Through the police database, Bella tracked down the man responsible for Angie's injury. His photo revealed a narrow-faced thug with beady, calculating eyes—just one look and Bella felt disgust crawl up her spine.
She fed the photo into her custom-built facial recognition algorithm.
The software was linked to every street camera in New York—public and private. ATM cameras, traffic lights, parking garages, bars, hotels, even dingy alleyway surveillance. A single image upload triggered the system to scour the entire city.
And it didn't take long.
Of course, Bella knew her intrusion wouldn't stay hidden forever. The New York Network Security Division wasn't full of amateurs. Eventually, someone would notice the breach.
If only she had an artificial intelligence like J.A.R.V.I.S...
She sighed.
Her skills with computers were solid, but not Tony Stark-tier. She could craft a functioning surveillance algorithm, sure—but it lacked adaptive learning or stealth capabilities. Just good enough to locate a target fast—not quietly.
Still, it worked.
Match Found: Hell's Kitchen.
Bella's lips curled into a thin, cold smile. "Perfect. Let's clean up the trash."
Minutes later, the streets of Manhattan roared as a black motorcycle raced through the traffic, gliding between cars with eerie precision. The figure on it wore a sleek combat suit, the edges of a dark cape fluttering behind her.
The Goddess of Judgment had returned.
People on the street turned to watch. Some gasped, some whispered, and a few just froze. Even hardened New Yorkers knew what her presence meant. It was never random.
It was a hunt.
But Bella didn't care about the attention.
Her eyes were locked on Hell's Kitchen.
Hell's Kitchen. A festering wound in the heart of Manhattan. Just eight streets wide, but more corrupt and dangerous than some war zones. If Gotham had a twin in the real world, it was this place.
During the day, it was merely grim. At night, it was a death sentence.
Crime bled through every corner—dealers, pimps, mercenaries, enforcers, cultists. The cops didn't dare work here anymore. Too many had died trying.
Some neighborhoods feared crime.
Hell's Kitchen welcomed it.
It wasn't just a failure of policing. It was systemic rot. The city had long accepted Hell's Kitchen as a necessary evil. Too many politicians profited from its chaos. Too many pocketed bribes from the underworld kings who ruled it.
Bella hated everything about that.
The moment she crossed into Hell's Kitchen, the reaction was immediate.
Her motorcycle roared down a cracked boulevard, black tires screeching to a halt. She stepped off with inhuman grace, eyes burning behind her mask.
She was here.
Panic rippled across the underworld.
The Goddess of Judgment didn't work like Daredevil or the Defenders. She didn't issue warnings. She didn't believe in mercy. Her justice wasn't poetic—it was final.
And tonight, Hell's Kitchen had become her execution ground.
In every dark corner, criminals scrambled. Weapons were stashed, deals abandoned. Hardened killers who once laughed at cops now broke into cold sweats. This wasn't just fear. It was dread.
High above, in a towering penthouse at the edge of Hell's Kitchen, Wilson Fisk—known to most as Kingpin—watched in silence.
Clad in his signature white suit, Fisk stood like a marble statue, arms folded behind his massive frame. His bald head gleamed beneath the ceiling lights, his fleshy face carved with deep thought.
He was the undisputed emperor of New York's underworld.
For weeks, he'd been enjoying peace.
Daredevil had disappeared. The Defenders had gone silent. Business had boomed. Weapons trafficking, money laundering, black market trades—it all flowed through Fisk's hands, and no one had dared to stop him.
But now?
She had arrived.
Kingpin clenched his jaw.
He could handle street-level heroes. They were bound by morality. They wouldn't kill. They played by rules—rules he could twist. He'd taken them down before, one way or another.
But the Goddess of Judgment?
She wasn't like them.
There were no rules. No limits. She burned entire buildings to the ground if she had to. She killed monsters. Real monsters.
And if she ever decided criminals were worth her time again...
Fisk felt a bead of sweat form at his temple.
He had seen the Manhattan Bridge Incident. Everyone had. Footage leaked from terrified onlookers showed Bella tearing through a demonic horde, leveling an altar, and unleashing magic so destructive it turned the sky white.
That was no human ability.
Fisk didn't believe she was mortal anymore. No normal woman wielded power like that.
He had thought himself above humanity—stronger, smarter, more ruthless.
But compared to her?
He was a bug.
For months, she had ignored gangland activities, focusing instead on supernatural threats. That gave Fisk room to breathe. He assumed she considered his kind beneath her notice.
And maybe that had been true.
Until tonight.
Now, she was in his backyard.
His phone buzzed.
He answered immediately.
A cold voice on the other end reported, "She's headed straight for the Black Wolf Gang's territory. No deviation. She's not touching anyone else."
Fisk exhaled. A small sigh of relief.
Not me, then...
But that relief was short-lived.
Who the hell in the Black Wolf Gang pissed her off? he wondered. Are they out of their minds?
Fisk stepped closer to the massive window. Down below, just a few blocks away, he saw the distant glow of fire. Sirens howled. The neighborhood was beginning to boil.
He narrowed his eyes.
He could feel the body count rising.
Hell's Kitchen wasn't Kingpin's first empire. He'd built and lost others before. If this one fell, he'd build another.
But if the Goddess of Judgment had come to cleanse the streets tonight?
Then everyone still standing in her way was already dead.
And if she ever did decide to go after the rest of them?
Then he might not survive either.
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