can dictate the rules of this city."
The reporters leaned forward. Some started furiously jotting down notes.
"This man," the Mayor continued, "has targeted not only criminals but also those who have worked tirelessly to improve New York. Individuals who have spent years investing in our communities, creating jobs, providing homes, and ensuring stability."
"One of those individuals is Wilson Fisk."
A roar of mixed reactions erupted. Some reporters gasped. Others exchanged wary glances. They all knew what this meant.
Fisk had long been a controversial figure. Some saw him as a ruthless businessman. Others as a savior of Hell's Kitchen.
Now—the Mayor was officially positioning him as a victim. A martyr. The Mayor raised a hand, calling for silence.
"Mr. Fisk has faced many obstacles in his mission to better this city. He has fought against corruption, crime, and greed. And yet—he has done so without resorting to violence."
The cameras flashed. The reporters whispered. They weren't sure whether to buy this or not. But the Mayor? He pressed forward.
"Unfortunately, there are those who do not believe in progress. Who do not believe in law and order. Who seek to dismantle everything we have built for the sake of their own twisted ideals."
Then—like a thunderclap, he pulled out a large sketch drawing. It was rough but accurate. A face that was already burning into the city's consciousness. Jack Hou. The Mayor's expression hardened.
"This man is a criminal."
"This man is a danger to the people of New York."
Then—he dropped the bomb.
"And as of tonight, there is an official bounty on his head."
…
Miles away—in the comfort of his newly acquired home—Jack Hou watched the entire press conference unfold.
He was sprawled across a ridiculously comfortable silk couch, a bowl of grapes on his lap, and his black-and-gold hanbok still faintly stained from earlier.
His expression? Pure. Unfiltered. Amusement. Then—he threw his head back and laughed.
"KEKEKEKEKEKEKEKE!"
He clutched his stomach, gasping for breath.
"I got a fucking bounty! I'm like Monkey D. Luffy!"
He kicked his legs in excitement, still laughing.
"Oh man, I should've expected it, but seeing it actually happen? Priceless. Absolutely priceless."
Jack rolled onto his side, grinning wildly as he popped a grape into his mouth. The TV screen flickered, still showing the Mayor's face as he droned on. Jack waved at the screen mockingly.
"Hey, thanks for the free publicity, dumbass. I was wondering how to get more people to notice me."
He bit into another grape. Then—his golden eyes gleamed with mischief.
"Well, well… looks like New York's about to get a whole lot more fun."
