SmilinKujo
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Chapter 95 – Five Faces in the Dark
🕑 Added 2025-05-24 08:16:54 +0000 UTCThe air in the Golden Peach district was warmer than usual. Not hot—thick. Like summer was breathing down the alleyways, pressing itself into the bricks and street signs. Or maybe it was just because something else had started to stir. Something long still, now waking.
And far above, behind the glass ceiling of a five-story walk-up turned criminal headquarters, the Ventre family were having themselves a little celebration.
The room was brightly lit, modern, all polished tile and dark wood accents—an attempt at class from people who sold cigarettes out the back of stolen vans not even two years ago. The moonlight seeped lazily through the angled glass roof, brushing the leather chairs and the big table with pale silver.
Capo Matteo Ventre leaned back in his high-backed chair, his fat fingers wrapped around a cigar like it was the hilt of some imaginary sword. “Tonight,” he said, waving the cigar like a baton, “we take the street. Simple as that.”
A murmur of agreement passed through the room. All his lieutenants were there. His nephews. His sons. One of his mistresses. A folding table stacked with whiskey bottles and ashtrays sat in the corner like a retired pit fighter.
“The Golden Peach’s finished,” Matteo continued, voice oiled with confidence. “Their clown’s gone. The whole street’s run by incense sellers and superstitious morons now. You know they still leave out oranges for him? Still light candles like he’s Jesus back for a sequel? Pfft. It’s pathetic.”
Then a voice—cool, uncertain. “Are we sure… he’s not coming back?” All heads turned toward the far end of the table, where Avery Ventre sat with her arms crossed. She was the capo’s eldest. Sharp jawline, sharper eyes. Tailored blazer, dark lipstick, one heel dangling lazily from a toe.
Matteo squinted. “What is this, Avery? Cold feet?”
She ignored the jab. “The talismans in the shops—every one of them still lights up. They still work. That magic? It was tied to him. So if it’s still burning…”
The capo rolled his eyes. “Relax. You think I care about a little glow-in-the-dark paper? Look, even if he’s out there somewhere—we run the street now. He ain’t gonna crawl out of a rice bowl and stop us. People still gotta eat, still go to work. They’ll come crawling to us sooner or later.” He leaned forward with a smirk. “And when they do? We charge them double.”
He laughed. Loud, fat, and indulgent. The others laughed too. Until someone else did. A stranger. Kekekekekeke. It cut through the laughter like a razor slipped beneath the skin—wrong in pitch, uninvited, soft but slicing.
Avery was the first to react. Her head snapped up toward the glass ceiling. The moon was gone. Not hidden. Replaced. The entire ceiling was now a mass of shadow, writhing figures pressed against the glass like ghosts on the other side of a mirror. And among them—dozens of golden eyes, glowing like coins dropped into a deep well.
Click. The heavy iron lock on the door behind them slid open with an effortless click, like a cat pushing open a door it wasn’t supposed to enter. Every head in the room turned. And in walked Jack Hou. Clapping. Slow. Polite.
Wearing a fresh black hanfu that shimmered with faint embroidery in the candlelight. The robe had a subtle tear-shaped split down the back to let his tail swing free like a whip. His earring dangled, twitching slightly as he grinned.
“Well, well, well,” he said, arms wide. “Don’t mind me. Just passing by. Had to stop in. Nice suits, by the way.” He gave the room a once-over. “All tailored, huh? Gotta look the part when you’re pretending to be big men, sitting around in your big-man diapers.”
Matteo stood slowly. Pale. “J-Ja…Jack? How…?”
“Jack Hou,” Jack corrected, with a polite bow. “Not ‘Jack how.’ Say it right. Jack Hou.” His eyes locked on the capo. “Speaking of which, take your pants off, will you? I’ve noticed people like you tend to do shit themselves when I kill them.”
Matteo’s hand was already fumbling under the table for the pistol taped there. Jack raised his hand. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just raised it like a conductor at the edge of a crescendo.
CRASH. The ceiling exploded. Glass and shadow rained down, and clones of Jack—some identical, some twisted in stance or smirking differently, all armed—dropped into the room like hungry wolves finding an open butcher shop.
Screams. Chairs scraping. Someone vomited. One of the nephews tripped trying to run and vanished beneath a blur of fists. Jack didn’t stay. He turned. Walked casually back through the door, whistling softly, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeve. He had other things to handle. New York had gotten too quiet. And the people? They needed reminding. He wasn’t a hero.
