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Chapter 38 – Devil, King and Serpent

The sight that greeted Clark when he entered their improvised headquarters — the "evidence room" in the Avengers Tower — reminded him of a beehive: full of agitated people completely focused on their tasks, moving between the evidence filled tables in some kind of organized chaos.

The fact that it was already late at night — a few hours after President Ellis and Fisk's press conference — didn't seem to bother anyone. Natasha and Clint had several computers in front of them, as they gathered information from SHIELD's operatives and their contacts, trying to find out everything they could about this new predicament.

Matt was "reading" Clark's cliff notes about the case at a furious pace, running his fingers over the words, his bare hands feeling the pen's ink. Any pretense of being blind was completely forgotten; not that there was anyone there unaware of his abilities, since Foggy and Karen were at their homes, purposely not called to this last-minute meeting.

Jessica, like Matt, was also checking the evidence, but unlike him — who was focused on the crimes committed — she was more interested in Fisk's connections. People Leland Owlsley confessed they had bribed, blackmailed and extorted to achieve their goals. Businessmen of all kinds — from small club owners to powerful CEOs —, people in the media — from reporters, bloggers and influencers to newspapers and TV channels owners — police officers, FBI agents and even judges and politicians.

Even Raven and Bruce were there, watching everything in silence from one of tables; Raven insisted on it, despite his and Bruce's worries about her health. She was sitting in a comfortable armchair Clark carried there, wearing a long black jacket she borrowed from Natasha over her hospital gown, the hood almost covering her entire face as she studied the situation.

The moment they noticed Clark entered the room, everyone turned to look at him, expectantly.

"So?" Jessica asked, impatient.

"The Ancient One guaranteed that the president is not being enthralled, possessed or influenced in any magical way. He also wasn't replaced by a shapeshifter or someone wearing illusion magic." Clark told them, briefly showing the cellphone he used to speak to her as if by reflex. "She went as far as to check on him through the Astral Dimension to make sure, but apparently she has quite the system of surveillance to prevent things like this from happening."

There was a moment of silence.

"There's a system to keep presidents from being possessed?" Clint asked, incredulous. "We actually need something like this?"

Clark couldn't blame him, he was pretty shocked as well.

"World leaders, high-ranked army officials, royalty, powerful politicians, anyone with the power to unleash war and cause damage to the Sanctums," Clark explained, since he asked the very same thing to the Ancient One. "People like those are targets to chaotic entities from other worlds and even powerful mages from this one. Apparently, it happened before. The Sorcerer Supreme told me that some of the craziest kings and emperors from ancient times were actually possessed or driven mad by magical entities. Back then, however, the damage they could do was limited. These days we have nuclear bombs to worry about. She thought it prudent to be safe."

Everyone kept staring at him in silence, possibly trying to come to terms with this new reality they were living, where demonic possession was something they had to look out for.

It bothered him a lot too.

"So, what do you have on your end?" Clark asked after a few seconds, clearing his throat to snap them out of it.

"President Ellis is fine," Clint answered, shaking his head for a moment. "He wasn't kidnapped or coerced to be there. Apparently, there were some sizeable anonymous donations made to New York's reconstruction since The Incident and even more after Black Zero Event. Some nonprofit organizations were created to help, some companies contributed… Anyway, a bunch of money exchanged hands to help rebuild the city, especially Hell's Kitchen, and the one responsible for the effort — until then kept in anonymity — came forth to speak with the president so he could do more."

"Fisk," Matt all but snarled.

Clint nodded. "Politicians, as usual, were more than happy to work with the 'silent billionaire'. Not only because he was willing to part with his money, but because the cause makes for excellent marketing and they were dying to attach their names — especially Ellis' — to Fisk's."

"The money…?" Clark started.

"Clean, I checked," Natasha said, before he could finish the question. "The government checked as well, of course. It probably comes from his legal businesses or it's very well laundered. Fisk would be an idiot to use dirty money for this and I don't think we can accuse him of that."

No, Wilson Fisk was apparently many things, but stupid was not one of them, Clark thought.

"How's Karen doing?" Clark asked after a few moments of silence, looking at Matt.

"As well as expected, after seeing the man who ruined her life being hailed as a hero while he made a speech by the President's side," Matt answered, his voice hard. "I left Foggy with her before coming here, but…"

He shrugged, not knowing how to finish. It wasn't needed, Clark knew what he meant, because he was also feeling it; not on the same degree as Karen, certainly, but they were all feeling it. The impotence, the sense of being cheated of a victory.

And the fear that there was nothing they could do.

"What does it matter, anyway?" Raven asked, her voice traveling the whole office.

They all turned to look at her. She gestured to the piles of documents Leland Owlsley had provided.

"You have all this, proof of crimes this Fisk committed. What does it matter if he was making a speech with the President or not? He is guilty all the same."

Clark gave her a tired smile; if only things were that simple.

In a perfect world, it would be. A world where the Justice System was fair, and money, influence and power didn't matter one bit when confronted against the evidence of a crime. A world where the law worked equally to all.

Unfortunately, they didn't live in such a world.

"It doesn't work like that, Raven," Clark gently explained, "even if it should."

How to begin to explain that to a person who lived in a society composed by pacifist monks? How would he explain that sometimes Justice wasn't fair, that sometimes greed and fear made people close their eyes to the truth and allow criminals to walk free?

Azarath probably never had to deal with that, being a small society of mages. If crime existed there, then it was most likely dealt with directly in ways their own society couldn't hope to imitate. Right and wrong, legal and illegal, it probably was all very easily defined and judged by their leaders, much like he imagined things were solved in Kamar-Taj.

Things on Earth were very different.

"What we have here," Clark started, choosing his words carefully so Raven could understand, "the money laundering, fraud, smuggling, all the evidence of all those crimes, can only be tied to the name 'Wilson Fisk' if we accept the testimony of Leland Owlsley and Vladimir Ranskahov. Two criminals who were already caught and already confessed to all of this, so they can lower their sentences."

Raven opened her mouth, but Clark was faster.

"I know, they're telling the truth. We all know that. But that's how the process usually works. We accuse Fisk, we present the evidence to what we're saying, and an investigation is opened. All the people mentioned in the evidence we have will be interrogated, they'll provide more evidence, we'll bring in more people involved who'll provide even more evidence, and so on so forth, until we finally have enough to get to the people on top."

A very abridged version of how an investigation worked, but he didn't want to complicate things too much.

"If we were after a common criminal, even a powerful one like a mob boss or the leader of a gang, for example, that would work. It would be more than enough," Clark continued. "But we're not. We are trying to arrest a very well connected criminal, a criminal who has 'friends' in high places, people who publicly attached their names to Fisk and won't want to face the political backlash if he were proven to be the criminal he is. People who don't care about what Fisk did, as long as things continue to be profitable for them."

He grabbed a piece of paper with information Leland had provided and another that Natasha and Clint had filled with recently acquired information.

"Influent people in the U.S government, and in several others too. Senators, congressmen, governors, mayors… People in positions of power who could hinder any and all investigation that could hurt them. Favors would be called in, messages would be sent, threats would be made, and the investigation would take years to go anywhere, right up until people 'forgot' all about it."

Clark walked to Jessica's side, glancing at Raven as he grabbed another file.

"And, of course, we can't forget about the others, the people Fisk bought, threatened and blackmailed into his service. High-ranking officers in several law enforcement agencies, judges — even some in the Supreme Court —, district attorneys, media moguls… Not only the higher-ups would be trying to stop the investigation at all costs, we would have people on Fisk's payroll working directly against us. Judges wouldn't be fair, agents and police officers Fisk bought would leak the investigation so evidence could be destroyed and people could disappear, they wouldn't have warrants to do anything… Meanwhile, the media would bombard everyone with stories about how Fisk is being persecuted because he was trying to help, turning public support to his side."

Clark placed the sheets of paper back on the table, sighing.

"Soon enough, it would be easier to everyone if it were proven that Leland Owlsley and Vladimir Ranskahov were the real criminals, and were only trying to frame Wilson Fisk, a true hero. And that would be the end. The investigation ends, Fisk walks free. And all this evidence is thrown in the garbage."

There was a long silence after Clark finished explaining things to Raven, the heavy atmosphere completely different from their carefree waffle-party; it felt like that had happened days ago, instead of a few hours.

"What if you go against these people first?" Raven finally asked. "The ones Fisk bought."

"We could," Natasha answered, before Clark could, "but we don't know all of them. These are just the ones Leland and Vladimir know about, there are certainly many others. And the Hand have people inside as well." She shrugged. "And it wouldn't help against the ones he didn't buy, like President Ellis. They would simply hinder things the 'legal' way, so the man they attached themselves to isn't revealed a criminal, damaging their reputation. Someone would just sit on top of the evidence for years and the investigation would eventually stop."

President Ellis, if what Clark heard about him was true, was actually a good man. The people around him, however, they would do what they could to preserve Ellis' image, even at the cost of this investigation.

"What we need," Natasha continued, and everybody looked at her again, "is evidence of something worse." She gestured towards the piles. "Proof of a serious crime committed by Fisk, something that can't be swept under the rug like these white-collar crimes we have here."

"How about decapitating a man with a car door?" Matt asked, his voice almost a growl, looking at her; Natasha was perfectly reflected on the red lenses of his glasses. "Would that be enough?"

"Do you have proof of that?" Natasha fired back. "A picture? Video? Or just the word of two criminals, neither of them present when the crime happened? We don't even have a body as evidence."

"Can't SHIELD do anything?" Jessica finally asked, fed up with the whole situation. "I mean, you guys already arrested two people involved. What's one more?"

"Back then? Sure, we would've arrested him just as we arrested Vladimir and Leland, if we knew where he was," Natasha answered. "Now? When he's surrounded by cameras and politicians? Fury would have my head. It would be a political nightmare that wouldn't take us anywhere."

"But you can bring him in for interrogation, can't you?" Clark asked, hopeful. "Use SHIELD to investigate, instead of the police. People we trust."

"I can bring him in," Natasha nodded, "but what good would that do? He would arrive with a team of lawyers around him, deny everything, and go home. And SHIELD wouldn't pick this case as it is, it isn't our jurisdiction. SHIELD deals with global threats, not financial crimes and a bit of harmless smuggling. They would pass it to the police or the FBI and we all know what would happen then."

"Isn't the Hand a global threat?" Matt asked, starting to pace like a caged tiger.

"Again, can you prove Fisk is involved with them? Can you prove that they even exist? Even I thought they were just a myth just a few days ago. What we have isn't enough, not for SHIELD to start an investigation."

"Because you guys always do things by the book, right?" Matt retorted.

The look Natasha sent his way made the room temperature drop.

"You want me to bring him in personally?" the Black Widow asked, slowly. "I could. I could throw him in a dark room and I could make him tell me everything he knows about his operations and the Hand. But if I do that, you can forget about the rest of his organization. There won't be a legal investigation, there won't arrests, there won't be paperwork of any kind. Wilson Fisk will disappear and no one will know. The end."

"We're not doing that," Clark said immediately and firmly, his voice cutting the heavy atmosphere.

The interruption of what was about to become a heated argument made everyone take a step back to cool down; it was easy to forget they were all on the same side when emotion were running high.

Clark sighed, tired, glancing at Natasha for a moment. Even if he didn't mind that Natasha kidnapped, tortured and killed a man — which he did, very much —, Fisk's death wouldn't solve anything. The information they would learn could or not be useful, but it certainly wouldn't be enough to destroy the Hand; they wouldn't share anything that could damage them to that degree with a non-member.

And Fisk's demise, as much as it would hinder their operations, wouldn't stop them.

Sooner rather than later, someone else would assume his position and continue things from where he left them. Maybe not as skillfully, but the organization would go on, perhaps even controlled directly by the Hand.

No, Fisk's death wouldn't solve anything. It would just stain Natasha's ledger with even more red.

Matt exhaled, finally stopping to pace; Clark could see his muscles shaking. He could relate with him. It was one thing to deal with common criminals, and quite another to deal with criminals masquerading as the good guys.

It said something about the state of their Justice System when all of them thought Raven was naïve to ask what difference it made if Fisk knew the President or not.

Fisk was a criminal, no doubt about that, but while he hid behind powerful people their hands were tied. Natasha was right, they needed something else, something no one could ignore, something that would make sure Fisk spent the rest of his days behind bars.

"So what do we do then?" Jessica asked, visibly pissed off. "Nothing?" She turned to him. "Can't you, I don't know, hold a press conference too, saying Fisk is a crook? Or talk to the president? You're Superman, people are bound to believe in what you say."

"And then what, Jessica?" Clark asked, not frustrated with her or the question, but with the situation itself and all it represented. "We'll present the evidence we have, he'll go to trial and the same thing will happen, his inside people will take care of it. Or do I demand that Fisk goes straight to jail, no trial? Because let me tell you, this would create a thousand more problems, each and every last one of them bigger than this."

And it would, Clark knew, because like Jessica the thought had occurred to him as well. Governments all over the world were afraid of him, of what he could do; even some people were afraid, it pained Clark to admit, but it was the truth. They all knew he had the power to go against any army or law enforcement agency, and that any authority they might have over him existed because he allowed it.

But more than his power, people feared the unknown.

