In the MCU/Marvel with the Omnitrix/Ultimatrix

Wilson Fisk pov:

I stand at my office window, watching the city lights emerge as evening settles over New York. My reflection shows the same imposing figure I've cultivated for decades - the Kingpin, feared and respected in equal measure.

Yet my thoughts drift to changes I've kept hidden from all but perhaps Vanessa.

When I first encountered Samael, it was pure calculation. A powerful enhanced individual, young enough to be molded, desperate enough to accept our elaborate cover story.

I remember analyzing every angle, seeing the perfect opportunity to legitimize certain aspects of my empire while maintaining iron control over others.

The adoption story was crafted with precision - every detail, every document, every witness account carefully orchestrated.

I expected to maintain professional distance, to treat him as another asset, albeit a valuable one.

I didn't expect the small moments to affect me. Like when in the later parts of our arrangement he first called me 'father' without thinking - not during a public appearance or planned interaction, but while excitedly explaining some scientific theory to me over breakfast.

The way he caught himself afterward, embarrassed by the slip, not realizing I had to turn away to compose my expression.

Or the time he fell asleep during a security briefing, exhausted from three straight days of hero work. I found myself adjusting his collar, an unconscious gesture I hadn't planned or calculated. Vanessa caught me, but said nothing - her knowing smile said enough.

These little instances... they weren't meant to be part of the arrangement. They weren't calculated risks or strategic moves. They were just... moments. Real ones.

They began accumulating, these unplanned moments. The way he'd bring coffee to my office during late meetings - prepared exactly how I like it, a detail I never told him but he noticed anyway.

His habit of leaving scientific journals open to articles he thought would interest me, sticky notes marking specific passages with comments in his messy handwriting.

I remember the first time I genuinely laughed during one of our strategy sessions - not the calculated chuckle I use for business, but real amusement at his quick wit.

It caught us both off guard. For a moment, we weren't Kingpin and hero, just... father and son sharing a joke.

These changes weren't dramatic. No sudden revelations or profound transformations. Just quiet shifts, small adjustments in how we operated around each other.

The way our conversations began extending beyond necessary briefings, drifting into discussions of literature, art, his studies.

Even now, watching the city below, I find myself noting potential threats not just to my operations, but to his patrol routes.

Calculating risks not only to my empire but to his safety. These aren't strategic considerations anymore - they're... paternal instincts I never expected to develop.

I recall the evening he returned from a particularly difficult mission, exhausted but successful.

Instead of retiring to his quarters, he sat in my office while I worked, quietly completing assignments from his private tutors.

A necessary arrangement - public school would interfere with his hero work, and appearances must be maintained. But this moment wasn't about appearances. He could have studied anywhere, yet chose to share this quiet space.

Vanessa noticed these changes first. "He's good for you," she said one evening, watching me adjust security protocols to better accommodate his activities.

Not optimize them for my benefit, but genuinely protect him. I didn't respond, but she understood anyway. She always does.

The criminal empire I've built remains. I am still the Kingpin, still maintain control through carefully measured fear and power.

But now there are considerations I never had before. When reports came in about one of my lower lieutenants dealing near schools, I found myself personally investigating when perhaps long ago I would have overlooked it.

Not because it threatened operations - for I dislike dealing in the too heinous of crimes, for it draws the attention of the truly just ones, who will never back down till they ruin you - but because I couldn't bear to see that particular shame in his eyes.

These thoughts aren't ones I share. They don't fit the image I've spent decades crafting. Yet here I stand, watching the city lights and thinking not of profit margins or power plays, but of whether he's eaten properly today.

Whether the weight he carries - of universes and responsibilities and powers beyond mortal understanding - is too heavy for his young shoulders.

I am not a good man. I never claimed to be. But somehow, without planning or calculating, I've become something I never expected:

A father who worries.

The sound of the elevator draws my attention - Samael, still moving stiffly from Thor's "gentle intervention." He doesn't immediately notice me, lost in his own thoughts as he heads toward his usual chair in my office. When did I start thinking of it as his chair?

"You should be resting," I say, maintaining my usual measured tone despite the concern I feel.

"Probably," he agrees, sinking into the chair. "But the Esoterica kept trying to start healing rituals in my room. Something about sacred crystals and divine energy alignment..."

I hide my amusement, remembering how our unexpected religious guests have adapted to his preferences for subtlety - mostly by being extremely obvious about their attempts at subtlety.

"They mean well," I observe, though privately I've found their devotion useful in unexpected ways. Their ability to appear anywhere makes certain security concerns... manageable.

"They're exhausting," he mutters, but there's no real heat in it. "Almost as exhausting as people who think knocking someone out is an acceptable form of intervention."

I turn fully from the window now, studying him. The weight he carried earlier seems lighter, but not gone. Never completely gone.

"Thor's methods were... direct," I acknowledge. "Though perhaps necessary, given the circumstances."

He looks up at me then, those red eyes carrying questions he won't ask. About choices and consequences, about power and responsibility. About a father who runs a criminal empire while his son plays hero.

We don't discuss these things. We never have. But sometimes, in moments like this...

"The tutors left your physics assessment," I say instead, gesturing to the folder on my desk. A safe topic, a return to our usual dynamic. "Though given recent events, perhaps it can wait."

"No," he straightens slightly, reaching for the folder. "Normal is... normal would be good right now."

I find myself settling into my own chair, watching as he starts working through equations. These quiet moments have become our own kind of normal, unplanned but welcome.

"Your calculations on quantum entanglement are improving," I note, catching sight of his previous work. "Though perhaps influenced by recent... practical experiences."

He almost smiles at that. Almost.

"The private tutors are still afraid of you, you know," he comments, not looking up from his work. "They think you'll have them disappeared if my grades slip - which is impossible, since I'm a genius, but still, they worry.."

"An effective motivational tool," I reply dryly, though we both know I wouldn't. Not anymore. Not for something so trivial.

The city continues its evening dance below us, criminals and heroes playing their parts. A report sits on my desk about a new operation, highly profitable but requiring minimal oversight from my subordinates private actions - for I know they possess not the required elements.

It is truly the kind of opportunity I would have immediately seized not long ago.

"The Esoterica want to add a study room to their... meditation space," he mentions casually, still focused on his equations. "Something about 'proper surroundings for their lord's mortal education.'"

"And what did you tell them?"

"That if they try to bless my textbooks again, I'm banning incense for a month."

I allow myself a small smile, hidden as I turn to the window. As I put away the report.

Some things, I'm learning, are worth more than profit.

Even if I'll never say it aloud.

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(Author note: Hello everyone! I hope you all enjoyed it!

I believe it was high time to see once more through the eyes of Wilson Fisk.

So tell me, how did you find his perspective?

Did you like it?

Did you hate it?

I'm interested in reading your opinions.

So yeah, I hope to see you all later,

Bye!)