The night air kissed Jack’s face as he walked the main street of Golden Peach, hands clasped behind his back, tail swaying gently like a metronome counting down to something terrible. The cleanup was underway.
Behind him, alleyways lit briefly with flame. Metal clashed. Screams rose, then died. His clones worked with brutal grace, tearing through what was left of the Ventre lieutenants like wolves trimming a sick herd. Madam Gao’s disciples followed after like quiet brooms sweeping the blood into shadow.
This wasn’t a war. It was extermination. Jack walked without urgency. From the side street, Madam Gao emerged, silent in her steps, hands folded. She approached and bowed low.
“It is almost done, Sage,” she said, eyes not rising.
Jack glanced sideways, just enough to acknowledge her. “Good. With my clones around, it really shouldn’t be much of a problem.”
She nodded. “Indeed. Your clones turned an all-night massacre into a twenty-minute inconvenience.”
Jack grinned. “Of course. There’s just something about unpaid labor that makes me warm and fuzzy inside.”
Gao allowed herself a ghost of a smirk. “And my end proceeds as well. The other Fingers have been… clipped.”
Jack raised an eyebrow. “All of them?”
A brief pause. Then: “All but Bakuto’s faction.”
Jack stopped walking. “Why?”
“They escaped to China before we could finalize their removal.”
Jack rolled his tongue in his cheek, then tilted his head to the moon. “Hmph. Let him. China’s on my itinerary anyway. Might as well pick up a souvenir while I’m there.”
At that, Gao’s face lit up—not visibly, but a faint, excited ripple passed through her energy, like a dog hearing its leash jingle. She hesitated, then spoke quickly. “Then, Sage… about the dragon bone…”
Jack didn’t turn around. “You want me to clean up your mess and give you your present early?”
Silence.
Jack chuckled. “Tsk. Just wait. You’re not that old.”
Gao bowed once more, deeper this time. “This servant will obey.” She vanished the way she arrived—without a sound, without a trace.
Jack was alone again. He stood in the middle of the road, the street still slick with the last rain, moonlight stretching long shadows across the asphalt like ghost fingers trying to reach him. Then—he moved. Slowly, gracefully, he raised one hand, then the other, stepping into a waltz position like he was waiting for a partner only he could see.
From the distance, overlapping screams echoed—chaotic, discordant, layered like instruments in a feverish symphony. A head hit the pavement a block away. A car exploded somewhere in the dark.
Jack Hou began to dance. Each step was clean, elegant, practiced—his footfalls gliding across the road as if the blood wasn’t there. He spun gently, arms swaying, tail curving like an afterthought. The moonlight caught on his black hanfu, shimmering gold threads like divine veins woven through darkness.
He danced like no one was watching. And no one alive dared to. As the screams crescendoed behind him, Jack lifted his chin toward the moon. His eyes glinted. And softly, almost sweetly, he said. “The moon does not judge the mad. It merely lights their stage.” And with that, the Prince of Crime continued his waltz through the night.
…
Across the river, while blood dried in Golden Peach and shadows slithered back to wherever shadows sleep—another battle had just finished writing itself into New York history. The drone wreckage still smoldered. Stark Expo was a crater. And above it all, a red-and-gold blur cut through the blackened night sky with a scream of repulsor thrusters.
Tony Stark, battered and bruised, barely holding himself upright inside his suit, rocketed across the skyline with Pepper Potts cradled in his arms. They weren’t flying. They were falling with style. And barely made it.
Tony hit the rooftop of a half-destroyed high-rise with a grunt, armor creaking, servos failing. He landed in a rough crouch, one knee down like he was about to propose to the city’s entire insurance industry. He set Pepper down gently, then nearly collapsed beside her. His helmet clattered off his head—literally slipped off, unassisted. Like even it was done.
Pepper stumbled away, hair wild, face soot-streaked, eyes glassy. She backed toward the edge of the rooftop, hands in her hair. “Oh my God, I can’t take this anymore. My body can’t take this.”
Tony blinked. “What?” He stood up, unsteady, his suit looking like it had been used as a piñata by a tank battalion. “What do you mean, ‘can’t take this’? Look at me, I’m fine.” Another drone exploded somewhere downtown. KA-BOOM. The boom echoed up the concrete towers like a rude reminder.
Pepper turned on him. “I literally cannot handle this stress. I don’t know if one day you're gonna blow yourself up or bankrupt the company or—both, at the same time! Maybe while jet skiing!”