So far, Clark was a known quantity. Scary as his powers might be, he was very careful to follow the rules, to act in accordance with the law. He didn't let them shackle him when it came to helping people — he made that very clear to everybody early on —, but he also didn't go around breaking the rules just because he could escape the consequences. He never abused his power.

That would all change if he demanded Fisk was arrested.

Open an investigation? Sure, they could do that. Present evidence and even go as far as to testify in court? He could do that too. But order the government to arrest him? Demand that the police took Fisk to jail no matter the verdict — because it was pretty clear that Fisk had enough influence to be ruled not guilty with the evidence they had — and be done with it? Or worse, simply skip any trial?

The moment he did that, he would become a dictator. He would be announcing to the world that he couldn't care less about their rules and their laws, and that they should obey him; because if they didn't, there would be consequences.

It didn't matter if Fisk was guilty or not. It wouldn't matter if Superman did this just this once, and followed every rule for the rest of his life later on. Once it became clear that Superman could force any government on Earth to do what he wanted, once the illusion that they could go against him if there was need was shattered, there would be no way back.

Governments would be terrified of what he could do next; an arms race would probably follow. People would panic. His enemies — those he knew about and those he didn't — would use this to force a confrontation, to pitch the world against him, using every resource they had; the media, the military, maybe even SHIELD and the Avengers themselves…

And sooner or later, Clark would be forced to fight the very people he wanted to protect.

Could this be an extreme over-exaggerated scenario, the worst of the worst of a combination of terrible possibilities, fruit of Clark's deeply ingrained fears? Maybe. Maybe he was wrong and nothing at all would happen. Or maybe it wouldn't be something quite so dramatic, at least not a first; simply a silent kickstart that could lead eventually to something like that.

Whatever it was, Clark wasn't willing to risk it, not when the result could be that disastrous. And not while they had so many other things to try first. The evidence of what Fisk truly was existed, they just had to find it.

He sighed after a few minutes of silence, shaking his head. "Jessica, I—"

"I get it," Jessica interrupted. She looked strangely regretful, as if the magnitude of what she asked for him to do finally crossed her mind. Everybody there seemed to understand why he was so reluctant, if their silence and their thoughtful expressions meant anything. "Stupid thing to ask."

Clark nodded, thankful.

"We continue the investigation," Natasha declared after a moment, sparing him of having to say anything. She looked at Matt again. "You're the lawyer. Tell me honestly: if we use the evidence we have now, can we arrest Fisk? If you tell me there's a good chance, I'll do what I can on my side to get things going to the best of my ability."

Matt leaned over the table, frowning as he considered all the variables. A full minute went by and he was still quiet, everyone staring at him, waiting. He inhaled deeply.

"Do you know why Al Capone was arrested?" he asked them, suddenly.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Everyone seemed confused, but no one more than Raven, who probably had never heard the name before.

"He was a famous mobster boss," Clark explained quickly to Raven, turning back to Matt. "Umm, tax evasion?"

Clark was far from being an expert in the history of organized crime, but Al Capone, like he told Raven, was a famous gangster during the Prohibition era, to the point documentaries and movies had been made about him; he just didn't know exactly why Matt had brought it up.

Matt looked at him and Clark saw himself on his glasses.

"Al Capone was arrested because everyone wantedhim arrested," Matt corrected him. "He trusted so much in the power of his organization, his connections and in his popularity with the people, that he pretty much operated openly, with such disregard for secrecy that he made a mockery of the law enforcement and the government. So much that he dared to plan the murder of seven rival gang members in broad daylight, on Saint Valentine's Day. That was the last straw. Al Capone became Public Enemy nº1 and they used every resource they had to find something, anything, to arrest him. Tax evasion was just the excuse they needed."

He looked around, giving time for everyone to absorb what he was trying to say.

"And after all that, he was sentenced to 11 years. In less than 8, he was out."

It would be funny if it wasn't tragic. A man responsible for who knows how many murders — either by his own hand or ordered by him —, and he ended up arrested because he didn't pay taxes. They did what they could to arrest Al Capone and Clark commended the people who made that happen, but it was ridiculous how flawed the system was to even allow something like that.

What was even more ridiculous, however, was the time of his sentence. 11 years and he was out in 8. How could anyone even call that justice?

"Capone didn't have a tenth of the resources Fisk has," Matt announced, drawing their attention back to him again. "By the end, he also didn't have public support or people infiltrated in the law enforcement agencies, and the full might of the law was only able to sentence him to 11 years." Matt frowned. "I fear, that even if we succeed with the evidence we have — which I have my doubts we will —, Fisk won't even see the inside of a prison. And even that might be years from now."

Everybody was already expecting that answer, but Matt's statement took the last bit of hope they still had.

"Agent Romanoff is right," Matt admitted, in what Clark believed to be an apology for his previous behavior. "It's useless to move against him with this. We need more evidence, better evidence."

"Oh, we just need to record him murdering someone, is that it?" Jessica asked, sarcastically. "A guy even SHIELD didn't know existed not too long ago?"

"Either that," Clint agreed, ignoring her sarcasm, "or find something that can force SHIELD to take the case."

"Such as?" Bruce asked, speaking for the first time. "I'm just a bit curious about the threat level needed to draw SHIELD's attention. From 'mugger level' to 'Hulk level', where on the threat scale would Fisk have to be?"

"We have different teams for different assignments, but anything that's a bit much for normal law enforcement to deal with falls into our jurisdiction," Clint answered, shrugging. "Enhanced individuals, aliens, people in possession of advanced tech, powerful organizations, anything that starts as or can eventually become a global threat if not dealt with. Or someone who is aiding a person or an organization who checks all the boxes I mentioned. Which we know Fisk is, but can't prove it yet." Clint shrugged again. "Everything else, we pass it to other agencies. SHIELD doesn't have the manpower to police the whole world, we have to focus on the big threats, because if we're stretched too thin, well, bad things happen and no one else can do anything about it."

Natasha had told him the same thing not too long ago. It was easy to think of SHIELD as this super powerful spy organization that knew everything, but the world was a big place. Much like Superman, SHIELD had to share the burden and that was why they needed proof, so SHIELD could officially act against Fisk, at least publicly.

Otherwise, they would have dozens of politicians doing everything they could to stop this "witch hunt" and Fury would be eventually ordered to pass the investigation to another agency, an agency that was probably filled with Fisk's people.

Until then, Natasha and Clint were all they had from SHIELD.

"The people at the docks?" Matt asked, suddenly. "The ones transporting Raven and that undead monstrosity. They fall into that category."

"They do," Natasha confirmed. "And SHIELD was the first on the scene. But those men were Yakuza and the few that talked never even heard about Fisk, I asked. Nor did the security guards who were conveniently absent. As far as we can prove, what happened was all Yakuza and nothing we have can be connected to Fisk in any way." Like Clint, Natasha shrugged. "Unless we have something else to add, which we don't, the case is already closed."

She shuffled some papers.

"The workshop you three found," Natasha continued, gesturing towards Clark, Matt and Jessica, "the one where Mr. Melvin Potter fashioned suits made out of Chitauri fabric, was also a possibility. SHIELD does not like to leave alien tech lying around, after all. But there isn't anything there that links Fisk to it." She tilted her head. "I could get a warrant to check his suits, but even if we manage to get one before Fisk's gets rid of them — if he already didn't —, unless we can prove he was involved in their creation or knew what they were made of in the first place, it won't go anywhere. We'll probably end up having to arrest Mr. Potter."

There was a long silence.

"So we have jack shit, is that it?" Jessica piped up. "Great."

Clark sighed, feeling as frustrated as her. But differently from Jessica, Clark could see things from another perspective.

"We have a lot," he corrected her, "and we are putting pressure on Fisk and the Hand. What he did wasn't a coincidence, it wasn't part of his plan, we forced him out of the shadows. This whole thing with President Ellis is just one more layer of protection, but it's the last one he has. We took down the Russians, we took down his accountant, we seized several of his bank accounts and we have plenty of information about his organization. Maybe we can't build an air-tight case yet, not like we thought, but we will. We weren't beaten, this is just a setback. We just have to keep working. And remember: the priority right now isn't Fisk, it's the dragon, so we have time."

Even Clark didn't know if he believed in every word he said, but the important thing was that his little speech worked: instead of the tired and defeated expressions from before, the faces looking back at him were full of energy. He smiled.

"So let's call it a day," he continued, "go home, sleep. Tomorrow we'll find a way to bring this guy down."

They all agreed and got up.

"Hey, Stevie Wonder," Jessica called before Matt could leave. "There's word on the street that cops were ordered to shoot a certain masked individual on sight. So if you're going to run around beating people up, you might want to wear something different than a t-shirt and pantyhose on your head."

He stopped, then turned.

"It's not pantyhose," Matt said, as if he couldn't believe he would ever have to say something like this.

"Well, I bet it stop bullets just like it."

Matt sighed. "You're not wrong there. Thanks for the warning."

Clark watched they bicker until the elevator closed, then went to pick up Raven, otherwise Dr. Cho would have his head. Before she could get up, he lifted both Raven and the armchair, smiling at the deadpan look she sent him.

"The elevator is busy, but I know a faster way to the infirmary," Clark said, holding the armchair with one hand as he opened the huge window with the other.

To her credit, Raven didn't even flinch when he jumped out; well, it wasn't like she had never defied gravity before, Clark reasoned, quickly wishing a good night to Natasha, Clint and Bruce before flying up.

Despite Clark's attempts to raise morale, to keep them in the fight, Matt felt tired. It had nothing to do with his extracurricular activities, nothing to do with the punches he took, nothing to do with anything physical.

He felt exhausted to his very soul.

Three days had passed since Fisk made his speech by the President's side. Three days that he had to see Karen feeling more and more tense, burying herself in work to the point where she barely slept anymore. Three days that they found absolutely nothing that could be used to arrest Fisk, not when he had so many people willing to protect him and so many people in his pockets. Three days that they hadn't made any progress whatsoever.

It was like chasing a mirage. No matter how much effort they put into it, no matter how long they tried, they would never get to it. Fisk was a ghost. Almost no one — and Matt had forced many criminals to talk — knew about him. Some that did where so damn scared that they would be willing to take what they knew to their graves; Matt had seen a psychopathic killer-for-hire plunge his head through an iron bar to escape Fisk's retribution for giving out his name. And the few that did know Fisk had nothing else to give them, no information that could be used.

They had reached a dead-end and Matt honestly didn't know how to advance.

Inhaling deeply, Matt took off his glasses and scratched his eyes for a moment. The midday sun felt hot against his skin, as he sat on a bench in front of the church, taking a break to think. Foggy and Karen were still in the Avengers Tower, working like crazy, trying to build a case with what they had; useless for now, they all knew that, but at least it kept Karen busy, so she wouldn't try to investigate things by herself again.

Karen, whose life was destroyed by Fisk… One of many. How many others had Fisk ruined, directly or indirectly? How many people had been killed, hurt, blackmailed into committing despicable acts, kidnapped… How many had lost everything and everyone because of Fisk and his associates? There was one word that could describe Wilson Fisk: evil. That was what he was, a blight in this city. A corruptive force that tainted everything in his path.

Like the Devil.

As any good catholic, Matt had grown up with a bible always close by. And while he didn't believe in every single word of the holy book — at least not literally —, the bible offered insight into many struggles of life. Its stories, factual or not, taught him many things. But he had honestly never considered he would one day ponder about Satan's existence in their world.

How could he not, though? After finding out that Raven was the daughter of a demonic entity made of pure evil? After finding out that there were beings out there so powerful that could swallow their entire universe in a second? Superman and Thor were incredibly powerful, gods among men, but they were there, they could be touched, they made mistakes, they had limits; the entities Raven spoke of, entities like her father, were so beyond them that they could barely be understood.

Suddenly, some of the stories in the bible weren't so unbelievable anymore. And that actually scared him.

Matt was so distracted that he only noticed a man was approaching when he was already sitting by his side on the bench; it took him a second to recognize the old priest, but he waited for him to speak first.

"You look awful, Matthew," Father Lantom said, as direct as always. "Did you take a page from Battlin' Jack Murdock's book on dodging? Because your father usually didn't, at least in the matches I watched."

He couldn't help but to chuckle; no, Battlin' Jack Murdock's whole strategy consisted in being hit until his opponent got tired. Of course, Matt could never admit that was his case, not only because he did try to dodge — it was just hard to do it when fighting several people at once —, but because, as a blind man, Matt shouldn't be getting in fights at all.

"I fell," Matt simply said.

"Hmm," was the priest's response.

Matt's face was no longer black and blue as it was just after his fight against Nobu and Stick, and the marks no longer showed signs of an obvious fight, but Father Lantom still seemed to find something very interesting about them. He wasn't worried about that, though. Even if someone actually identified those bruises as the marks of a fight, the last thing they would think is that Matt was a vigilante beating people up all over the city. Most likely they would think he was mugged or, at worse, being abused by someone.

Father Lantom didn't get into that, though.

"It's been a while since I saw you," he said. "Didn't think you were coming back to take confessions anymore."

"It's not why I'm here, Father."

"Good, because I'm on a break right now," Father Lantom retorted, immediately. "The chamber of commerce donated one of those fancy expresso machines, for meetings and stuff. I know we are supposed to resist temptations and all that, but Matthew, that latte…"

Matt couldn't help but to smile, even if briefly.

