Peter WHY...

Peter stood amid the wreckage as The Black Tar blazed and smoke filled the air. Bodies were sprawled everywhere, twenty-five gang members and lab hands bled out into the snow. Flames chewed through the lab, and vats popped with sharp cracks as crates smoked. He holstered his guns, feeling the Beretta's empty weight and the spent revolver against his thigh. 

The job's done now, he thought to himself. Kingpin's going to be pissed off, and I'm good with that, it's time to get out of here.

He sprinted to his bike, the matte black frame waiting under its tarp. He swung a leg over and fired the engine, hearing it growl low as he pulled the tarp off. Snow crunched under the tires as he peeled out, and fog swallowed him fast. I've got to clear out before the sirens get close, he thought. The media's going to swarm this mess, and I want them to see it all.

Cops rolled in minutes later as two squad cars screeched to a stop at Red Hook Harbor. Their lights flashed red, cutting through the haze, and four officers spilled out with guns drawn and boots slipping on ice. "Holy shit," one said in a tight voice. Officer Mike Torres, short and grizzled, stared at the bodies littering the snow. "What the hell happened here?"

Officer Jen Carter, tall and sharp, swept her flashlight across the scene. "Look at this mess. Twenty, maybe more, all taken out," she said. "That ship's completely torched, and it smells like chemicals." She kicked a scorched crate that split open and added, "We need backup right now!"

Torres nodded and grabbed his radio. "Dispatch, this is Torres at Pier 7. It's a major scene," he said. "Bodies everywhere, a ship blown to hell. Send backup fast." Static crackled as dispatch replied, "Copy, units en route."

Carter moved to the ice cream truck where boxes were stacked inside, black and sealed. "What do we have here?" she said as she pried one open, snapping the lid off. Her jaw dropped when she saw grenades gleaming inside, an RPG launcher leaning against rifles—sleek and deadly. "Mike, it's military gear!" she yelled. "Grenades, an RPG—there's a whole arsenal in here!"

Torres spun around with wide eyes. "You're kidding me," he said, peering into the truck. "This isn't street-level stuff. Where did this come from?" He grabbed his phone and dialed up, the line ringing fast.

"Captain Reese," a gruff voice answered. "What's the mess, Torres?"

"Sir, it's bad," Torres said, his voice shaking. "Red Hook has a ship hit with twenty-five bodies, maybe more. The ice cream truck's loaded with military weapons—grenades, an RPG, guns. Backup's on the way—the scene's hot."

Reese sucked in a sharp breath. "Military grade? Are you sure?" he asked. "Who did this?"

"No clue," Torres said. "The bodies are shot up, and the ship's still burning. It looks like a war zone—someone tore through it."

"Secure it—the Feds will want this," Reese said. "No leaks, keep it tight." The line cut dead.

News vans screeched in as reporters spilled out with cameras rolling. "Channel 5—Officer, what's happening?" a woman shouted, thrusting her mic forward. Carter waved her off and said, "Back up. It's an active scene."

"Looks like a massacre!" a reporter yelled. "Who's dead? Drugs? What's in the truck?" Civilians clustered nearby—gawkers from the docks with buzzing voices. "I heard shots—the whole place lit up," a guy said, his voice shaky. "Some psycho killed them all!"

Torres pushed through the crowd. "No comment. stay back," he said sharply. Reporters pressed harder as cameras flashed and mics jabbed forward. "Gang hit? Vigilante?" another asked. "Civilians got hurt and shots went wild!" a woman snapped.

Carter eyed the truck where boxes glinted and bodies stank. "This is going to blow up big," she said in a low voice. Sirens wailed closer as backup rolled in.

Wilson Fisk, Kingpin, sat heavy in his penthouse office atop Fisk Tower, a steel-and-glass monolith piercing Midtown Manhattan's skyline. The room sprawled wide—polished oak floors stretched under a massive desk carved from dark walnut, its edges worn from years of his fists. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the city—snow swirled outside, dusting rooftops forty stories below, lights blinking faint through fog. A leather chair creaked under his bulk, suit tailored sharp over his mountain of muscle. Thick curtains hung red—velvet, soundproof—muffling the hum of choppers cutting the night sky. A bourbon glass sat half-full—amber liquid glinted under a brass lamp's glow. The air smelled of cigar smoke, stale and thick, clinging to the walls.

The TV blared—Channel 5 news flashed live from Red Hook Harbor. Smoke poured from The Black Tar, swirling black against the snowy docks. Cops swarmed. lights pulsed red, cutting the haze. A reporter's voice barked, "Massacre at the docks... bodies everywhere, weapons uncovered!" Fisk's hands clamped the desk, veins bulging, knuckles white as marble. 

I'm pissed off now, he thought to himself. First that bastard Daredevil keeps screwing with my business, costing me money and giving me headaches, and now this hits me like a freight train.

The screen panned, the ice cream truck sat crooked, black boxes cracked open. Grenades rolled loose—an RPG launcher leaned against rifles, sleek and lethal. Cops stared, jaws slack, flashlights trembling. "Lab's gone, shipment's blown," Fisk growled, his voice low and gravelly. The lab's destruction alone is going to choke my drug channels for weeks, he thought. That's a huge blow—millions up in flames. but losing the weapons too? That's a disaster and the cops got it all now, and the FBI's going to crawl up my ass soon.

He slammed a fist down—desk shuddered, bourbon sloshed over the rim. Glass rattled on a silver tray nearby. I've got to lay low for a while, he thought. This isn't some punk hitting a stash. this is big and bold, someone who knows how to gut me where it counts. He heaved up, a wall of flesh in his crisp suit, and lumbered to the window. Snow streaked the glass—city sprawled quiet below, oblivious. He grabbed the phone, meaty fingers stabbing digits—line rang once.

"Boss," Jimmy answered, voice rough—his top enforcer, lean, scarred, loyal as steel.

"Red Hook's hit," Fisk said, his tone cold and biting. "Lab's ash, shipment's exposed and cops got the weapons, it's on the news. Grenades, RPG, rifles. FBI's next. Find who did this."

Jimmy hissed air through his teeth. "I saw it.It's bad," he said. "Who's got the guts for that?"

"Someone new," Fisk said. "Daredevil's a thorn, but this cuts deeper. I want them alive if you can swing it, dead if you can't. Deal with it."

"Got it," Jimmy said. "I'll shake the streets. my crew's on it. They're toast, whoever they are."

"Make it fast," Fisk said, his voice a low snarl. "No loose ends, NONE." He slammed the phone down, wood creaking as it hit the desk. He turned back to the TV—reporters swarmed, cameras flashed. Whoever pulled this is going to wish they'd never crossed me, he thought. I built this empire from nothing—blood, sweat, every damn brick—and some shadow thinks they can torch it? They're dead already.