The forty-second floor of the Fisk Tower felt less like an executive suite and more like a high-tech bunker.
Heavy steel shutters covered the floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking Manhattan. Inside, thirty armed guards in dark suits stood shoulder-to-shoulder along the perimeter, submachine guns slung low. Behind his massive mahogany desk, Wilson Fisk sat perfectly still, his huge hands folded over a heavy gold cane. James Wesley stood at his shoulder, frantically checking three different encrypted tablets.
"The police comms are clean, sir," Wesley whispered, his voice tight. "No sign of the subject near Foley Square or the docks. But the press—"
"The press can be bought, James," Fisk rumbled, his deep voice vibrating through the quiet room. "The 'Demon' is a broken man running on adrenaline and stolen antibiotics. He defeated Lester through luck and cheap explosives. He will collapse within twenty-four hours."
Suddenly, the primary video wall behind Fisk’s desk flickered.
The high-definition security feeds showing the lobby, the elevator shafts, and the parking garage vanished, replaced by a wall of static.
Fisk’s grip tightened on his cane. "Wesley."
"I'm on it—it’s an external override on our private microwave relay," Wesley stammered, fingers flying across his tablet. "It’s not coming from outside... it’s coming from inside our own media server on the twelfth floor."
The static snapped clear.
A high-definition image appeared on the forty-foot screen, broadcast simultaneously to every monitor in the building, every TV in the executive lounges, and every tablet connected to Fisk’s private network.
Jack was sitting in an swivel office chair inside Fisk’s own twelfth-floor broadcast studio.
He had a headset pulled sideways over his dark, matted hair, a cold mug of coffee in one hand, and a microphone jammed directly against his lips. Behind him, bound tight to a pillar with duct tape, were two terrified network technicians.
"Testing, testing... one, two... is this thing on?" Jack’s voice echoed through the high-end speakers of the executive suite, crisp, clear, and infuriatingly loud. "Hey, Big Willie! Can you hear me up there in the penthouse? Turn me up in the monitor, fellas!"
In the executive suite, three guards instinctively raised their weapons at the screen.
"Sir, I can shut down the main power grid—" Wesley began, cold sweat breaking out on his forehead.
"No," Fisk commanded, his dark eyes fixed on the screen. "Let him speak."
On the screen, Jack took a loud, wet slurp from his coffee mug, smacked his lips, and grinned right into the camera lens. His bloodshot eyes were wide, unblinking, and lit with that manic, terrifying clarity.
"So, Willie," Jack rasped, leaning into the mic. "I was looking over your corporate charter down here on the twelfth floor. Lots of big words. 'Synergy', 'Growth', 'Community Investment'. But honestly? Your internal broadcast system is terrible. No music! No talk shows! Just boring quarterly projections!"
He set the mug down with a sharp CLACK.
"So I decided to launch my own radio show!" Jack cackled—a sharp, raspy HAHAHA that rattled the treble on the suite’s audio system. "Welcome to the inaugural episode of 'Dare to Care with Jack'! Our first topic today: How to lose two million dollars and a top assassin in three easy steps!"
Up in the penthouse, two guards shuffled their feet nervously. One of them glanced at his partner, a flick of doubt in his eyes. Lester was dead? The Bullseye?
"James," Fisk said, his voice deceptively soft. "Kill the feed."
"I... I'm trying, sir! Someone uploaded a worm to the routing switch—they've hard-locked the overrides from the outside!"
On screen, Jack leaned back in the swivel chair, spinning himself in a slow circle.
"Now, I know what you're thinking, Willie," Jack continued, pointing a finger at the camera. "'Jack, why are you in my building? Aren't you badly injured?' Well, yes! I've got two broken ribs, a gunshot wound, and my stitches smell like cheap whiskey! But your lovely security guards on the ground floor were so polite! Especially when a gorgeous blonde in black leather dropped from the ceiling vent and knocked them all out cold!"
The camera angle shifted slightly, catching a quick glimpse of Felicia Hardy near the server racks, waving sarcastically at the camera before pulling a main fiber-optic cable from the wall.
"And let's not forget my co-host!" Jack yelled into the mic. "The lovely Red from Moscow, who is currently rewiring your private financial server to broadcast your offshore tax havens directly to the District Attorney's office!"
Down on the tenth floor, Natasha Romanoff calmly inserted a encrypted flash drive into the central mainframes, her face completely calm as progress bars flashed green across forty servers.
Up in the penthouse, Fisk stood up slowly, his massive frame looming over his desk like a mountain of dark wool. His knuckles were white against the head of his cane.
"Find them," Fisk ordered quietly. "Bring me his head. Not a body. Just his head."
On the screen, Jack stopped spinning his chair. He leaned in so close to the camera lens that his pale, scarred nose almost touched the glass. His wide, bloodshot eyes locked onto the broadcast feed, his grin shrinking into a tight, dark, and terrifying line.
"...dare..." Jack whispered into the microphone, the sound carrying with chilling clarity through every speaker in the tower. "...dare to come down, Willie... dare to step out of your cage... HAHAHAHA!"
The screen went black.
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