"You sure you're not interested?" Father Lantom asked. "You're not going to regret it."

He didn't answer for a few seconds, simply staring at nothing with his blind eyes.

"Why not?" Matt finally said.

It took them a few minutes to go to the church's mess room and a couple more to Father Lantom prepare the famous latte; to his credit, it did smell wonderful. The place was empty, and the only voices Matt could hear came from far away.

"Sugar?" he asked.

"No," Matt muttered. Father Lantom seemed to be putting enough sugar in his latte for both of them.

"So… What's on your mind, Matthew?" the priest finally asked. "Seal of confession still applies, even over lattes, if that's what you're worried about."

It wasn't, not exactly. What Matt was worried about was how to put what he was feeling into words, without sounding crazy. He pondered for a few seconds, then turned to Father Lantom.

"Do you believe in the Devil, Father?"

There was a moment of silence.

"You mean, as a concept?" Father Lantom finally asked.

"No," Matt clarified. "Do you believe he exists? In this world, among us."

Father Lantom took a sip of his latte.

"Do you want the short answer or the long one?" he sighed.

"Just the truth."

The priest considered his words for a moment.

"When I was in seminary," he started, slowly, "I was more studious than pious, more… Skeptical than most of my peers. I had this notion — which I was more than willing to speak about, at length, to whoever I could corner — that the Devil was inconsequential. Minor figure in the grand scheme."

Matt gave him a tiny smile.

"Not very catholic of you."

"Yeah," Father Lantom agreed. "In my defense, in the scriptures, the Hebrew word 'Satan' actually means 'adversary'. And it's applied to any antagonist. Angels and humans, serpents and kings. Medieval theologians reinterpreted those passages to be about a single, monstrous enemy. And in my youthful zeal, I was certain I knew why: propaganda. Played up to drive people into the Church."

"So you don't believe he exists," Matt concluded.

The priest fixed a powerful glare on him.

"Am I done talking?"

"Sorry," Matt apologized, smiling briefly at the gruff scolding.

"Years later," Father Lantom continued, as if he hadn't been interrupted at all, "I was in Rwanda, trying to help local churches provide aid and sanctuary to refugees. I'd became close with the village elder, Gahiji. He and his family had the respect of everybody, Hutu and Tutsi alike. He'd helped them all, through famines, disease…" He took a sip of his latte, but Matt had the impression he didn't even taste it. "The militia liked to force Hutu villagers to murder their neighbors, with machetes, but no one would raise a hand against Gahiji. 'How could we kill such a holy man?', they said."

Father Lantom played with his sleeve for a moment.

"So the militia commander sent soldiers with orders to cut his head off, in front of the entire village." He shrugged. "Gahiji didn't try to put up a fight, just asked for the chance to say goodbye to his family. By the time he was done, even the soldiers didn't wanna kill him. So they went to their commander and asked permission to shoot him, to at least give him a quick death."

He looked at Matt.

"The commander wanted to meet this man, who had won the respect of so many," Father Lantom told him, and Matt felt his blood get cold for some reason. "He went to Gahiji, talked to him in his hut, for many hours."

Father Lantom took a deep breath.

"Then he dragged him out in front of his village and hacked him to pieces, along with his entire family."

Matt closed his eyes for a moment, actually feeling Father Lantom's grief as clearly as he heard his voice.

"In that man that took Gahiji's life, I saw the Devil," Father Lantom finally said. "Satan, Tempter, Adversary… Call it whatever you want, it doesn't matter." He looked at Matt, tired. "The answer is 'yes', Matthew, I believe Evil walks among us, taking many forms."

He obviously didn't believe for a second that Wilson Fisk was literally the Devil — if the entity itself how it was described in the Bible even existed —, nor did he believe the man in Father Lantom's story was him as well.

But guided by a Higher Evil, corrupted, pushed past the limits of the human capacity for cruelty?

Given what he now knew, that he could believe.

Matt knew better than most that people didn't need help to commit atrocities, but that didn't mean there wasn't something bigger, something more pulling the strings. The Hand was allied to one such being, after all, even if it didn't call itself "Devil".

And what about Fisk? Was he even a person anymore? Or a monster wearing the face of a man? A puppet dancing for the amusement of the "Adversaries"?

Whatever he was, knowingly or not, Wilson Fisk was serving Evil, just like the man in Father Lantom's story.

"What if you could've stopped him," Matt caught himself asking before he could stop, "from ever hurting anyone again?"

Father Lantom met his eyes, almost as if he forgot Matt couldn't see him.

"Stopped him how?" he finally asked.

Any way he could, Matt answered inside his own mind, feeling his heart beating fast. Wilson Fisk was the one allowing the Hand into their city, the one who made all those crimes possible, the one responsible for all that Evil. The Hand was worse, he had no doubt, but Fisk… Fisk was at the same time their greatest asset and the chink in their armor. Without him, they couldn't hold the city, not immediately anyway, not with the degree of absolute control Fisk had.

But how could he stop a man protected by the very system meant to put him away? What justice could they ever get if cops, judges and politicians were in Fisk's pockets?

Matt didn't like to even think about it — it made him feel too much like Stick —, but so far he knew of only one way to effectively stop Fisk.

Clark fiercely disagreed with the idea and even Black Widow didn't see many tactical advantages in killing Fisk, and from a certain point of view they were both right. Fisk's death wouldn't bring down the Hand or even destroy his own organization. It wouldn't be a complete victory.

But both of them had something few in this city had: the ability to live without any fear from ever being victims of Wilson Fisk and his associates. The privilege of waiting safely until they could act following the law.

Both of them lived in completely different worlds, even when sharing the same space. One was a bulletproof superpowered alien, and another was a top agent of SHIELD. They were so removed from any consequences that they might as well be on another planet. But the normal people, people like Karen and Foggy, they weren't. They were there, in the city, and they were easy prey to people like Fisk every day.

Maybe killing Fisk wouldn't solve everything, but it would give the Hand pause, throw a wrench in their plans, cause enough problems and confusion to allow them to act. And maybe, enough problems and confusion to allow them to win.

Otherwise… Were they supposed to wait until something horrible happened? To wait until the entire justice system was cleansed from all corruption so he could protect his friends? Wait for permission to save their lives?

Matt honestly had no answer and the questions were beginning to eat him alive.

"Thanks for the latte, Father," Matt said, getting up.

"If you don't mind, Matthew, there's one more thing I'd like to add," Father Lantom said; Matt stopped, but didn't turn back. "I believe the Devil walks among us… But I also believe there are other forces at work in this world. If there is Evil, then it stands to reason that there is also Good."

He exhaled.

"Just something to keep in mind."

For a moment, no more than a few seconds, Matt almost considered going back to his seat, ask for another latte, talk about something else. But then his enhanced hearing picked a radio broadcast nearby.

"…Wilson Fisk will be attending the art exhibition at Scene Contempo Gallery tonight, to support his girlfriend Vanessa Marianna. And yes, the profits of any and all sales will be reverted to the reconstruction of our beloved city…"

Basic tenet of both law and war: know your enemy. He had questions, and philosophical debates would only take him so far.

Maybe it was time Matt invested in some art.

Raven hardly moved her eyes from the TV when Clark entered her room, just enough to acknowledge his presence, apparently too entertained by whatever was on. Curious by the very familiar sounds, he closed the door, and walked to the chair beside her bed, setting the cooler he was carrying down; not such an out of place view, since he was wearing normal clothes and not his Kryptonian skinsuit, but the presence of the cooler seemed to draw her attention.

She extended her hand, without moving her eyes from the TV.

"What do you have this time?" Raven asked.

Clark didn't answer immediately, though, finally confirming his suspicions about what interested Raven so much on the TV: Luke Skywalker facing Darth Vader, green and red lightsabers clashing as they fought in the second Death Star.

He didn't see that one coming.

"The Return of the Jedi?" Clark exclaimed.

"Hmm," was Raven answer. He waited a moment. "I'm rewatching it by myself. Bruce recommended it, but he gets too enthusiastic and starts to talk during every scene." No longer 'Dr. Banner', Clark realized with a smile; she was making friends. "He was quite excited when I told him I didn't know what Star Wars was for some reason."

"The chance of introducing Star Wars to someone who never heard of it? I would be too!"

Clark was actually kicking himself for not coming up with the idea before Bruce.

"Yes, he said that," Raven agreed in a monotonous tone. "He also said that I might 'see myself' in one of the characters." She tilted her head. "He was not wrong."

Luke Skywalker's journey as he learned to wield the Force to save the galaxy probably would be something Raven would empathize with, Clark thought. A powerful "psychic" ability that required constant balance to not be tainted and corrupted by the Dark Side… Yeah, Bruce wasn't wrong at all.

"Darth Vader's story really is relatable," Raven finished her thought, and Clark did a double take.

"Oh…"

A hero that was corrupted to the Dark Side, destroyed everything he loved, only to be redeemed by his son and brought back to the Light. Yeah, as disturbing as that sounded, that made a lot more sense.

"And I think he is cool," Raven admitted after a moment.

Well, she was not wrong, Clark conceded.

Before he could make any more questions, Raven paused the movie — with a wave of her hand instead of the remote — and turned to him.

"So, what do you have this time?" Raven asked again, her going from him to the cooler.

Clark smiled at her tone, something he could only classify as "bored eagerness", even if it didn't make any real sense. He picked it up and opened the cooler, the sweet smell filling the room.

"I think you'll like this one: Pastéis de Belém," Clark said in perfect Portuguese, opening the prism-shaped box. "Directly from Lisbon."

The Kryptonian mind-reading device he had, the same one Faora had used to pick up the location of his ship from Natasha's mind during his invasion, was a great way to quickly learn all kinds of different languages; it taught him Kryptonian in a few hours, a language he hadn't heard spoken since he was a baby, so why couldn't he use it to learn human languages, like Zod did?

"What were you doing in Portugal?" Raven asked, accepting the small custard tart with fascination.

"I was just passing by, there was a small fire close to Lisbon, nothing serious. But I couldn't leave without some of these," he said, biting the creamy pastry with gusto.

Raven's expression was impassive as always, but she closed her eyes for a moment when she tried it; for her, it was pretty much the same as crying tears of joy. Clark felt much the same the first time he had one; the sweet cream mixed with the crispy crust made a mouthwatering combination.

"Good, huh?" She nodded. "Better than waffles?"

"I like waffles more than life itself," Raven deadpanned. "But this comes close."

Clark laughed. "I feel the same about Ma's apple pie. Which, by the way…"

She watched with wide eyes as he picked another box from the cooler, this one containing a still hot apple pie, directly from the Kent Farm.

"I won't be able to go through the door if you keep bringing these every day," Raven complained, while at the same time accepting a large piece.

"No matter, you can always open a portal," Clark joked. "Just make sure it's wide enough."

Raven glared at him for a moment, which only made him laugh harder.

With a wave of her hand, Raven resumed the movie and both of them ate in silence as they watched. By that point, Raven was pretty much healed already, but since there was no need, she chose not to move to another room; as soon as Clark had the time — and was certain the Hand wouldn't pose much of a threat to her — he promised to take Raven to Kamar-Taj, so the arrangement was temporary.

He would be lying if he said he wouldn't miss her, though.

The movie was already at the end when Clark arrived and as soon as the credits appeared, Raven waved her hand once again, turning the TV off; she looked at him.

"You are worried," she said, simply.

It was useless to lie to an empath about feelings, so Clark didn't even try.

"A little bit, yeah."

"You still haven't found anything to make an arrest?" Raven guessed.

"Nope. Nothing about the dragon as well." He tilted his head. "I'm more worried about the second. We're on a time limit and I don't know where else to look."

Both the Ancient One and Raven had stated it would take a few days for the Lazarus Pit's creation, and a bit more so the Pit could completely restore the Dragon to life. He'd been happy to hear that then, but time was running out and they still didn't have any clue about their location.

"The place is most likely cloaked with some kind of magic," Raven theorized.

"That's my guess," Clark agreed. "Chi does weird things to my senses. I couldn't see through the door of the dragon tomb and I couldn't even hear the arrow shot at you." He sighed. "I hate magic. It's like having an Achilles heel, knowing about it, but being unable to do anything to fix it."

Raven rolled her eyes.

"As far as I know, there isn't an inherent weakness to magic present in Kryptonian physiology. In fact, given that the power of any spell is highly dependent on the caster, you have a better chance at fighting it than most. It would take some seriously powerful magic to even affect you — I'm talking about deadly curses or high layered enchantments, no mere elemental conjuring, Eldritch constructs or simply power bursts —, and given how quick and tough you are, it's more likely the fight would be over before it even began."

She shrugged.

"The Mystic Arts are just that powerful, against anyone. It's the sword and the shield Agamotto taught us to craft so we could protect ourselves from beings such as my father. And since time immemorial, the Vishanti — a trinity of higher entities composed by Agamotto, Oshtur and Hoggoth — have traveled the Multiverse teaching the Mystic Arts to the denizens of countless universes, raising barriers to keep threats out and starting lineages of Sorcerers Supreme so they could guard their worlds."

Raven stared in his eyes.

"So, no, Clark, you are not weak against magic. Magic is simply overpowered to the extreme. And it's a good thing it is, because otherwise we would have no form of defense against the likes of Trigon."

Well, when put it like that, Clark had no reason to disagree. At the end of the day, only magic could counter magic.