Tony held up both hands, palms sizzling slightly. “I think I did okay.” He gestured vaguely at the scorched city below. Another distant explosion. Tony winced. “That one wasn’t mine.”
Pepper shook her head. “I can’t. I quit. I resign.”
Tony paused. “You’re done?” His voice was flat. “Wow. I mean… not surprising. Well, kind of surprising. But hey—I get it. You don’t need to make any excuses.”
“I’m not making excuses.”
“You’re totally making excuses.”
“I’m not, because it justifies—”
“—You’re right,” Tony cut in, quieter now. “You deserve better.” He looked at her then, really looked. “You took care of me. You pulled me through all that crap. The Expo, the arc reactor poisoning, my… let’s call it my flair for spirals. You stuck through all of it. I owe you more than just a paycheck.”
Pepper's breath hitched slightly. Her voice softened. “Thank you. For understanding.”
Tony nodded, then looked around the rooftop like he just remembered they were still on a giant smoking building. “So... should we, uh, talk about the clean-up?”
“I’ll handle the transition.”
“Cool. And the press? Because technically you only had the job for like… a week.”
Pepper gave him a dry look. “With you, it’s like dog years. It felt like seven.”
And then—without thinking—they kissed. Quick. Sudden. Years of tension tripping over itself. They stopped. Blinked. Tony tilted his head. “Weird?”
Pepper shook her head. “No. Not at all.”
And then they kissed again. Deeper this time. Until—“I think it was weird,” said a third voice. They broke apart instantly.
Standing at the edge of the roof, arms crossed, armor scorched but smug grin intact, James Rhodes stepped out of the shadows like a cat that had caught not just the canary, but also the backup canary and the whole damn pet store. “You two look like two seals fighting over a grape.”
Tony frowned. “You should get lost.”
Rhodey chuckled. “Nah. I was here first, matter of fact.” He patted the charred rooftop. “Claimed this roof first while your sorry ass was still monologuing.”
Tony raised a brow. “You monologue too.”
“Yeah, but I look cool doing it.”
“Do not.”
“Do too.”
“You can’t wear silver and say that.”
“You look like a damn vending machine.”
Pepper sighed, already walking away toward the stairs. “Great,” she muttered. “Now I work with two toddlers.”
The two men—still arguing—watched her go. And far away, back in Golden Peach, a golden-eyed lunatic waltzed under the moon, perfectly in rhythm with the chaos of the world. The press would have a field day.
…
The screen flashed red with a bold chyron: “NEW YORK OR WAR ZONE? STARK EXPO AND GOLDEN PEACH UNDER FIRE”
Two windows split the screen, on the left, Stark Expo, still smoldering, fire crews dousing a blackened fairground that looked like a apocalypse. On the right, Golden Peach, cordoned off with NYPD tape, bodies discreetly hidden under tarps while confused shopkeepers stared blankly at camera crews.
“Two separate events rocked New York overnight—one technological, one… mystical? Maybe criminal? No one's quite sure,” the anchor said, eyebrows fighting to stay calm. “What we do know, Iron Man is back in the spotlight after a battle involving a rogue drone army and what appears to be a ‘duplicate suit’ operated by a member of the U.S. military.”
“Meanwhile, in Golden Peach the reemergence of famous figure Jack Hou—also known as ‘Prince of Crime’—has left nearly a dozen confirmed dead, several blocks destroyed, and at least several mafia families reportedly missing. Police are calling it ‘an extremely aggressive return-to-market maneuver.’”
…
[PANEL DEBATE – CNBC SPECIAL]
“We’ve brought in experts to break it all down. On my left, military analyst Brent Carver. On my right, cultural historian Dr. Leslie Mo.”
BRENT: “Tony Stark continues to prove he's a national security nightmare with legs. You can’t have rogue drones, experimental weapons, and war machines going off like fireworks over a civilian tech expo!”
MO: “And yet here we are ignoring the deeper cultural shift—Jack Hou’s return isn’t just about crime. It’s as if we are all witnessing a folklore manifesting in real time. This is cultural sorcery, not just gang violence.”
MODERATOR: “So is New York becoming a battlefield between folklore and billionaires?”
BRENT: “No, it’s becoming a sandbox for men with power complexes.”
MO: “Or a stage for stories that were never meant to end.”
[STREET INTERVIEWS. 9:00 AM]
REPORTER: “Excuse me, sir, what do you think about the explosions last night? Stark Expo? Golden Peach?”
