Marvel Multiverse Gacha

A man in sunglasses, carrying a cane like a blind man, approached the door. He opened it smoothly and stepped inside. With a practiced motion, he tapped his cane against the wall until he found the light switch. The room lit up with a soft glow.

He walked into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator with ease. "Do you want a drink?" he called out.

"Why bother asking?" came a voice from another room.

Matt grabbed two bottles of beer, shut the refrigerator, and made his way to the living room. He handed one bottle to the man sprawled on the sofa.

"You do realize this is my home, right?" Matt asked as he sank into an armchair.

"Yeah," the man replied nonchalantly, taking a long swig from his beer.

Matt frowned, studying him. "So, what are you doing here?" He already had a guess.

"Waiting for you," the man said flatly.

Matt glanced at Frank and sighed. Knowing the Punisher's state of mind after the loss of his family, he decided to deflect. "It looks like Bullseye's keeping himself busy elsewhere."

Frank turned his gaze to Matt, his expression dark. "Do you want to meet him so soon? If it weren't for me, you'd already be dead." His tone carried disdain, but it wasn't unwarranted—Frank had saved Daredevil after Bullseye nearly killed him. Matt could have escaped on his own, but it would have been far messier, and the consequences might've been worse.

Ignoring the jab, Matt leaned forward. "Kingpin won't sit idle. He'll have a plan to deal with us sooner or later."

"Good," Frank said coldly. "I've been meaning to deal with him myself."

Frank's eyes darkened with thought. After a moment, he said, "Looks like the rumors about someone else targeting his gangs are true."

Matt froze mid-drink. He set the bottle down carefully and nodded. "It does seem that way. The person is fast, decisive, trained."

Frank leaned back slightly, his brow furrowing. "And dangerous," Matt continued. "His methods show he's done this before—many times."

Frank didn't comment on Matt's subtle acknowledgment of the attacker's likely identity. Both of them had seen the aftermath of the raids. The precision, the damage, the calculated brutality—it all pointed to someone with the physique and training of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

"Do you want to invite him?" Frank asked, his voice flat. He wasn't keen on working with others, but he knew the kind of war they were waging needed numbers.

Matt considered it for a moment before nodding. "Yes, but first, I want to meet him myself."

In Another Part of the City

Within a shadowy, dimly lit office, the atmosphere hung heavy with unease. Sparse yet opulent, the room was dominated by dark mahogany furniture and a luxurious carpet that muted every sound. The space radiated power, the kind that demanded absolute obedience.

A man in a perfectly tailored suit stood near the center of the room. His broad shoulders and imposing figure were exaggerated by the interplay of light and shadow. His expression was a mask of controlled frustration, though the sharpness in his tone betrayed his simmering anger.

"When will the item arrive?" he asked, his voice calm but edged with steel.

The aide, a wiry man with a nervous energy barely concealed beneath his composed facade, glanced down at the clipboard in his hands. "At least a month, sir," he replied curtly, shifting slightly under the intense scrutiny.

The man's jaw tightened, and a flicker of irritation passed over his features. "A month? Why the delay?"

The aide hesitated, visibly uncomfortable. "Daredevil has recovered and is attacking our operations. He's teamed up with the Punisher, and together they've been hitting our bases nonstop."

The man's eyes narrowed. His calm exterior cracked just enough to reveal his building rage. "Two problems were already straining our resources," he said icily. "Now there's a third?"

"Yes," the aide confirmed grimly. "A new player, calls himself Red Hood. He's been attacking our gangs for two weeks now. No special powers as far as we can tell, but he's effective. Precise."

The man ran a massive hand over his bald head, his frustration giving way to cold calculation. "And Bullseye? When will he be back?"

"Not for another two weeks," the aide said. "He's tied up with the Hand, and securing the deal has taken longer than expected."

"Leave him where he is," the man said, his voice carrying the weight of finality. "We'll manage without him. Instead, find Kilgrave. His services are required."

The aide flinched slightly, his unease obvious. "Kilgrave? If we bring him in, he could uncover things we don't want shared."

The man's expression turned glacial. "I don't care. Send someone expendable to handle the arrangements. We don't have the luxury of time."

The aide nodded quickly and left the room without another word, his footsteps fading into the silence.

The man, now revealed in the faint light as Wilson Fisk—the infamous Kingpin—rose from his chair. Towering and powerful, his every movement was deliberate, his presence suffocating. He walked to the tall window behind his desk and stared out at the city below. The haze of night shrouded the skyline, but the flicker of distant lights seemed defiant, almost mocking.

Kingpin's gaze was unrelenting as he surveyed the sprawling metropolis. "They come at me like insects," he muttered, his deep, gravelly voice resonating in the still air. "But I'll show them what happens when they bite the hand that controls this city."

His hand curled into a fist, knuckles whitening with the force of his resolve. "They'll learn the hard way. Even the strongest are not immune to destruction."

The silence of the office deepened, a tangible weight in the room. Below, the city carried on, blissfully unaware of the storm brewing in the shadows. Kingpin stood as a monolith of power and vengeance, ready to remind everyone why he was untouchable.