Hattie sat in the car, her chin resting lightly on her right hand as she gazed through the restaurant's glass window. Inside, her boss was chatting and laughing with a Black gentleman.
"Who is that?" she asked Ferdinand.
Ferdinand, distracted by the passing legs of women in summer dresses, snapped back to attention. "Ah, oh, that's the boss's friend."
"He seems dangerous," Hattie observed, her agent's instincts on high alert. She watched the man's subtle movements inside the restaurant, noting each detail.
Her eyes drifted to a black car parked at another intersection. Without another word, Hattie opened the car door and stepped out.
"Where are you going?" Ferdinand called after her.
"Just taking a look around," she replied, not looking back.
Ferdinand had no choice but to stay in the car, waiting for his boss and assistant to return.
Inside another car, a sharply dressed Russian man quietly watched the restaurant.
"Who is that?" he asked.
The driver shook his head. "I do not know."
The Russian's gaze grew cold as he looked inside. "There can be no witnesses."
The driver unbuckled his seatbelt. "I'll take care of it."
But before he could get out, he saw John move.
John stood up, glanced at the lineman working in the restaurant, and said to Robert, "It seems our pleasant meal is over."
"Thank you for the book," Robert replied with a smile, holding the novel in his hand.
"My offer still stands. If you need help, just ask," John said, waving as he noticed his assistant approaching outside.
Hattie was about to enter but stopped when she saw John rising from his seat.
John walked up to the lineman and offered a friendly, "Have a pleasant evening."
The killer, disguised as a wire worker, looked baffled. John simply smiled and walked out, glancing at the black SUV parked nearby. He checked his pocket watch.
Hattie joined him. "Boss?"
"Shh—seven seconds," John whispered, raising a finger.
"Seven seconds for what?" Hattie began, but just then a truck rumbled by, blocking their view.
Back in the restaurant, the killer continued his act.
"Is it just you, or are you waiting for others?" Robert asked calmly, eyes never leaving his book.
The killer hesitated. "Sorry, what?"
Robert's gaze was sharp. "If you were really a wire worker, your hands would not look like that."
The killer realized he had been exposed. He dropped the pretense, drew his gun, and stood up. "Stand up. Walk to the black SUV across the street."
He tried to threaten Robert, but Robert was ready the moment he stood.
For Robert, time slowed. He saw the style of the weapon, the dominant hand, the posture, the distance—every detail entering a countdown to life or death.
He struck first, slamming the book's spine into the killer's throat, stunning him. The killer tried to fire, but Robert slapped the gun away, grabbed his shoulders, and slammed him onto the table. With one swift motion, he broke the man's neck with the book.
Outside, John's pocket watch finished its seven-second countdown.
Hattie's face was serious. She had seen many agents, but Robert's skills were cleaner, sharper, and more lethal than her own.
The restaurant's lights flickered and died—Robert had short-circuited the wiring on his way out.
He strode out, meeting John by the curb. "Sorry you had to see that," he said.
John smiled. "Impressive work."
Robert glanced at his watch. "Perhaps we'll meet again."
John gestured in invitation, and Robert disappeared into the night.
Hattie watched him go. "Who is he?"
"My friend," John answered simply.
The truck pulled away, and John's eyes fell on the car Robert had photographed earlier. As the host, he felt obliged to greet his unexpected guests.
He walked over, Hattie following close behind.
Just as the men in the car were about to get out, John pressed the door closed, pushing them back inside.
The passenger glared at him, while the driver snapped, "What's your problem?"
John smiled. "A kitten wandered into the wild forest."
The passenger smirked. "Or maybe a lion."
"A lion would not put its head in a tiger's mouth," John replied, tapping the glass. "Who do you think is that foolish?"
The driver, unable to sit still, opened his door and got out. "You'd better back away from my car."
"Or what?" John tilted his head.
"Or I'll—" The man's words died as pain shot through his hand. He looked down to see blood dripping from his palm, a throwing knife buried deep.
He screamed, panic overtaking him. He had no idea where the knife had come from.
The passenger's expression hardened. He stepped out and introduced himself. "I'm not a kitten. My name is Teddy. I work for Pushkin. If there's any offense—"
"Pushkin?" John rubbed his chin. "If only you worked for Kingpin. Then I could kill you with a clear conscience."
Teddy's face darkened at John's casual threat.
"Consider this a warning." John walked over to the screaming man, pulled the knife from his hand, and said, "When you're in someone else's territory, learn to restrain yourself."
He waved them off and walked back to his car.
Teddy looked up just in time to see a flash of blue disappearing across the rooftop.
*****
The car stopped in front of Hattie's apartment. She got out and disappeared inside.
A moment later, the passenger door opened again, and Dax, wearing a hoodie, slid in.
"Those men were targeting your friend," Dax said quietly, excitement in his eyes. "Do you want me to take care of them?"
"How about being a hero for the first time?" John replied. "Do some good."
Dax's blood raced. When his throwing knife had pierced that thug's palm, he had felt a rush like never before.
"You can do even better," John said with a chuckle. "There's a guy named Pushkin. Maybe you can use your authority to look into him."
"I will." Dax grinned, already loving the suit. Behind the mask, he felt like his true self at last.
The villains of Hell's Kitchen were having a rough time lately.
Human trafficking was rampant, and Matt Murdock—Daredevil—was on the case.
At the docks, Matt used the maze of shipping containers to his advantage, moving unseen. He took down one thug, then another, then a third.
There was a Russian gang specializing in human trafficking, and Matt had discovered them during his last encounter at Satan's Mansion. Determined to put an end to them, he began hunting them through Hell's Kitchen.
After a few clashes, the Russians grew wary and started setting traps for Matt. Twice, he had managed to escape. But Daredevil's sense of justice would not let him walk away, even when he knew he was walking into a trap.
This time, he failed.
Matt was ambushed. Even with his superior skills, he could not fend off more than a dozen attackers at once. The narrow container aisles left him nowhere to maneuver.
He fought desperately, but exhaustion set in. A thug seized the chance to swing a weapon at Matt's head. He heard it coming, but there was another attack in front of him he had to dodge. Flanked on both sides, Matt braced himself to take the hit.
Just then, the air split with the sound of something slicing through it.
The thug behind Matt collapsed.
A blue figure flashed past, throwing knives falling like rain. With a leap, he dropped from the container and shattered a thug's sternum with his knees, killing him instantly.
Unlike Matt, this newcomer showed no mercy. His attacks were a storm—swift, efficient, and deadly. He drew more knives from his back, cutting down the rest in the confined space.
When the battle ended, the air was thick with the scent of blood. Matt stood tense, unable to relax.
One thug, not quite dead, gasped, "Night… Night Ghost…"
"Correct," the blue figure replied.
"No—"
The blue figure finished him with a knife.
Matt tried to intervene but was too late.
Beneath the mask, Dax smiled, savoring the violence.
He opened the container, and the terrified eyes of the women inside lit up with hope.
From that day forward, the name Night Ghost would strike even more fear than Daredevil's.
The merciless killer had become the guardian of the helpless.