GUY IN METS JERSEY: “Man, I sleep through gunshots. You think I’m gonna flinch at fireworks and kung-fu? It’s Tuesday.”
REPORTER: “Ma’am, any concerns about safety?”
OLD LADY WITH A SHOPPING CART: “I lived through ‘77. You ever been mugged by a guy in roller skates? This ain’t nothing.”
DUDE IN A BODEGA APRON: “Yo, robed guy? He came in here once. Bought six mango yogurts and did a cartwheel out the door. I ain’t mad. He tipped.”
REPORTER: “First time in New York?”
CALIFORNIAN GUY IN A HIKING VEST: “Last time, too. Bro, I’m from San Diego. We got sunshine and brunch. You guys got killer drones, demon clones, and kung fu ghosts. Not worth it.”
GIRL NEXT TO HIM: “I thought it was cool.”
CALIFORNIAN GUY: “Cool? A building exploded next to our hotel!”
GIRL: “Yeah, but did you see the guy with the tail? That was wild.”
…
[LATE NIGHT SHOW OPENING MONOLOGUE]
“So apparently yesterday Iron Man blew up half the city, and then a guy named Jack Hou danced through his territory while his clones committed mass homicide. I gotta say—it’s nice to know New York is still innovating new ways to traumatize us.”
[laughter] “And I love how the cops are like, ‘We’re investigating.’ What? You investigating whether it’s worth even showing up anymore?”
[wild laughter] “At this point, just give Jack Hou a subway card and let him freelance on the MTA schedule. Might actually get the trains running on time.”
…
The press didn’t have the full picture. No one did. All they knew was that two men—one in metal, one in silk—had turned the city inside out. And this was just the morning after.
…
Beneath the surface of New York, deeper than the subway lines and darker than most people’s imaginations, stood a windowless command center—lights dim, tech humming quietly like a sleeping warship.
Nick Fury stood alone at the center, hands clasped behind his back, the single slit of his visible eye flickering with hard focus. In front of him, five towering holographic screens shimmered to life one by one, casting long blue glows across the steel floor.
The Council. Alexander Pierce, sharp suit, sharper tongue, unreadable smirk. Gideon Malick, old money, young ambitions, hair slicked back. Yen, arms folded, head tilted slightly, a strategist with a face like a perfect bluff. Singh, intense gaze, neat mustache, former intelligence with the posture of a man who still slept in shifts. Rockwell, a businessman first, diplomat second, survivor always.
Fury offered a short, humorless smile. “Apologies for the formality on our first official meeting—but between the Stark Expo drone assault and the reemergence of Jack Hou, it’s been a hell of a night.” A beat. “Especially Jack.”
Singh nodded solemnly. “It’s alright, Director. There’s never a good time for chaos. But if we’re going to have a reckoning, it might as well be now.”
Fury turned, pacing slowly in front of the screens. “Stark Expo first. Damage is under control. We scrubbed Hammer’s systems—what’s left of them. We now have full blueprints of the drone tech, energy weapon telemetry, and Hammer’s laughably bad encryption logs. Vanko? Genius. Misguided. Dead.”
Gideon Malick leaned forward in his chair, his hologram flickering slightly. “A shame. Men like him can rewrite history… or ruin it.”
Fury didn’t blink. “We already contained the fallout. The public saw Iron Man win. That’s enough for now.” He turned. The screens shifted. Footage of Golden Peach at night played out. Jack’s clones descending through glass, bodies dragged, shadows flickering.
Fury’s expression darkened. “Now Jack Hou… That’s a longer story.” A silent ripple passed through the council. “After what happened last Christmas with his ‘Tree of Shame’ stunt—exposing secrets, laundering sins into daylight—we assumed the ones humiliated had either gone off or slipped into exile. But recent intel says otherwise.”
He gestured. A map of international wire transfers lit up behind him like constellations. Money flowed from private accounts in Malta, offshore trusts in the Caymans, and black-market crypto hubs tied to former diplomats, oil barons, ex-generals. “Turns out some of the world’s dirtiest secrets don’t just fade. They fund payback.”
Fury’s eye flicked to each face. “We tracked a coordinated effort to cut off Golden Peach’s supply chain—medicine, clean water, imports, even construction material. All funded by individuals once exposed by Jack’s tree.”
Yen murmured, “Poetic revenge. Vengeful, but subtle.”