As soon as that thought crossed his mind, he remembered something the Ancient One said to him; a suggestion that Raven might know more than even she realized about the location of Ao Shun's remains.

Maybe she didn't know where the bones were being kept, but if they truly were concealed with magic — or Chi, whatever the difference was —, then maybe they could use magic to trace it.

"Raven, is there a way to use magic to track down the dragon's remains?" Clark asked, suddenly. "Some kind of, I don't know, divination or long-distance Legilimency?"

She frowned. "I don't know what 'Legilimency' is, but…"

For a long minute, Raven didn't answer, too deep in thought; Clark took it as good news.

"There are ways to see beyond, to search for things and people without having to actually go out in the world," Raven started, slowly, "but the Hand's members are no amateurs. They are far older than me, they have knowledge granted to them by the Dragons of K'un-Lun, and they have been hiding even from the Masters of Kamar-Taj all this time. If even they cannot do anything, then…"

Clark felt his previous excitement die out.

"Unless… Unless they are the ones who can't do anything," Raven finished her thought, as if something very important occurred her. "But I could."

She turned to look at a very confused Clark.

"Have you ever heard about Merlin's 'Treatise on the Laws of Astral Projection'?"

He blinked. "I must've skipped that one."

"The Astral Plane, as you probably know, is a dimension that coexists with our world. Much like the Mirror Dimension, it's an inherent part of our universe, the same way the different sides of a coin are still a part of the coin. In that dimension, our spirit exists outside the body." She raised a finger. "For those who know how, it is possible to use the Astral Dimension to travel without moving a single inch in the material world. The physical limitations we have here do not exist there, so we can go from one side of a galaxy to the other as fast as we can think. We can survive in the vacuum of space or underwater, we can pass through solid barriers and even see the stars from close distance without fear of being harmed. It is how I used to visit this world, without ever leaving Azarath."

Raven took a moment to reorganize her thoughts.

"But there is one detail that cannot be overlooked, a very important one: if you don't wish to lose yourself forever in the Astral Plane, then you need an anchor in the real world. Something connected to your spirit, something that could guide you back." She looked at Clark. "Usually, that anchor is your own body."

It made sense, Clark thought; even knowing absolutely nothing about magic, he could understand the principles. He just didn't understand exactly where Raven was going with this.

Was she planning to start a search through the Astral Plane?

"There is a reason for this, why the anchor we use to find our way back is generally our own body," Raven continued. "Much like the real world and the Astral Plane are two sides of the same coin, body and spirit are always connected. Two halves of a whole. So even if the spirit is on the other side of the universe, it can always find its way back to the body. It will always know where it is, because there is a connection between them that will only cease to exist in death."

"Alright, I understand," Clark said, slowly, getting the concept.

Raven, against all odds, smiled.

"Tell me, Clark, what exactly is the Hand planning to use to revive the dragon?"

"Blood," he said immediately. Then widened his eyes. "Your blood."

"Which still is, even after being removed, a part of me," Raven went on, still grinning. "And with a little bit of luck, maybe I can use the blood the Hand drained from me as a secondary anchor, to find my way out of the Astral Dimension. Not the way back to my body, but the way towards the Lazarus Pit being used to bring the dragon back to life."

Clark was so excited in finally having a lead that he didn't even hesitate: he grabbed Raven and kissed the top of her head.

Her pale cheeks blushed so red that Clark thought she would burst into flames for a second.

"What do you need?" he asked.

Raven, cheeks still burning hot, took a deep breath.

"Pen and paper to make some calculations… And a lab strong enough to withstand a few unintentional and, slightly powerful, explosions."

The Avengers Tower, formerly known as Stark Tower, was probably the best place Raven could have chosen for something like this. If Clark knew Tony, and he did, the Tower probably had several "explosion-proof" places for testing his new suits.

It was time to work.

The first thing Matt noticed when he entered the Scene Contempo Gallery was not the art exhibition itself, not the smell of food and champagne, or all the excited buzzing of the art enthusiasts, but the high amount of armed guards in the place. They were out of the way, carrying concealed weapons, but it was a small army nevertheless.

Fisk clearly wanted to keep this place safe. This place… Or someone in it.

It didn't take long for someone to notice Matt standing still in the middle of the gallery; an obvious blind guy tended to draw attention in an art exhibition, he supposed.

"May I help you?" a female voice asked, as she approached him, her heels resonating in the room at every step.

The same voice he heard spoken in several interviews the last few days, always regarding Wilson Fisk.

Vanessa Marianna, the supposedly girlfriend of Wilson Fisk.

"I hope so," Matt answered, turning in the voice's direction, his movements no longer confident or precise. "Matthew," he introduced himself, raising his hand.

The woman shook it, smiling at him.

"Vanessa," she answered, politely, seemingly as interested in him as he was in her.

Matt could almost taste her curiosity. And at the same time Vanessa discreetly studied him — using the fact that he "evidently" couldn't see what she was doing to be a little more bold than what was considered well-mannered —, Matt studied her, using the full capacity of his enhanced senses to do so.

The first thing he got — after the sound of her elegant and confident voice — was the strength of her hand. Graceful, yes, but firm, as if she used it frequently in her line of work, and if Matt didn't already know, he would've guessed she was an artist of some kind. Her perfume was rich, but delicate to his nose, which spoke of its quality and, of course, its price. Beyond the perfume, Matt could smell the chemical aroma of paint; nothing someone without his gifts would pick up, but he could. Her dress, like the perfume, was clearly of high quality, which showed that she had expensive tastes, but not to the point of being wasteful or too ostentatious.

More importantly, Matt could finally sense the shape of her face, something he couldn't do through the TV. And he could now tell that Vanessa Marianna was a beautiful woman, but not the type of beauty one would see at a fashion show.

This was interesting. It told him that Fisk wasn't keeping Vanessa around to be paraded like a trophy, or that he was the kind of man who needed a piece of "arm candy" to look good in front of the cameras.

Fisk was interested in more than just beauty when it came to this woman.

"You're probably wondering what a man who can't see is doing in an art gallery," Matt finally said, trying to break the ice with a bit of humor.

"I didn't want to be forward…" Vanessa joked back.

He chuckled. "I'm told by my guests that my apartment is a bit stark. I thought maybe some art would warm it up."

"I'm going to go out on a limb and assume this 'guests' were women?"

"Well, I'm not trying to impress the pizza guy," he laughed.

She smiled. "Good. Because you don't need sight to appreciate art, but you do need honesty."

"Sight helps," he had to point out.

"Sure." Vanessa lightly touched his arm, as if asking for permission to guide him. He allowed and they started to walk slowly. "But there is something very intimate in experiencing art through someone else's eyes." She paused. "That's a good line, by the way, you should use it."

Against all odds, he laughed for real this time. "I might."

"So, give me an idea of what you're after," Vanessa asked, stopping in front of a painting.

Not art, Matt thought, but obviously didn't say.

"I am not sure."

"Good… Art isn't furniture. If you knew exactly what you were looking for, you'd be just decorating. Art should speak to you, move you. This one, for example," she said, guiding him closer to a painting. "One of my favorite pieces."

Maybe for the first time since he entered the gallery, Matt actually felt blind. His eyes couldn't work, but for the most part, his enhanced senses more than compensated for that. But there were things that sound, temperature variations and vibrations in the air simply couldn't translate well enough.

The painting in front of him was such a thing.

He knew there was paint on the canvas, he could smell it, and he could to a limited degree sense the directions the brush took when spreading that paint. But the full work, what it looked like, what colors it had… He had no idea. Maybe if he could touch it he could get a sense of it all, but even then a lot of what the artist wanted to convey would be left out.

"Describe it to me," Matt asked, after a moment.

She smiled, staring at it. "Imagine a sea of tonal reds. The color of anger, of rage, but also the color of the heart, of love… Hope. This strikes the perfect balance between the two."

A world on fire, Matt thought, as Vanessa described the painting to him. Something he saw every day without the need of paintings.

"Sounds aggressive," he said, uncertain if he would offend her.

Vanessa, however, didn't seem offended at all.

"All depends on your point of view," she smiled. "Few things are absolute. Fire burns, but it keeps you warm. Such is the complexity of the world. And of art."

Matt didn't know if Vanessa was right or not, and even if the conversation was engaging, he wasn't there to talk about art. He was there to gather information and it was time he focused on that.

"Maybe something a little less challenging," Matt started, trying to get things back on track. "Tell me, do you have a man in your life?"

"Matthew, are you hitting on me?" she asked in mock outrage.

He laughed, nervously, and was quick to deny; the last thing he needed right now was to draw that kind of attention.

"No, I mean, what does he like? What does he respond to? If I can get inside the head of the man who won the heart of such a charming woman, it would inform my decision."

Vanessa smiled, looking behind him.

"Well, you could always ask him yourself."

The moment Vanessa said that, Matt felt his entire body getting cold; he reached out with his senses.

Without turning around, Matt felt Wilson Fisk's approach, his steps heavy and full of certainty, his presence sending danger alarms through his senses, as if a large predator was getting close. The first thing Matt noticed, without a doubt, was the sheer size of the man. Much taller and broader than him, towering above most people in the room as he walked. Fisk was overweight, but Matt could tell by the sound of the fibers that most of his mass was pure muscle; he would be a dangerous opponent in close quarters, Matt knew immediately.

His head was shaved and his expression was serious, closed, not giving anything away as he walked in their direction, his bodyguards following closely.

Matt took a deep breath, still keeping his back to Fisk, feeling his entire body shaking; not in fear, but in anticipation. The man responsible for all this, the one Matt has been fighting all this time, was standing in the same room, getting closer and closer.

How simple would be to finally end it all? To topple the king and give this city a chance to fight back? He wouldn't be there, of course, he probably wouldn't survive for a second after attacking Fisk, but would it really matter if it meant his friends were safe? If Clark could have a chance to make things right without Fisk in the way?

Hundreds of different scenarios went through Matt's mind, as he considered all the possibilities. But before he could make a choice, before he could even move, Vanessa met Fisk halfway and kissed him.

Again, Matt was shocked.

Not because of the public kiss; despite being raised by nuns, Matt was far from being a prude. But because he could feel with his enhanced senses that it wasn't a mere kiss, not a mere gesture. Vanessa Marianna was in love.

In love with the Devil. And unless Fisk could fake the reactions of his own body on the spot, the Devil loved her right back.

He was so stunned by the discovery that a man capable of such evil was also capable of love, that Matt froze in place, every plan he had to assassinate Fisk gone from his mind as if they hadn't existed.

It wasn't as if Matt had never heard about criminals who had loved ones. In fact, most of them had wives, mothers, sons and daughters, people they cared about, that wasn't uncommon. But when he thought of the name "Wilson Fisk", his mind didn't conjure the image of a man, but of a monster.

Because, surely, someone who committed the crimes Fisk committed couldn't be anything else, could it? Someone who decapitated a man with a car door, someone who conspired to kill dozens of people using suicide-bombers, someone who made possible to flood the city with drugs, someone who trafficked people, someone who was allied with Hand and allowed them to do whatever they wanted to whoever they wanted…

He was expecting someone far worse than John Healy — the psychopathic monster that killed himself after giving out Fisk's name —, someone so monstrous that other monsters feared. And in a way he was right, Fisk was a monster.

But even then, he was still capable of love and Matt was not expecting that.

"Wilson Fisk, this is Matt…" Vanessa started, after releasing Fisk.

"Murdock," Matt finished, raising his hand, hoping he wasn't behaving as weirdly as he felt.

Wilson Fisk shook his hand.

"Ah, yes, the attorney," Fisk said, polite, his voice raspy. "I've heard about all your work in Hell's Kitchen."

It was unnerving to hear Fisk say that, but Matt knew ever since he was approached to defend John Healy that they were keeping tabs on his firm; probably to recruit lawyers with potential, he assumed then, and he still hoped that was the case.

"I'm aware of yours as well," Matt answered. Too aware, he added in his mind.

There was an awkward silence.

"Mr. Murdock is thinking of purchasing some art," Vanessa said. She smiled at Fisk. "He was looking for some advice from a man of taste."

Fisk's expression softened.

"Well, that's simple. Buy whatever the lady tells you." Matt faked a laugh, his thoughts still completely scrambled from the shock of meeting Wilson Fisk face to face. "I hope I'm not interrupting," Fisk apologized, looking at Vanessa, "but I just wanted to let you know I have a quick meeting right now. I'll be back soon."

Vanessa smiled at him.

"Go on, then. Mr. Murdock will keep me company until you come back. We still have to find the perfect art for his apartment." She mock whispered: "He wants to impress a female guest."

"Ah!" Fisk exclaimed, knowingly. And, unless Matt's hearing was failing him, somewhat relieved. "In that case, you are better off following her advices. I'm still not certain how I managed this," he pointed at Vanessa and then at him.

"I already told you, you are a man of taste," Vanessa joked, kissing his cheek and grabbing Matt's arm. "Now go, you don't want to be late."

"A pleasure, Mr. Murdock," Fisk said, before leaving with his bodyguards.

Matt was still so dumbfounded by how normal his meeting with Fisk was, that he didn't even try to come up with an excuse to leave before Vanessa dragged him in front of another painting. Maybe he could still find out something of use, he thought, as she began to describe the art piece.

