Fisk Building
With a cigar in his hand, Wilson Fisk—better known as Kingpin—stood by the office window, gazing out at the chaos unfolding in Hell's Kitchen.
"Hell's Kitchen is really lively today," he remarked coldly.
"Boss, do you want me to take care of them?" asked Bullseye, one of Kingpin's most loyal and deadly men.
Bullseye knew his boss was furious. He stepped forward quickly, eager to show his loyalty.
"No need," Kingpin waved a hand dismissively. "Alert all the gangs in Hell's Kitchen—tell them to seize every High Table asset in New York. Whoever takes the most gets to keep it. The biggest contributor gets two months free from protection payments."
He paused, then narrowed his eyes. "And if I recall, the ones causing trouble this time are the Marquis' men, correct? His base of power is in France, isn't it? Inform every one of our contacts in France—whoever kills the Marquis will receive a $15 million reward."
"Lastly, any resident of Hell's Kitchen who delivers the head of a High Table operative or affiliate—$10,000 per head."
"Understood, boss." The orders were received swiftly, and his men began moving out.
"They always pride themselves on being the enforcers of order," Kingpin muttered, turning back toward the window. "But they walk into my city and break my rules? Let them feel the price of chaos."
The Next Day – Hell's Kitchen
The entire neighborhood was in uproar.
Upon hearing Kingpin's orders, residents rushed home, grabbed whatever weapons they could—knives, bats, guns—and poured into the streets. Cars screeched out of garages. Chaos was about to begin.
A High Table-owned supermarket in midtown was the first to fall. A crew of tattooed, muscular men stormed in, firing machine guns into the ceiling while others looted the registers. Before leaving, they set the store ablaze.
Another High Table killer, casually exiting a coffee shop, was flattened by a black SUV that didn't bother to slow down.
Scenes like this erupted across the city—and across the world.
France – The Marquis' Palace
Gunfire echoed through the lavish halls.
The Marquis, Vincent de Gramont, was fleeing in panic, shielded by a squad of armed bodyguards.
"Goddammit! This is the fifth wave today! What the hell is going on? Have the mercenaries all gone insane?" he barked, sweat pouring down his face.
"My Lord Marquis, your bounty has reached $15 million on the black market," one of his men said breathlessly. "At that price, every mercenary and assassin in the world will be hunting you."
"They dare come after me?! I'm one of the Twelve Elders of the High Table! They'll pay for this! I'll unleash the entire assassin network on Hell's Kitchen!" the Marquis roared.
But just then, a grenade clattered to the marble floor near him.
Frozen in panic, the Marquis barely registered his bodyguard yanking him backward before the explosion rocked the hallway. Smoke and fire filled the air.
"Retreat! Cover the Marquis—we need backup now!" another guard shouted into his comm.
Vincent looked back at the burning wreckage behind him. For the first time, genuine fear took root in his heart—for Kingpin, for Hell's Kitchen, and for whoever was behind this.
In the days that followed, his flight continued. He believed if he could just survive this storm, he'd be safe.
He didn't yet realize the true cost would be his life.
Good Luck Restaurant
Meanwhile, Alex Ray was conducting interviews at his restaurant. He held up a resume and glanced at the man sitting opposite him—a tired-looking Asian man with streaks of white in his hair.
"Stephen Chow, is it? Why are you applying to work here?" Alex asked.
"I'm new in town and trying to make a living. Heard this place was the best on the street. Plus, you offer room and board," Stephen replied modestly.
Alex scanned the resume again. "You've been awarded the title of International God of Cookery? That's quite the credential. How'd you end up applying for a gig here?"
Stephen chuckled. "That's all in the past. Heroes don't dwell on old glories. Just wondering if I still have what it takes."
"Well, cooking skill is what matters. What's your specialty?" Alex leaned forward, curious.
"Oh, I've got quite a few—. But my best dish? Sad Rice."
"Sad Rice?" Alex raised an eyebrow. "That's a hell of a name."
Just as he was about to let Stephen demonstrate his skills, the front door opened.
John Wick and Marcus walked in, accompanied by a sharply dressed older man.
Alex sighed, setting the resume down. "You're hired. We'll do the test tomorrow. Come back then," he told Stephen, who nodded and left.
"Alex, this is Winston," John said. "Former manager of the Continental Hotel in New York. Winston, meet Alex Ray."
Alex offered a firm handshake. "People don't come visit me without a reason. What can I do for you, Mr. Winston?"
Winston didn't mince words. "I came here for John. I was going to advise him on how to solve his current problem. But he told me you were the solution. So here I am, curious—and interested in a possible collaboration."
Alex sat down and began preparing tea. "Please, have a seat. This is Special tea, imported from Japan. Let's talk."
He handed cups to each of them, then smiled faintly. "I suspect you want to rebuild your Continental Hotel."
Winston's eyes widened in surprise. "You already know?"
Alex sipped his tea. "Of course. You all want revenge. I'll handle the Marquis. I'll see to it your hotel reopens. But..."
Winston nodded slowly. "There's always a condition. Name it. Whatever you want—money, connections—it's yours."
Alex shook his head. "I don't want your money. I want you."
Winston and John both stiffened, sharing a look.
Alex immediately noticed their reactions and smirked. "Not like that. I'm not gay. I want your loyalty. You, the Continental Hotel, and everything behind it. And I want the hotel to reopen in Hell's Kitchen—since yours was blown to pieces."
Winston remained silent.
Alex leaned forward. "I know what you're worried about. I'll deal with the High Table. You won't be bothered again. You just need to pledge loyalty to me."
"It's not that simple," Winston said gravely. "You're not one of the Twelve Elders. The High Table won't accept it. Even if you take out the Marquis, someone else will come for you."
Alex remained calm. "The D'Antonio family's gone. Their seat is empty. I'll take it. And if I can't, Kingpin will."
He took another sip of tea.
"I'll challenge the High Table myself. My condition? The Continental Hotel reopens in Hell's Kitchen. And I own it."
He was already halfway to becoming one of the Twelve.
And not even God could stop him now.
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Marquis, Vincent de Gramont --->
Winston --->
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