“Until he came back.”
Rockwell leaned in, frowning. “And now?”
“Now,” Fury said, “they’re either dead, dying, or relocating to places where gravity doesn't exist.”
Alexander Pierce finally spoke, his voice cool and clipped. “Are we considering intervention?”
Fury didn’t hesitate. “We considered it. Then we saw what his clones did in twenty minutes. I’ve seen WMDs move slower.”
Rockwell raised both hands slightly. “Then I’d say the strategy’s obvious. Don’t antagonize him. Let’s help him stabilize his territory. Quietly. Supplies, diplomacy, selective protection. If New York gets its peace, we get our plausible deniability.”
Malick added, “And if he becomes a threat again?”
Fury’s eye narrowed. “Then we make sure he dances where we choose the music.”
Silence.
Then one by one, the holograms flickered out. Fury stood alone again, bathed in the humming dark.
…
The penthouse at the crown of the Godtree looked less like a gangster’s lair and more like a shrine to chaotic serenity. The wide open glass wall gave a perfect view of the city below.
Jack Hou stood barefoot on the stone floor, a glass of something glowing pale jade in his hand. His hanfu shimmered slightly in the breeze from the balcony, his tail lazily curled around one ankle.
On the long couch behind him sat Natalie Beckman, his assistant—tactical, professional, and currently reading an intercepted diplomatic cable with an expression somewhere between horror and admiration.
Near her stood Matt Murdock, his cane resting beside him, brow tight under his glasses.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. Something shifted on the horizon. “Oh. Look who’s back.” From the far clouds, something moved—graceful, fast, and sentient. A whisper of pressure rolled ahead of it. The air thickened, thinned, and then—Zephyr landed.
Not with a thud, but a fold. It hovered in loose form beside Jack—cloudlike, translucent, constantly shifting—but its edges pulsed with residual violence.
Jack smiled wide. “Kekekeke… How is it, having your own mission?”
Zephyr quivered and rippled, shifting its shape in a hundred micro-motions. It spun a story in movement, wind, heat, pressure. It told of stealthy suffocation. Of whisking sleeping tyrants out of their beds and into the sky. Of ex-dictators coughing blood while looking down at the curvature of Earth. Of pulling lungs flat from the inside out. Of dancing in jet streams.
Jack laughed with delight, turning and nodding along like he was hearing a bedtime story. “Kekekeke. You took them to the atmosphere? You mad little fluffy. Did you hold their hand on the way up at least? No? Brutal.”
Behind them, Natalie blinked twice. “Jack… what did he say?”
Jack glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, right. You two don’t speak Zephyr. Tragic.”
He took another sip from his glass. “Zephyr said—and I quote—‘Pulling the air out of lungs is surprisingly efficient. But I got bored, so I started varying it. Some I gave the honor of a joyride… up to the upper atmosphere. You should’ve seen the view.’”
Natalie choked on nothing. “So… you’re telling me there are bodies—actual former world leaders—floating above Earth right now?”
Jack shrugged. “Several bodies, yes. Technically drifting. Like balloons filled with regret.”
Matt Murdock turned toward the door. “As your lawyer, I need you to know that I can’t hear any of this.” He reached for his cane. “Seriously, I’m going to step out, maybe join a monastery, maybe delete my law degree. Haven’t decided yet.”
Jack leaned back against the railing, unbothered. “Relax, Red. They all deserved it anyway.”
Matt stopped mid-step. “That’s not for us to decide, Jack. You know that.”
Jack sighed. “Right. Here it comes. The justice monologue.” He turned toward him, grinning without venom. “I get it. You love the system. You want it to work. You want the scales balanced, all that righteous weight where it belongs. But me? I couldn’t give two rat asses about men who used power to turn other people’s lives into slow, living funerals.”
Matt turned slightly, quiet. “Good. At least now I know you’re really back.”
Jack smiled. “Call me if you need someone dead. I’ll even gift wrap it.”
Matt exhaled. “Jack…”
“Kidding! Mostly.”
A long pause.
Natalie sat down again. Zephyr hovered beside Jack, mimicking his stance. Both stared out at the city like it was a painting slowly catching fire. Above them, in the thin upper sky, several frozen corpses drifted eastward like forgotten satellites.
Comments
Vrael333
Wow Zeph! Way to go! And I thought he was the reserved one. Obviously he just needed his own mission to let all the stress out that accumulated while floating around Jack xD Thx for the chapter :)