"Did she say anything?" Fisk asked Wesley, as they walked quickly through the corridor of the gallery, going to the small rooftop garden.

"Nothing," Wesley answered, and he looked worried. "This is truly unusual."

It was, Fisk agreed in silence; Madame Gao didn't simply show up whenever she wanted to talk. Even when she wanted to speak in private, there were protocols to be followed, security measures to be taken into account, for both their benefits. The fact that Gao ignored all that and just appeared in Vanessa's gallery asking for a meeting was weird, to say the least.

And troubling. The Hand had not been happy since Nobu died and the cargo he was transporting had been lost, to Superman of all people.

Fisk had no idea what they were transporting that day, and he knew better than to ask, but he was absolutely certain it had value to them; otherwise, Nobu wouldn't be there personally, nor would he have fought to the death to defend it.

Usually, he wouldn't care. It wasn't the first Hand's cargo that his organization facilitated the transport, no questions asked. But whatever it was, the blame for losing it would fall upon someone; and since Nobu was dead, they were inclined to blame him. It wasn't fair, nor it was right, but such were the risks of dealing with powerful people, Fisk knew that.

Gao probably wanted a favor in return, Fisk guessed, as they entered the elevator. Something to compensate the loss of their cargo, and Nobu's loss as well. And as long it wasn't something absurd, for the sake of keeping a good relationship, Fisk was inclined to give it to her.

The elevator opened on the rooftop and they could see the garden on the other end.

"I'll deal with this by myself, Wesley," Fisk said, tapping Wesley's shoulder. "Thank you."

"If you're certain, sir," Wesley nodded, but his expression showed clearly that he didn't agree with his decision.

"I am. It shouldn't take long."

It probably wouldn't, regardless of the outcome.

The elevator closed again and Fisk proceeded by himself, opening the doors to the garden. There were no guards in sight, not his or hers, only Gao, sitting on a bench facing a small fountain. It was a beautiful garden, not too big or opulent, but with bright flowers and a few well-crafted statues; Fisk didn't even register any of that, walking directly towards the smiling old lady.

"I have never seen you, absent your man by your side," Madame Gao said as he arrived, speaking in Mandarin.

"No need for a translator now," Fisk answered, also in perfect Mandarin. "Or pretenses."

She nodded, satisfied, and gestured at the bench. Fisk sat down. There was a long silence.

"There was a snake," Madame Gao started, "in the village where I was raised, who mistook an elephant as prey. It died, with its jaws wide, clenched around no more than the elephant's foot, betrayed by ambition."

Fisk breathed deeply.

"Am I the snake or the elephant?"

Madame Gao just smiled.

"What happened to Nobu was unfortunate," she continued. "As was what happened to Leland." Gao shook her head. "A series of unfortunate events that could cost us much."

She stared at him, and despite their size difference, Fisk was the one who felt small.

"And now I see you out of the shadows, standing proud under the sun."

A metaphor, certainly, but one that explained well his decision. He went from forbidding his own name to be even uttered, to making speeches by the President's side; shadow and light, day and night.

"I had no choice in the matter," Fisk finally said, explaining his decision. "Leland's capture left me in a difficult position. He knows too much. I had to look for other ways to protect my organization." He met her eyes. "Our organizations."

Madame Gao smiled, but her eyes were cold.

"Is that truly the only reason?"

Fisk frowned, confused. She gestured towards the city.

"Do you know why I chose to support you, when you came to me, all those years ago, with a dream for this city? You had potential. A singular mind." Gao lifted a finger, looking at him. "And the strength to do what was necessary to achieve your goals. Even if it meant spilling the blood of your own, as we were forced to do once."

He breathed deeply, unconsciously closing his hand into a fist; he could almost feel the weight of the hammer he used to beat his father to death, when he finally had enough of his abuse towards himself and his deceased mother. A decision that both unmade and made him.

A decision he shared with Madame Gao years ago, when he needed her help to achieve his dream.

"I saw fantastic things in your future, Wilson," Gao said, hitting the ground with her cane. "The chance to not only achieve greatness, but to stand with us, become one of us, as Nobu did so long ago. An honor that is granted to few."

Gao shook her head slowly.

"But you are not the same man who came to me. Your focus, your commitment… You are being pulled in two directions, by longings of the heart."

Fisk felt a rush of anger.

"Is that why we are here? To discuss my private affairs?"

"No. We are here to discuss your fate." Gao looked at him, then spoke again; not in Mandarin, but in English. "I speak your tongue now, so there is no mistaking my words. There is conflict within you."

"Conflict?"

"Man cannot be both savior and oppressor, light and shadow. One has to be sacrificed for the other." He opened his mouth to argue, but Gao lifted her hand, stopping him. "What you did, revealing yourself, tying yourself to this land and its rulers… Safety was not your only concern. You love this city. And you love some of the people in it."

"I have never denied that, or hidden it from you," Fisk countered.

"You have not. But you understood once that sometimes we must destroy something we love, to burn it, so that something better can arise from the ashes. You were prepared to do it once."

"I still am," Fisk said, firmly. "But there are other tools to achieve this task, better tools. The underworld's reach is limited right now, with so many heroes popping up. We have no weapons to fight them, but there is no need to, not if we go above them. The building complex you and Nobu wanted? Now that my political connections are stronger, as is my public image, it won't take long for me to acquire them."

"The buildings are no longer a problem," Gao stated, surprising him. "We already took matters into our own hands."

Fisk did not know that. And it worried him that something like that could have happened without his knowledge.

"Regardless, there are other ways that my connections could benefit us," Fisk went on. "We—"

"You did not do this to protect yourself, Wilson, nor did you do it to gain some advantage," Gao interrupted him. "You did it out of love. No matter how much you deny it, no matter how much you lie to yourself, your 'dream' was never to change the city, to fix it." She stared into his eyes. "It was to be accepted by it. And the people in it."

Gao shook her head once again.

"This is not our way. We do not concern ourselves with the opinion of those beneath us. Cities, countries, empires… They are fleeting. I have seen countless rise and fall. And yet the Hand stands strong."

She sighed.

"This dalliance of yours, this decision to become a 'hero' to the public… They have no meaning. Savior and oppressor, light and shadow… We are past the point of indecision. Choose. And choose wisely."

Fisk stared at Gao for a long time.

"What exactly are you asking of me?"

"Something very precious was stolen from us," Gao said. "Something that is being kept in the Avengers Tower." She looked at him. "We need it back."

It took him a great deal of control not to freeze in surprise.

"And how am I supposed to do that?"

Gao smiled.

"You have a brilliant mind. You have resources. You have an army. Use them."

"To attack the Avengers? Superman?!" he exclaimed, no longer able to contain his shock. "This is insane!"

"No, it is necessary. You were wrong about many things, but not this: the time to hide is over. War is upon us. Soon, we will all be forced to take a side." She met his eyes. "Which side are you on, Wilson?"

There was a long silence.

The suggestion wasn't simply insane, as he previously pointed out, it was outright impossible. The Avengers Tower was the stronghold of some of the most dangerous people on the planet — and at least two very dangerous people that came from other planets. The mere idea of attacking that place was laughable, and even if a miracle occurred, even if he somehow accomplished this impossible task, it wouldn't take long for the attack to be traced back to him.

And if that happened, his life was over; or at least the life he wanted to live, with Vanessa by his side, as they tried to build a better city.

This was something he could not do, a sacrifice he was not willing to make, not after experiencing happiness with the woman he loved. Maybe before all this, maybe if he had never met Vanessa, maybe… But not right now.

"I cannot do this," Fisk finally said.

Gao slowly shook her head, disappointed, but seemingly not surprised.

"Then you have made your choice. I hope you — and yours — do not come to regret it."

Then she looked towards the elevator, the elevator that connected the garden to the art gallery.

The art gallery where Vanessa was.

Fisk didn't even look back, he started running to the elevator, desperate, his heart beating so fast that it hurt.

He couldn't let anything happen to her.

Matt felt what was about to happen before he could even hear it.

The ground shook, the air in the room vibrated, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, reacting to imminent, but still invisible, danger. He stopped, suddenly, blocking out Vanessa's description of yet another painting, as he tried to pinpoint what exactly was happening.

Footsteps, heavy and fast. Desperate breathing. Increased heart rate, bordering on panic. The smell of utter fear.

"VANESSA!" Fisk's voice boomed the moment he arrived in the gallery, pushing the doors with such violence that they crashed against the wall.

Every single person in the gallery turned to look at Fisk, startled. The security guards moved, grabbing their concealed weapons, searching the room for the supposed threat. Vanessa froze, her eyes fixed on Fisk as he ran to her.

Matt's attention, however, wasn't on Fisk; it was on the security guard closest to where he and Vanessa were.

Unlike everyone else, the man wasn't startled at all. His pulse didn't change, his breathing pattern remained the same, the familiar smell of the "fight and flight" hormones was absent. And yet, he was moving towards them, the fiber of his muscles tensing as he reached for his gun.

And his eyes were fixed on Vanessa.

Matt's senses went into overdrive and he felt as if everything slowed down.

Fisk noticed the security guard a split second after he did, realizing what was about to happen; he moved even faster, changing his trajectory to put himself between the guard and Vanessa. Noticing his sudden movement, Vanessa also realized what was going on.

But instead of freezing, instead of trying to jump out of the way or hide, instead of simply screaming in terror, her reaction was to put herself between the assassin and Wilson Fisk.

Matt moved before he even knew what he was doing.

The assassin posing as a security guard completely ignored him, certainly assuming a blind man wouldn't even realize what was happening, much less qualify as a threat to him; so when he moved towards Vanessa — without a doubt his target —, he walked by Matt as if he were a piece of furniture, too busy drawing the gun and walking closer to take a shot to even bother with him.

And at the moment the gun was drawn and pointed at Vanessa, his finger already on the trigger, Matt collided against him.

The hit tossed the assassin to the side, the gun firing in the wrong direction — the bullet missed every person in the galley and hit one of Vanessa's many paintings, the first one she showed him — and before the man could try again, Fisk crashed against him like a truck, sending him down.

The gun went flying, the man hit the ground with a powerful THUD, and the other security guards arrived, pushing him aside as they surrounded the assassin.

Matt very nearly missed all that, his senses suddenly overwhelmed by a powerful and terrible feeling. Not the loud noise of the gun or even all the screaming, not the fear or even the anger emanating from the people in the gallery, but something deeper. Something colder.

Something unnatural.

There was a soundless scream, a piercing and freezing wail coming from the assassin, an indescribable cry that assaulted Matt's very spirit. It took his entire mind, chilling his blood, making him feel a spike of horror of the likes he never felt before. And then a foul presence took over the very room, as if an incorporeal mass of terror left the assassin's body, never to return.

It lasted less than a second. The presence disappeared as if it never existed. The man's heart stopped, as if the life was simply snuffed out of him. It was something unlike anything Matt had ever experienced before.

And yet, no one else seemed to listen or see anything out of the ordinary, as if he had imagined all that. As if Matt had experienced a moment of utter insanity.

The security guards finally noticed that something was wrong with assassin they were restraining and started to call for an ambulance. The guests in the gallery were talking amongst themselves, watching everything unfold with fear and fascination. Sirens were becoming louder and louder as the police vehicles approached the place.

He barely noticed all that, too distracted and distraught by the strange event to really pay attention. But Matt finally noticed he wasn't being ignored anymore when a gigantic presence approached him.

"You…" Fisk said, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes fixed on Matt. "You saved her."

Before he could do anything, the man was hugging him, as if he were a trusted friend instead of a nemesis.

That was, perhaps, the strangest thing to happen that day, Matt thought for a moment, before everyone in the room started to applaud.

"Justice truly is blind: Wilson Fisk and Vanessa Mariana saved by blind lawyer!"

As if they were one, all eyes went from the news channel to Matt, whose only reaction was to sigh.

Clark could barely believe his ears when Matt called him and explained the situation, asking for a meeting in the Avengers Tower. An assassination attempt on Fisk — or, more accurately, on Vanessa Mariana, Fisk's girlfriend —, was already surprising enough. An assassination attempt coming from one of Fisk's own security guards — which he most definitely put there to guard Vanessa because he trusted them — was even more so.

But an assassination attempt that seemed to come from an enthralled man — or, dare he say, possessed man—, was nearly an impossibility.

He didn't doubt Matt, though; someone as skeptical as him wouldn't be saying such things unless he had pretty good reason to. He'd felt something weird going on. Usually, one would be called crazy for this, but they did have experience with unusual things and Matt's senses were nothing to scoff at, even more so when he was trained to use chi to help control them, something that, according to Raven, would make him more susceptible to magical tones around him.

Add to that Natasha's background check on the security guard, that revealed nothing out of the ordinary — no unexplainable money in his accounts, no threats, no grudges, no psychological disorders —, and they had a situation that couldn't be explained by normal means.

But if that was true, if the guard that tried to kill Vanessa was really mind-controlled or possessed, then that meant the Hand was definitely involved.

And there was only one reason Clark could think of for the Hand to turn on Fisk: they no longer needed him.

Which certainly didn't mean anything good for them, not if the Hand was now bold enough to simply discard Fisk and move against him in such an obvious way, in New York, home of the Avengers and, more importantly, one of places under the protection the Sorcerer Supreme.

If that was true, then it probably meant that the Hand was already very close to reviving Ao Shun, if they hadn't already, and they believed they had nothing to fear anymore.

"How the fuck did you explain this?" Jessica exclaimed, her mind clearly thinking about something else entirely. "You're supposed to be blind!"

It was a fair question, Clark admitted in silence. Foggy wouldn't give Matt a moment of peace after this, he was certain.

"I told them I heard the gun being drawn," Matt answered, "and instinct took over." The blind lawyer shrugged. "It's not like I flipped over the assassin and disarmed him with a flying kick, I just rammed into him."

"And saved that fucker's life!" Jessica complained. "We could be celebrating his funeral right now."

"He wasn't the target," Matt said once again. "Vanessa was."

And that was weird. It was almost like the Hand was trying to teach Fisk a lesson, but why would they? Could that be a punishment for what happened at the docks? The misplacement of the Black Sky and the death of Nobu? If so, then why now?

Clark glanced at the "Black Sky" sitting by his side, the girl deep in thought. Around them, Bruce, Natasha and Clint were also in silence, while Jessica bickered with Matt as the news channel told a heavily edited version of the story.

"I'd like to sense what you sensed when the assassin died," Raven asked suddenly, interrupting Jessica and Matt's bickering.

They all turned to look at the girl.

"You mean, read my mind?" Matt asked, finally, clearly bothered by the implications.

"No, read your emotions," Raven clarified. "That should be enough for me to know with what we are dealing with now."

Hesitantly, Matt nodded, getting up.

"What do you need me to do?"

Raven also got up, her black hood on even while they were inside the Tower, and approached.

"Just try to remember the moment," Raven said, lifting both her hands and placing them by the sides of Matt's temples. "Not what actually happened, that's not important, try to remember what you felt back then."

Both of them closed their eyes, focused. Everyone was watching, waiting for something, any sign that Raven was doing what she told she would do. Clark was basically expecting anything, from the flashy Eldritch Magic shenanigans to a simple flicker of lights.

They were all wrong. What they got was a small shiver from Raven when she finally got what she wanted. She opened her eyes, looking at him.

"Possession, without a doubt," she announced. "And as I suspected, the demon's essence is familiar."

There was a moment of silence.

"Oh, shit, don't tell me it's someone in your family," Clint muttered, visibly bothered by the whole thing.

Raven tilted her head, sitting back down.

"Not my family, no, but I suppose you could say it's part of family history," she said.

Apparently, Raven thought it was enough and planned to end the explanation there, but the curious looks everyone was sending her pretty much forced her to continue; she sighed.

"A long time ago, during King Arthur's reign, Morgaine le Fey attacked Camelot with an army of demons. One of the generals of her legions, a being she personally summoned from beyond Agamotto's barrier, was a Demon Lord known as The Beast."

"Well, that's not ominous at all," Bruce mumbled, furiously cleaning his glasses.

Clark was forced to agree with Bruce, regarding both the "Demon Lord" part, and "The Beast" part. Neither sounded particularly nice. Oblivious to that, Raven went on.

Or at least tried to.

"Merlin—"

"Your nephew," Clint piped up. Matt and Jessica did a double take, visibly as shocked as the rest of them to learn that.

"Yes, my nephew Merlin," Raven continued, annoyed, "summoned another Demon Lord to help them fight off Morgaine's forces." She hesitated for a moment. "His demonic half-brother, Etrigan."

There were a few seconds of silence.

"So, a demonic second nephew?" Clint said, slowly.

Raven's glare shut him up.

"It was far from easy, but Arthur and his knights, Merlin and Etrigan managed to defeat Morgaine le Fey and destroy her army, and for a long time The Beast was presumed to be destroyed or, at the very least, banished." She shook her head. "He was not. Somehow, he managed to fake his own death and stay in our world, for centuries. At some point, I assume he was either summoned or approached the Hand of his own volition, because even in Azarath we had heard of this ancient alliance."

No one said anything for a while, thinking about the implications of everything Raven said.

"So the security guard," Matt spoke, hesitantly, "was being possessed by this… Beast?"

"Either by him or, more likely, by one of his minions, a lesser demon. Your senses are not exactly attuned to catch the nuances, so I cannot tell exactly, but if it weren't The Beast, then it was one of his servants. The essence was too familiar, so they must have come from the same dimension."

Clint groaned; Natasha gave him a few gentle, if a little bit cheeky, pats on the back.

"So you're telling me we had a guy called 'The Beast' walking around on Earth all this time?" Clint finally asked. "How are we still alive?"

That was also a fair question, Clark admitted.

Raven shrugged. "Not all demons can or even want to conquer universes. Some are happy to lay low, influence things from afar and feast quietly on the chaos they create. The Beast, regardless of his power, is such a demon. I suppose a biologist would classify his relationship with the Hand as some kind of twisted mutualism. The Beast provides the Hand with power, knowledge, soldiers and maybe even longevity. In return, the demon accepts sacrifices and feeds on the suffering of their victims. Win-win situation."

Except for all those who crossed their path, Clark added in his mind. He wondered if all those people in Pyramiden, the ones Natasha's old friend in the Russian mob had told them about, were victims of this demon.

According to Sergei's story, the entire town was somehow forced to dig the dragon's tomb and then forced to attack Sergei and his men, unarmed, ignoring pain, fear and death, not unlike a zombie horde from the movies. He assumed, then, that they had to be mind-controlled somehow.

But what if they weren't? What if all those people were possessed? Either by The Beast or by his demonic minions?

Every time he learned something about the Hand, they got worse. Suddenly, it wasn't just a dragon being brought to life that he had to worry about; now they had a Demon Lord possessing people in broad daylight.

He looked at Raven.

"How long until we can find the dragon?" Clark asked her, worried.

She sighed and shook her head. "I will need at least one more day, maybe two. As you know, the concoction I brewed to force my astral self to ignore my body and search for the blood taken from me is still… Not working that well."

Understatement of the millennium, Clark thought without saying anything; he was pretty sure that if Tony's lab wasn't reinforced to withstand his own suit's technical mishaps, they would've brought down that section of the building when the potion exploded out of nowhere, not even a few hours after Raven started her experiments.

It was a good thing he reacted fast. And also a good thing that he could use his own body as a shield.

It was advisable to let Raven work in peace.

"Alright," Clark sighed. "Okay, don't rush it, but try to stabilize the potion as fast as possible, please." Raven nodded. "Bruce, could you…?"

"Of course, I'll go with her," Bruce said, immediately, incredibly interested in what she was doing. Differently from Clark, Bruce was actually fascinated by magic.

"And Raven, don't forget to—"

"Use the Mirror Dimension to contain any damage, I know," she finished before he could, already leaving the room with Bruce.

"Does this have anything to do with the building shaking in the afternoon?" Natasha asked when they were gone, looking at Clark with a single eyebrow raised.

"No…" Her unamused glare hit him full force, so Clark decided to change the subject. "Hey, Natasha, I know it's far-fetched, but did Fisk say anything to the cops about this whole thing?"

"No. I sent my own people to talk to him and it was a big waste of time. He doesn't know why something like this would happen, he doesn't have any enemies, no one threatened him or Vanessa, yadda yadda yadda." Natasha shrugged. "Nothing we didn't already expect, but…"

"Frustrating nonetheless," Clark agreed.

"Anyway, I have some people watching him from afar, we'll see if something happens," she said. "Give me a call if you need anything or if Raven finishes her experiments. The sooner we find that dragon, the better."

That was something all of them could agree on. Natasha and Clint left, and Jessica was soon to follow.

"Well, as fun as it was to see 'Blind Lee' here almost fuck everything up," Jessica said, grabbing her things, "I got shit to do. Clark, I'm sending you the bill for this later."

"Bill?"

"Overtime pay, of course. It's already nighttime," Jessica explained, entering the elevator and pressing the button.

"What? No, I'm not paying for—" The elevator closed. Clark sighed. "I'm not paying for that."

He wasn't sure if he was talking to Matt or himself, but since the blind vigilante didn't answer, he might as well be talking to a wall. Clark turned to look at the oddly silent lawyer, still sitting down, still lazily caressing the painting he brought with him: a mix of different tones of red, with no discernable shape or form.

And a single gunshot mark in the middle, probably the same one intended for Vanessa.

"Got something from the art exhibition, after all?" he asked, startling a very distracted Matt.

"A gift," Matt answered after a second. "Vanessa gave it to me when I refused a reward."

"That was nice of her."

"Hmm." He stayed in silent for a minute, then turned to Clark. "I was not expecting… Well, any of that."

Clark grabbed a chair and sat closer to him.

"You mean the assassination attempt? Or the demon?"

"All of those too, but…" He sighed. "I went there expecting to meet the Devil himself." Matt looked at Clark, his red lenses reflecting everything. "Instead I found a man in love. Someone willing to die for a person he cared about, someone that had the person he loves willing to die for him."

It was Clark's turn to sigh. He suspected Matt had gone to the art exhibition for more than just information gathering. He didn't believe Matt would try to kill Fisk, at least not like that and not at that moment, but he would be a fool to think that the thought had never crossed Matt's mind.

Matt went there for information, yes, but he also went to meet the man who destroyed so many innocent lives — including of people they knew and cared about — and, at least metaphorically, look him in the eyes.

He went there to meet the Devil, to prepare himself for something he might be forced to do, but Clark knew better than anyone that things were rarely black and white.

"Few things are absolute, Matt," Clark started. He smiled at the strangely fitting example that crossed his mind. "They say even the Devil was once an angel."

Matt chuckled. "She said the same thing. Vanessa," he explained, tapping the painting.

"Well, I guess she would know," Clark said, "otherwise, she wouldn't love Fisk. And he wouldn't love her back."

"I still can't believe that a man capable of doing the things he did can feel love. Or anything, for that matter," Matt admitted. "It just doesn't seem possible."

Clark couldn't blame him. From what they knew about Fisk's crimes, both committed and allowed by him, it hardly seemed they were dealing with a human being, someone capable of feeling emotions, of empathizing with people.

But reality tended to be far more complex.

"The fact that Fisk committed horrific crimes doesn't make him incapable of love or even doing things that we would consider good," Clark said, finally, trying to put what he learned working as Superman into words. He tilted his head. "Of course, the fact that he loves someone, even so deeply that he would die for her, doesn't erase his crimes. Especially when he never showed remorse, any intention of stop or even attempted to fix the bad things he did... At least the fixable ones. That's why we're doing all we can to stop him."

"You think a man like him could repent?" Matt asked, brusquely. "Atone for his crimes?"

"If he truly wanted to? And I don't mean just saying it or even just regretting what he did, I mean truly work to fix what he could, willingly pay for his crimes — for the rest of his life, if need be — and dedicate himself to become a better person, to help others… Yeah, I believe so. I believe anyone could become a force for good. It's a pity very few are actually willing to do what it takes."

Lots of criminals claimed they wanted to "be good" after being caught, but almost none truly worked for that. Being "good" wasn't easy, it took effort, it took dedication, and it was far too simple to just let it go, especially after the person already did a lot of wrong.

But Clark truly believed it was worth it.

Was is it Fisk's case? No, at least not right now. Maybe Fisk would rethink his life choices once they arrested him, maybe Vanessa was the very thing he needed to take a turn for the better. But as of right now Fisk was, despite his love for Vanessa, a very evil man. And he needed to be stopped.

And Clark was beginning to think that Matt had found out a good way for him to try.

He looked at Matt. "What can you tell me about Vanessa?"

Matt raised a single eyebrow.

"What do you mean you cannot find them?" Fisk asked, gruffly, his hand almost crushing the small cellphone.

"I can't reach any of them," Wesley answered, not even bothering to hide his agitation. "It's like they disappeared, alongside with their families."

Fisk closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. Vanessa, standing by his side in his luxurious penthouse, was trying to hide her concern, but it was easy to see that she was trying to be strong for his sake. Behind her, the immense windows showed the night sky, New York shining in the dark.

None of this was supposed to happen.

He promised Vanessa that he would take care of her, that by his side she would never have to fear anything. And now, he couldn't even contact most of his men, his soldiers for lack of a better term. Fisk had no illusions: it was pretty clear that they, like the security guard earlier that day, had simply turned on him.

Because of the Hand.

That was not a decision taken out of their own free will, of that Fisk was certain. He knew everything about the men working for him, their personalities, their weaknesses, their vices and their strengths; none of them, whether by fear of him, greed or loyalty, would turn on him like that, not without signs, not out of nowhere.

The Hand had, somehow, got to them. They had the means to do things that Fisk couldn't explain, things that he was happy to ignore when they were allies, but that were being used against him right now.

Gao, it seemed, had asked for his men as a courtesy, because they were already hers. And now she was using his own men against him.

"What about those outside the continent?" Fisk asked, trying to find a way to protect Vanessa.

"I'm still trying to contact them, but—"

"Wilson," Vanessa called.

"— so far I have nothing, sir."

"Wilson!" Vanessa called again and he looked at her for a moment, trying to convey with gestures that he would talk to her in a second.

"Keep trying, Wesley, and—"

"WILSON!"

This time, Fisk turned fast, fearing an attack, readying himself for a fight, expecting anything. Well, almost anything.

He did not expect to see Superman floating outside his windows, as if waiting to get in.

There was a moment of complete silence, as he and Vanessa stared at Superman, frozen.

