MARVEL'S BIG VILLAIN

Boom!

Jason Todd's scalp was numb, his facial muscles tensed, and his back drenched in sweat.

After freezing for a few seconds, he forced a smirk. "Boss, your joke is too much. In the entire New York underworld, who doesn't know Vanessa is your woman? Even with ten lives, I wouldn't dare."

"Really." Wilson Fisk—better known as Kingpin—spoke with his usual calculated calm. "Then explain why, on the third day after I left New York, you and Vanessa shared a candlelight dinner at the Gramercy English Restaurant?"

"On the fourth day, you strolled down Fifth Avenue, admiring a Jean-Michel Basquiat exhibit at the MoMA."

"On the fifth day, you visited Vanessa's penthouse, showed off your supposed mastery of Szechuan cuisine, and gifted her a box of her favorite Vosges Haut-Chocolat."

Kingpin's tone was even—devoid of emotion—but every word struck Jason like a bullet from Deadshot's wrist cannons.

Jason swore to God he had covered his tracks. He took every precaution.

Disguises—sunglasses, hats, surgical masks—layered like Bruce Wayne's contingency plans.

No personal vehicles. Strictly cash transactions. No digital trail.

It should have been airtight. But somehow, Fisk knew everything.

Jason's heartbeat quickened. His grip tightened around his burner phone.

"Today, you spent the afternoon in Vanessa's apartment," Fisk continued. "Tell me, Jason, how does it feel to lie in my bed with my woman?"

For a moment, the crushing weight of Fisk's words disappeared. Jason saw through it now.

There was no way out—no negotiation, no second chance.

Just like when the Joker had cornered him in that warehouse with a crowbar, there were only two options: fight or die.

Jason burst into laughter—raw, almost deranged. "You really wanna know, Fisk?" His chuckling subsided, and he whispered into the receiver, "The answer is... sleeping with your woman? It feels phenomenal."

Boom!

A deafening crash erupted from the other end of the line—no doubt Fisk had just flipped his massive oak desk.

"FUCK YOU, JASON!" Kingpin roared like a caged rhino from Kraven's trophy room.

Jason smirked, picturing Fisk's hulking frame quivering with rage, his face twisted in fury, like when Spider-Man had humiliated him in public.

"Oh, and Fisk," Jason added. "Vanessa told me you're not exactly... impressive in bed. Said you're like a nervous teenager on prom night."

Silence.

Then—

"YOU'RE DEAD! YOU HEAR ME?! YOU'RE FUCKING DEAD!"

Jason had only ever heard Fisk this furious once before—the night Daredevil exposed his operations to the feds.

The last guy who pissed him off this much got his skull caved in by a car door.

But Jason? Jason wasn't afraid. He grinned, pouring gasoline on the fire. "Well, Fisk, I'm still breathing. If you think you can kill me over the radio, be my guest."

More crashing noises. The sound of something—possibly Fisk's chair—shattering against the wall.

Then, Fisk's voice, seething yet controlled: "Don't worry, Jason. I've already sent Brother Vladimir to deal with you."

Jason's eyes narrowed. He sprinted to the window and yanked it open.

Down below, five black Chevrolet Suburbans screeched to a halt.

Doors burst open. Two dozen armed men spilled into the street, all clad in tactical gear, their AK-47s reflecting the glow of a nearby neon sign.

The Russian Mafia. The Bratva. Vladimir Ranskahov's personal death squad.

Fisk's laughter returned, deep and mocking. "Now run, little bird. Run fast, before Vladimir finds you."

Jason exhaled. "Fuck you, Fisk." He hurled his Nokia phone at the wall.

CRACK!

The legendary indestructible phone shattered into pieces, leaving a dent in the concrete.

[Ding! Mission Triggered: Escape from the Russian Mafia.]

[Mission Reward: 500 Villain Points.]

Jason sneered. "Great timing." He bolted toward the bedroom.

Fisk had stalled him on purpose, feeding his own rage while buying time for his men to arrive.

The bastard was smarter than people gave him credit for—more Lex Luthor than Bane. And Jason had played right into his hands.

In the bedroom, he shed his bathrobe and yanked on his tactical pants.

"Wow," