Not guilty?
Ray couldn't maintain his composure, his face a mask of profound shock. He knew Fisk had put in a tremendous effort during his incarceration, but Ray wasn't naive; if Fisk hadn't been directly involved in those crimes, how could he have possessed such intimate details? He instinctively understood that Fisk was inextricably linked to those matters.
Yet, the court had declared him not guilty. This verdict completely shattered Ray's worldview.
In his stunned silence, he found he couldn't even control his own expression. Ray wanted to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He glanced sideways, noticing his colleagues—not one of them showed the slightest surprise.
A chilling thought snaked its way into Ray's mind. They... weren't surprised.
A shiver traced its way down his spine. As a rising star in the FBI, Ray understood the implications. His colleagues likely shared an unspoken, unsettling connection with Fisk. He thought of Dax. Dax had taken leave today, but could it be... more? Ray suppressed the terrifying idea. If even the person he trusted most had betrayed him, Ray knew he would struggle to cope. Perhaps Dax was truly ill.
The news of Fisk's acquittal had not yet reached the masses outside. Reporters had already swarmed the courthouse, a buzzing hive of anticipation. They were all waiting for a verdict that would send Fisk back to prison, not allow him to live off taxpayer money in a hotel. Why should a criminal receive such preferential treatment?
The public was cynical; law-abiding citizens toiled while a criminal, seemingly above the law, enjoyed fine dining. No one could accept it.
In the midst of the crowd, Peggy and Foggy stood, their expressions grim. Their bitter feud with Fisk had begun with United Construction. Peggy, especially, was the least willing to see Fisk walk free.
"Where's Matt?" Peggy asked Foggy, scanning the crowd.
Foggy sighed helplessly. "He has an engagement. The young master of the Wick family invited him."
That name, John Wick, still left a deep impression on Peggy. She couldn't fathom why John would ever need to consult Matt.
"They're coming out," Foggy's voice cut through her thoughts.
As dusk deepened over the courthouse, the two-hour proceeding reached its conclusion. Fisk's smooth-suited lawyer emerged first. Reporters converged, microphones thrust forward like spears.
The lawyer stood firm, facing the forest of microphones, and declared with a triumphant smile, "From tonight onwards, justice has been served."
"The court has dismissed the charges against Mr. Fisk, and the Department of Justice has also dropped the lawsuit."
The words ignited a firestorm. The crowd erupted, and even Foggy and Peggy lost their calm. Such a notorious figure, acquitted.
"Send Fisk back to prison!" a voice roared, leading the chant.
The entire protest group swelled, a chaotic chorus demanding the criminal's return to his cell.
As the tumult reached its peak, Fisk, now legally absolved, strode out into the fading light. He walked deliberately towards the seething crowd, each step a calculated ascent towards the ultimate power he craved. In his eyes, these angry faces were mere stepping stones.
Under the glare of spotlights, his black suit, stretched taut over his immense physique, commanded attention. Microphones swung towards him.
"I know most of you find this hard to accept," he began, shedding the arrogance of an underworld kingpin for a sorrowful, almost benevolent expression. "That's because you've all been deceived."
Boos rained down, signs condemning him thrust high. This was the only recourse the ordinary people had. To Fisk, their outrage was insignificant. It barely rippled the surface of his carefully constructed performance.
"You've been misled by fake news from the media, thinking I'm a bad person, a criminal!" He scanned the crowd, and gradually, the boos softened. "Actually, it's quite the opposite; because I challenged the system, because I spoke the truth, and worked hard to make this city better."
"Those in power want to bring me down, to crush me with false charges!" His face contorted with feigned resentment, as if bearing the weight of public injustice. "The person manipulating everything behind the scenes, he is very powerful,"
"So powerful that I had to endure these false accusations for a period of time."
Tears welled in Fisk's eyes—tears that had been conspicuously absent when he was actually locked away.
Under the breathless gaze of the crowd, he finally uttered the name.
"John Wick!"
"That person covets the properties in Hell's Kitchen!"
"He controls the gangs and attacked me!"
Fisk seethed, accusing, "He's a cruel tyrant; he stormed into a church, slaughtering unarmed people!"
"The FBI investigated multiple times, but were forced to return empty-handed because of his vast power!"... "Believe me," Fisk declared, his eyes red, his voice hoarse with fabricated truth, "John Wick is destroying this beautiful city."
"I am here to expose his true face!" Fisk prepared to unveil his "truth."
Reporters frantically clicked their camera shutters, their lenses almost smoking. Fisk intended to create a powerful villain for this city—a privileged billionaire. With Tony Stark as a virtuous contrast, the equally wealthy John Wick, despite his immense fortune, wouldn't help average Americans. He should be the villain, a villain who fit people's preconceived notions.
The noise dissipated, and everyone present began to conjure images of "John Wick" in their minds. To be precise, Fisk wasn't entirely wrong. The Wick family's position on the High Table commanded a vast alliance of New York's underground forces—a behemoth compared to Fisk's own organization. After tonight, Fisk would transform into a hero, fighting against the tyranny of Wick. Bolstered by Desmond's numerous promised aids, he would embark on his political ascent.
Fisk wasn't worried about John's arrival. He knew that at this very moment, John should be searching for his "lover." Wesley would handle all of that for him. Everything had shifted. Fisk was poised to taste the sweet fruits of victory, celebrating with Vanessa, who was even now flying back to New York.
He looked up, expecting to revel in the tempest he'd sown. Instead, a strange quiet had fallen, and every eye was fixed not on him, but on something above the courthouse.
"What is that?" someone shouted, pointing towards a nearby department store building with a large screen.
Fisk turned his head sharply.
He saw it.
A crime in progress. Someone breaking into a home, seizing a "mother and son." The boy resisted, but was quickly subdued. The two were then bundled into a car.
He also saw his capable assistant, Wesley, calm and collected, making a phone call. And then, a voice echoed from the screen that made Fisk's heart plunge.
"They have been captured."
"Bring them to Hell's Kitchen."
A simple conversation, but flawlessly recorded. It was Fisk's own voice. He didn't know what kind of recording device it was, but it clearly presented his voice to everyone present.
Then, the large screen, its style uncannily similar to the Mandarin's recent propaganda, began to display a series of images. There were photos of Fisk appearing outside the hotel, and of his lawyer threatening others without a flicker of emotion. FBI bribe ledgers and threatening videos flickered across the screen, each image making one's scalp tingle.
The dazzling display abruptly cut to black.
Then, dialogue could be heard.
"Remember this place?"
"We were below this building once."
"At that time, I wanted to make this place mine."
"The people are hidden underground, where enough oxygen has been prepared."
It was Fisk and Wesley's conversation from yesterday.
The audio ceased. The screen flickered, and a single line of text, like a nightmare, appeared.
"Game On."
Fisk's body stiffened, turning slowly, dread tightening its grip. He saw the rage in the crowd's eyes, a fury that threatened to consume him whole. His lawyer, once so proud, now stood pale and silent. The FBI agents' expressions had drastically changed; their courthouse calm shattered. They fidgeted, on pins and needles.
Ray belatedly came to his senses, his eyes wide with dawning horror. He immediately spun, drawing his gun, and aimed it directly at Fisk.
"You are under arrest, Wilson Fisk!"
His shout finally broke the damnable silence. The previously hushed crowd erupted into a cacophony of shouts, making any counter-argument impossible.
Fisk never imagined that at the moment he thought he controlled everything, John had taught him a lesson again. In the face of absolute power, struggling only makes all actions ridiculous.
His gaze, sharp and predatory, fixed on Ray. And then, he noticed others. Around him, the FBI agents, previously complicit, now reached slowly for their sidearms. They had no retreat.
At that moment, the screen jumped again.
"Death Struggle."
Bloody words appeared.
Fisk roared, slapping Ray's nearby pistol flying. Immediately, gunfire erupted.
The enraged Fisk punched a man, sending him flying. The traitorous FBI agents opened fire, causing the crowd to panic. Right at the courthouse entrance, a criminal began to commit violence.
Ray, bleeding heavily, struggled to his feet, his hand instinctively finding his weapon. He fired a single shot. The bullet sliced through the chaos, striking a former colleague. Ray's momentary shock dissolved into cold resolve. This was no time to hesitate.
His accuracy was true; he was among the FBI's top shots. The traitors fired, and Ray quickly rolled over the courthouse stairs, using the height to his advantage as he returned fire. Police sirens wailed, police cars converged, and they began to attack.
At a place like the courthouse entrance with no cover, even Fisk's powerful physique was useless. Ray's shot struck his clothing, but Fisk didn't even flinch; the damaged fabric revealed a hidden metallic weave.
More and more police units arrived, and Ray fought with renewed determination, performing heroically. The police shouted, ordering the traitors to surrender. Facing overwhelming numbers, the traitors finally chose to yield. They would face long prison sentences.
Fisk's eyes burned with a fierce, desperate light; he had been a single step from salvation, a single step from victory! Through the swirling chaos, his eyes locked onto a figure at the edge of the crowd, casually rubbing a ring with a playful, infuriating smile.
It was him. It was him again! Fisk's eyes were about to burst from their sockets.
John watched with interest, raising a finger to point at the screen. Fisk, held down by the police, looked with difficulty. The words "Death Struggle" remained etched across the display.
John mouthed, "Game On."
Fisk lowered his head and looked at the syringe that had fallen from his clothes. He had staked everything on this moment.
With a guttural roar, he shattered the police restraints. As police pistols rose, he snatched a fallen syringe, plunging it into his arm. A low growl rumbled from his throat. A power that didn't belong to him surged through his veins.
The shouts of the police demanding surrender became a chaotic din. Beyond the throng, two figures moved with swift, determined purpose.
There was no time for shock. The next act was about to begin.
Daredevil!
(End of Chapter)
***
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