"I'll call you back," Fisk said to Wesley, and without waiting for an answer, hung up.

Sparing him one last flabbergasted look, Vanessa hurried forward to open the window; Fisk didn't try to stop her. If Superman wanted to get in, it wouldn't be a bit of glass that would stand in his way. With shaking hands, she finally managed to unlock the window and, with a gracious but, at least for her, strangely timid gesture, she ushered Superman inside.

The alien hovered slowly — and politely, if there even was such a thing —, maybe not to startle them, and finally got in. There was another long silence.

Fisk honestly didn't see this coming. Of all the things he could expect at the end of that disastrous day, Superman standing in the middle of his penthouse was not even on the list. And yet, it had the potential to be the worst of them, depending on his reason to be there.

For a long minute, all he and Vanessa could do was stare.

"Good evening," Superman said, breaking the silence, "Mr. Fisk, Miss Marianna."

As if his voice kickstarted his brain back into work, Fisk walked to him, standing on Vanessa's side to greet the unexpected guest.

"Superman, it is an honor to have you here," Fisk said, slowly. "And a surprise. Are you here because of what happened this afternoon?"

It was, in fact, the only reason Fisk could think for Superman to be there.

"You could say so," Superman answered.

And didn't say anything else.

"Well, I must thank you for the kindness, then," he said, glancing at Vanessa. "It was a blessing that no one was hurt during that unfortunate event." There was a pause. "I, of course, have already told the police everything I know about—"

"Let me stop you, before you lie to me," Superman interrupted, raising his hand, his blue eyes hard.

Fisk felt his blood turn cold. "Lie? I'm afraid I don't unders—"

"I know what you have been doing. I know about all the crimes you've committed. I know you are the leader behind an international criminal organization." He stared deep into Fisk's eyes. "I know about the Hand and how they turned on you."

The only reaction Fisk had was to close his hand harder around Vanessa's, but internally, he was very nearly panicking. How could this have happened? He opened his mouth to deny everything, but Superman stopped him again.

"I'm not here to trick you into a confession, so don't bother denying what we both know is the truth," Superman said. "I'm here to tell you what's going to happen." He stopped, still staring unblinking at Fisk's eyes. "I don't know why the Hand turned on you, but they did. The man that tried to shoot Miss Marianna was possessed by a demon allied to the Hand. That is the kind of people you're facing right now. Not just criminals, but a cult with access to horrors you can't even begin to imagine. You probably know that better than I do."

Vanessa looked at him when Superman started to talk about demons, probably expecting him to laugh or to contradict him; he didn't. He couldn't. As much as he tried to ignore the unexplainable things the Hand could do, he knew they were real, even if he couldn't name them properly.

So he held Superman's stare, as Vanessa paled, simply holding her hand tighter to give her some much needed comfort.

"That's the kind of people you brought to the city you claim to love," Superman went on, his voice hard. "And now that they're here, they no longer need you." He looked at Vanessa. "They failed today. But sooner or later they won't."

This time, Fisk felt his blood boil. Without thinking, he stepped forward, closing the distance to Superman.

"Do not threaten her!" he growled, the fury barely contained in his voice.

Any person with a shred of self-preservation would have cowered before his rage, Fisk knew it, he had seen it before, many times. Superman didn't even flinch. Instead, he too stepped forward, his unblinking eyes still staring at him.

Fisk had never felt smaller.

Not because of Superman's size — as big as he was, Fisk was still a gigantic man —, but because of the sheer aura of power he emanated. This wasn't someone Fisk could intimidate, someone he could fight or ever hope to hurt.

This was an alien god that could end him with a snap of his fingers. And at that moment, Fisk truly understood what that meant.

"I'm not you," Superman finally said, his voice powerful enough to shake the windows, his eyes still unblinking. "I do not threaten or hurt innocents. And despite being here, by your side, this is what Miss Marianna is. But the Hand doesn't care. I will protect her, and even you, to the best of my ability, but they will not stop. Sooner or later, they will be successful. If the Hand isn't stopped, Vanessa will die. Deep down, you have to know that."

He did. By god, he did. Fisk didn't want to admit, to show weakness, but the truth was he couldn't face the Hand. It was already barely possible back when he had an army, and it was impossible now that he hadn't.

But he still didn't say anything, he just held Vanessa's hand even tighter.

"You don't know which of your men you can trust," Superman continued, "you have nothing to counter their dark arts, you don't even know what to expect." He pointed towards the night sky. "The Hand has a living weapon, a creature beyond anything that what we have already seen. And when that creature is unleashed, soon, this city will be caught in the crossfire. People will die." He looked at Vanessa again and Fisk felt her and shaking. "If the Hand has its way, you both will too."

He turned back to Fisk.

"Help me to bring them down," Superman said. "Give me what you have on them, tell me where they are, and we can end this before anyone else gets hurt."

There was another long silence.

Fisk's mind was working faster than ever before, trying to analyze Superman's request and everything that it entailed. He didn't know anything about any weapon or creature powerful enough to damage the city, but he knew more than even Gao realized about the Hand's operations; in his line of business, information was more often than not, a matter of life and death.

People that worked for them, storages containing weapons and money, places where they made drugs, transportation routes… Maybe not enough to bring them down for good, as Superman said, but enough to force them out of New York, at least for the time being.

But if he accepted the deal, if he shared what he knew, then Superman would bring him down alongside with the Hand, he had no doubt. If he revealed he knew all that, it would be as good as a confession, and not even his new "friends" in the government would be able to help him.

Superman clearly knew more than Fisk ever wanted him to know, but if he had proof, they wouldn't be talking in his penthouse, they would be talking inside a prison cell. The fact that they weren't was telling.

Fisk looked at Vanessa. Would it matter, though? Why would he care about going to prison if Vanessa was safe?

The moment he opened his mouth to accept the deal, however, Vanessa spoke:

"I think you should leave, Superman," she said, politely, but firmly.

Superman turned to her, studying her face for a few long seconds. He didn't look surprised at all by her intervention, Fisk noticed.

Just disappointed.

"If any of you changes your mind or need help, give me a yell," Superman said, going towards the window, his red cape fluttering behind him. "I hope I can arrive in time."

Saying this, he flew out, disappearing in the night with a powerful sonic boom.

Fisk let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Then he looked at Vanessa.

"It was a good deal," he said, simply.

"Not if we are apart," she answered, then hugged him for a long time. Eventually, Vanessa stepped back and looked in his eyes. "What he said, about this 'Hand', is it true? Demons, living weapons… Is that even possible?"

In silence, Fisk nodded.

"You said once that I wouldn't have to fear anything if I stood by your side," Vanessa said. "Did you mean it?"

'With all my heart," Fisk answered, truthfully. "But this enemy… Vanessa, I don't know if I can win. I don't have the numbers or the strength to go against them. Alone, I'm…"

Before he could finish, a thought crossed his mind: but what if he wasn't alone? What if instead of looking at this situation as the boss of a criminal organization, he looked at it as a victim? Compared to the Hand's forces, and given that Gao took his men from him, it wasn't that far from the truth.

What if he did what every person in need of help did these days?

Vanessa smiled when she realized he had a plan. He kissed her and grabbed his phone, moving towards the elevator, so he could speak privately from his office underground, without any meddling flying aliens listening to everything he said.

Fisk only hoped this would work.

Jim "Old Man" Davis was drunk.

This wasn't an extraordinary event, of course, he was usually drunk — living in the streets of New York wasn't easy —, but it was worth mentioning because he was "just drunk" and not hammered to the point of being unable to walk.

He had a job, after all.

It was a weird job, true, but how many homeless men could say they got paid 500 bucks up front, cash, for something not illegal? Nothing to do with drugs, prostitution, theft or anything that could bring Superman or that Devil guy on his head?

Well, Jim had no idea, but not many, he supposed.

It looked too good to be true, he wouldn't lie, but hey, 500 bucks was 500 bucks and Jim needed the cash, so fuck it, he thought. He listened to the instructions from the shady guy who went to him, took the money, took a bus to the address written on the note and stopped right in front of the abandoned building.

He considered just not doing any of that shit, sure, he got paid up front after all, but the man was very clear that if he did this right, there would be more and Jim liked the idea of more easy money, so why not? It wasn't like the job would be hard.

All he had to do was yell what was written on the note the man gave him.

Jim had no fucking idea why someone would pay him for that. Maybe it was a prank? Or maybe someone was recording him to put on the internet for laughs? Honestly, he just didn't give a shit. So he took the note from his tattered coat, scratched his long, tangled beard, and faced the seemingly empty building.

Then he took a deep breath and yelled:

"HELP, THE HAND IS HERE! THE HAND IS HERE! HELP!"

The few people in the street looked at him as if he were crazy and hurried to get away from him; Jim couldn't exactly blame them for it. Others — probably those who considered themselves at a safe distance from the drunk hobo — just pointed and laughed at him.

And for a minute, nothing else happened.

Until, suddenly, the abandoned building main door — locked with a long chain — opened with a bang, and a bunch of angry Chinese guys came out.

"Oh, fuck, I knew this was a bad idea," Jim exclaimed, turning to run away before he got beat up.

Why the hell did he think this was a good idea? Oh, yes, money. And the booze, of course. Never a good combination.

Before he could even walk five steps, though, there was a loud booming noise up in the sky. The clouds parted and a blue and red blur descended.

Superman landed between him and the angry Chinese guys, and he did it with such power that the ground shook, sending everyone around down. Jim fell with all the grace of a drunk pig, sprawled on the sidewalk, one of his old shoes flying from his foot all the way to the middle of the street.

When he finally managed to get up, dizzy, confused, and almost puking the cheap vodka he called breakfast, Jim froze at the sight in front of him.

"Holy fuckin' shit," he summarized, eyes wide.

In the few seconds he took to get up, Superman had not only beat to unconsciousness all the Chinese guys, but also tied them up to a nearby light pole with the same chain they used to lock the door.

And now he was looking right at him.

"Sir, you were the one who called, right?" he asked and Jim nodded, fast, unwilling to antagonize the super powerful alien. "Stay there, please, I'll speak with you in a second."

Saying this, he blurred again, tearing to pieces the heavy door to the building as he entered.

Jim couldn't have left even if he was brave enough to disobey him, completely frozen in place as he heard the screams, gunshots and clashes going on inside the place, as Superman kicked everybody's asses.

Yep, the easy money really was too good to be true, Jim thought, hoping he wouldn't join the pile of beaten up Chinese guys for some reason.

He was beginning to think he should've charged more.

Clark was honestly impressed with Fisk's ingenuity, even if he couldn't help but to feel a little annoyed at being used. He had found a way to relay everything he knew about the Hand — weapon's storages, drug labs, warehouses full of their people, offices and so on — without tying himself to the crimes committed in any way, thus making it impossible to use that evidence against him.

Homeless people yelling to alert him in front of Hand's warehouses, abandoned stereo systems playing recorded messages loudly, loudspeakers blaring information throughout the city, kids shouting that they had letters to him…

The day after Clark spoke to Fisk and Vanessa had been busy, as he flew over the city from one point to another, gathering these little tidbits of information and using it to find and disrupt the Hand's operations all over New York. He tried, every time, to link these messages to Fisk, using everything he had — interviewing the people who called from him, using street cameras' footage, searching for fingerprints on the letters, even using Jarvis' satellites images —, but there simply wasn't a trail to follow, or, if there was, it ended before getting anywhere important.

But given the situation they were facing, Clark didn't mind all that much.

The amount of information Fisk gave him about the Hand was immense. The Hand might have more resources than they could imagine, but there was simply no way to recover from such a blow immediately. Clark, using Fisk's tips, had crippled the Hand's hold in New York in little more than a day; the dragon remained lost, sure, but Raven was working on that.

No matter how they achieved that, it was a victory; Jessica, of course, thought differently.

"So you're Fisk's bitch now?" she said, after he explained what was going on, as they walked through the corridors of the Avengers Tower. "He say 'jump' you say 'how high'?"

Clark sighed, rolling his eyes.

"You do realize he's using you to clean house, right?" Jessica went on. "To send the Hand away from New York so he can take it back. You know that, right?"

"I know that," Clark answered, tired. "But it doesn't matter right now. I need information to fight the Hand and he's giving me that information. I don't care if he thinks he'll profit from this, after we're done with the Hand, it's Fisk's turn." He shrugged. "Until then, we'll do it his way."

Her disdainful scoff told Clark what exactly Jessica thought about everything he said.

"Whatever," Jessica finally said. They entered the elevator. "So, if you're more than happy to be an attack dog for that fat asshole, what am I doing here?"

"Because Raven told me she finally did it," Clark answered, happily. "The potion to help us find the dragon."

She stared at him for a long time, then sighed.

"A demon girl brewed a potion so we can find a dragon… Things just got worse and worse after I got an alien as my neighbor."

Clark just laughed.

Soon enough, the unusually fast elevator stopped and opened its doors, so Clark and Jessica could continue to the reinforced laboratory Raven had requested for her experiments. And just like he expected, there she was, alongside Bruce, Natasha, Clint and Matt, waiting for them.

"You did it!" Clark congratulated her, happy.

Raven gave him an almost imperceptible smile.

"We'll know for sure soon enough."

"As long as we don't have any more explosions," Natasha warned.

"It should be stable," Bruce explained. "There weren't any other… incidents. Or at least not any worth mentioning."

He and Raven shared a look that pretty much confirmed that there were other incidents worth mentioning, but pursuing that thought wouldn't get them anywhere now. They had done it, Raven had done it, and now they had a way to finally find Ao Shun's remains and put a stop to his resurrection.

"So what's the plan?" Clark asked, looking at Raven. "How does this work?"

Not answering immediately, Raven raised the flask full of a truly heinous liquid, an almost black potion that seemed to move by itself inside the container. Clark had helped Raven get the ingredients for that, the ones Tony's lab didn't already have — or any normal lab, really —, and he knew with absolute certainty that he wouldn't want to drink that.

No one would, not unless there was someone out there who enjoyed minced pieces of rare slugs, powdered poisonous bugs and the blood of an underwater snake that Clark had to dive pretty deep in the ocean to find.

He pitied Raven's poor taste buds for what was about to happen.

"The potion is meant to numb my astral senses," Raven explained, "so that I won't automatically search for the strongest pull, my body. That way, I'll have the chance to actually look for any other anchor calling me, no matter how faint that call might be."

"Your blood," Clark guessed.

She nodded. "The blood being used to revive the dragon. Hopefully, if it works, I will be able to guide you there." Raven looked around, to the people in the lab. "The Hand will use everything they have to make sure the ritual isn't stopped, so I advise you to prepare yourselves to fight before I drink this."

There was a moment of silence.

"You heard the girl," Natasha said, meeting their eyes. "Suit up."

Following the advice, they all started to check their equipment. Truth be told, most of them were ready. Clark's suit was stored in Kelex and in less than a second he was already wearing it; Jessica, like him, was dressed in hers, the Thanagarian mace Sif gave her already in her hands. Natasha and Clint both were checking their arsenal, wearing their battle attires as well, and Bruce was simply watching them, already wearing his highly stretchy pants like he always did, in case he turned into the Big Guy.

Raven and Matt, not unlike Bruce, were simply waiting, she wearing the black jacket Natasha gave her — the hood on, like always — and Matt dressed in his normal suit, about to put on his mask.

Before he could, however, Natasha tossed him a suitcase.

"Mr. Potter has a gift for you," she said, simply, as Matt grabbed the suitcase before it could hit him.

Confused, he opened it; his eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"Wow, that's a lot of red," Jessica mentioned, going closer to snoop. "And what the hell are those? Ears? Is this a dig at your vision, like he's calling you a 'Man-Bat' or something?"

"They're horns," Matt said, his hand feeling the inside of the suitcase. He grinned. "Devil horns."

Saying this, he lifted the red-horned helmet he was holding; Clark finally understood what they were talking about. Melvin Potter had designed a protective suit for Matt. A suit made of Chitauri fabric, light and tough, with a pair of metallic billy clubs that Clark knew would be deadly in Matt's hands.

And a mask with Devil horns that he certainly designed with the title "Devil of Hell's Kitchen" in mind.

"It should be bullet proof," Natasha explained as she made sure her pistols were loaded, "but try not to get shot."

"A sound advice for anyone at any point of their lives," Clint agreed, doublechecking his bow and arrows.

"I agree," Clark said, tossing something to Raven. "Here, this one is for you."

Frowning, Raven examined the object Clark threw at her, touching the "S" symbol in the middle as she did it; with a gasp of surprise, the girl shuddered as the Liquid Geo of the black skinsuit slithered over her extremely pale skin, disappearing under her long black jacket.

When it was over, Raven glared at him.

"I know, I know," Clark hurried to say, raising his hands, "you can take care of yourself. But please, for my sake, wear this."

Raven looked as if she wanted to argue, but with a deep breath, she changed her mind; she looked around.

"Everyone ready?" Raven asked, grabbing the potion flask. They all nodded.

Without any hesitation, she opened the flask and downed the whole thing in one go.

Clark was by her side in the blink of an eye, holding her when her legs faltered, but despite that one moment of weakness, Raven stood her ground, shaking her head quickly, maybe to distract herself from the effects — or the taste — of the potion. Then, slowly, she sat down, cross-legged, closing her eyes.

"Azarath Metrion Zinthos," Raven whispered.

And as soon as she did, her astral form left her, hovering above her own body, like a ghost.

An entirely black ghost, not much different from a living shadow.

She looked at him.

"Shall we?" Raven asked, her voice sounding different, as she disappeared through the walls as if they weren't there.

"I'll warn you as soon as we find something," Clark said, looking at the people in the lab.

With one last look to everyone else, he took off, flying through the windows after her.

The last time Clark had flown alongside a friend, it was during the battle against Malekith, and he hardly had the time to enjoy Thor's company as they fought the Dark Elf throughout the Nine Realms. This time, despite the urgency of their search, he managed to appreciate a lot more, even if his flight companion was actually in astral form.

They soared through the skies of New York, parting the white clouds, zigzagging amongst the buildings as Raven followed her senses. And before long, they stopped mid-flight, when she pointed to an isolated warehouse on the outskirts of the city.

A warehouse that Clark couldn't see through or hear anything inside.

With a nod of confirmation, they both descended, right through the roof of the warehouse. Raven, intangible as she was in her astral form, went past it without so much as feeling it; Clark, however, entered the place with a loud crash, landing like a meteorite right in the middle.

As soon as he did, it was like his senses started to work again, almost as if the magic preventing him from using them had been dispelled. Except, that the only thing to see there, was the absolutely huge hole in the ground, not unlike the deep tunnel in Pyramiden that led to Ao Shun's tomb.

He shared a look with Raven, but before any of them could say anything, a voice startled them.

"I was beginning to wonder if you would find this place before the completion of the ritual."

Quickly, both he and Raven turned to the direction of the voice. There was an old Asian lady looking at them, small, a cane in her hands, seemingly as non-threateningly as one could be; except if you actually knew who that was, and Clark believed — by the description Sergei, Vladimir and Leland gave him — that he did.

Madame Gao, one of the leaders of the Hand.

"She's not really here," Raven said, her voice monotonous. "It's an astral projection."

Now that Clark noticed, Raven was right; he couldn't hear or see anything that indicated he was dealing with a physical body.

"Not unlike yours, Black Sky," Madame Gao confirmed with a smile. "Like you, I also have other places to be." She turned to Clark. "Welcome, Kal-El. It is a pleasure to finally meet my adversary. It will be an honor to finally cross swords with you."

"Madame Gao, I presume," Clark spoke, facing her. "Leader of the Hand."

"Merely one of them. But even I answer to others," she said, glancing down the hole.

"Ao Shun," Clark presumed.

"And Trigon," Raven added, a slight snarl in her usual emotionless tone. "You are a fool for thinking there is anything to be gained from dealing with him."

"I disagree, Black Sky," Madame Gao said, still smiling. "I think there is a lot to be gained. My home, for instance."

"If you think Trigon will honor this deal, you are crazy. He is pure Evil. If you help him to cross into this world, everything is doomed, K'un-Lun included. You think he will spare the Heavenly Cities once he finds a way through Agamotto's barrier?"

"I think Trigon wants something a lot more than he wants the Heavenly Cities, something he would gladly trade for it: you." Gao walked closer, her astral steps making no sound. "He wants his daughter, a Princess to rule by his side."

Madame Gao raised her hand.

"Come with us, Black Sky. Fulfil your destiny. Become who you are meant to be. Rule this world by your Father's side as it is foretold."

Shocked to his core by this turn of events, Clark looked at Raven, searching for any clues to what she was thinking; to his surprise, it was pretty clear. Gone was the mask of calmness and in its place was something else.

Raw fury.

"Never!" Raven roared, and even though the voice came from her astral form, the place trembled.

Slowly, Gao's hand fell.

"Then you leave me no choice but to take you to your Father." She pointed her cane to the tunnel leading down. "The ritual cannot be stopped, not anymore. Ao Shun will rise again. And when he does, we will begin the war to take this world."

She turned to Clark and smiled again; a cold, malevolent smile.

"Starting by taking back what you stole from us: Black Sky."

Clark met her stare, unflinching.

"Over my dead body."

"And your companions' bodies as well, I suppose," Gao agreed. "The Siege of the Avengers Tower began the moment you two arrived here." Clark felt his blood turn cold. "You have made your choice, Black Sky. Blood will be spilled."

Madame Gao smiled again, then disappeared completely.

Clark blurred to where she had previously been, but there was no sign of her; she was, most likely, leading the assault to the Avengers Tower back inside her real body. He met Raven's eyes and saw fear in them.

"Go back to the tower," Clark told Raven. "Warn everybody of what's coming. I'll—"

A loud roar made the ground quake; pieces of the warehouse's roof fell down and the walls cracked.

"Warn them, activate the defenses, and be careful!" Clark urgently ordered after a few seconds of shock, looking to the tunnel where the terrible noises were coming from. "I'll deal with that and meet you there."

"Okay," Raven replied, her voice almost inaudible.

"And Raven?" He blurred and stopped right in front of her, his hands almost touching her intangible face; he stared into her eyes. "You are stronger than you know. Both here," he pointed at her heart, "and here," and then at her temple. "Never forget that."

Raven closed her eyes for a moment and then nodded, this time full of determination.

"I won't."

Then her astral form vanished.

Without wasting any more time, Clark jumped down the hole, flying as fast as he could through the long tunnel until he finally reached the bottom. Everything was shaking, the stone was splitting open and the noise was terrifyingly loud.

But nothing could compare to the shock he felt when he saw what was down there.

It wasn't a tomb or a hole filled with bones, it was an immense Lazarus Pit, not unlike the one the Ancient One showed him, but much larger. Instead of being simply a well or a pool, this one seemed to be an enormous underground lake, spreading in all directions, deep and much wider than the warehouse or the entire land where it was built.

And it all glowed in a sickly, radioactive toned, green.

The waters were not calm. Like the warehouse far above them, they were shaking, waves colliding against the walls, like a sea during a storm. Something under it was moving, disturbing the green water, so much that the small island where Clark landed was almost being flooded.

It wasn't the green waters or the violent shaking that left Clark stunned, however: it was the feeling of absolute Evil emanating from them.

He could feel it hitting him in waves, almost as if Evil itself had become tangible, almost as if he could touch it with his bare his hands; which didn't make any sense, of course, but it didn't mean it wasn't happening. Clark felt sick and he had to stop himself from retching as the truly repulsive energy reached him.

Trigon's power, Clark knew instinctively. A mere fraction of it, coming from the rift opened by Raven's blood.

Was this what Raven fought against every second of every day? Was this what meant to be a Black Sky? Clark was dizzy, nauseated, almost suffocated by a mere sliver of that power; how could Raven keep her sanity?

He had no idea, but now wasn't the time to find out. Ao Shun was rising, the Hand was attacking the Avengers Tower, and they wouldn't stop at anything until Raven was captured again. And until she used her powers to bring Trigon, to bring this foul power, fully into their world.

Clark couldn't let that happen.

Digging his feet into the ground, Clark gathered all his power and felt his eyes burn; and without any more delay, he unleashed his heat vision against the stone ceiling of the underground lake.

The energy beams obliterated everything in their path, causing a cave in, dropping tons and tons of stone over the Lazarus Pit. Everything began to fall apart, the noise taking the entire place, the chunks of rock burying that unholy place so that nothing could ever leave.

When he saw that there was no stopping the avalanche, Superman took off, flying fast towards the sky, breaking any and all rocks in his path as he abandoned the Lazarus Pit and arrived in the sky.

Finally, he stopped, taking a deep breath, feeling his head lighter as the energy of the Pit disappeared under a mountain of rocks.

Clark watched as the warehouse itself collapsed, the ground under it giving in and disappearing in the sinkhole. The loud noise covered everything else, and more and more sections of the land fell.

Until there was silence.

Carefully, Clark landed again, using his enhanced vision to see through the rocks, so he could make sure everything was covered and nothing could leave that place ever again. He stopped, completely motionless, trying to hear even the softest sounds, smell the faintest of scents, feel the slightest movements.

There was nothing.

He sighed, feeling relief fill his entire body, relief that the Evil under his feet was buried forever.

It was at that moment that the ground shook violently and unexpectedly; and faster than he could even ready himself, the earth itself parted and a massive, a titanic black and green dragon flew to the sky, roaring so loudly that Clark flinched.

And before he could follow, before he could even think about doing anything, a blast of cold — frostier than anything he ever felt before — hit him straight in the face, freezing his limbs, encasing him into a mountain of pure ice.

Ao Shun, the Dragon King of Winter, was alive once again.

Hey guys, how are you doing?

As usual, I miscalculated the length of the chapter. I know I promised that the action would happen in this one (and a little bit did, to be fair), but it ended up becoming too big and I decided to separate it. This time, without a doubt (because I already began to write it), it will be in the next one. It will close the Daredevil Arc.

Anyway, I planned to release this a lot sooner, but my dog got sick. He got real bad out of nowhere, and we found out he had a tumor inside his chest. It made him fill up with fluids, which had to be drained every couple of days, and I was pretty much living in the vet with him all this time.

Unfortunately, despite my hope that we could actually have a few more months with him, my dog passed away, and I was just tired. Not the first dog I lost and it won't be the last, but fuck if it doesn't hurt like a bitch.

I hope you are all doing well and I hope you like the chapter. Next one will be action packed and then I'll begin Avenger Goddess again. See ya!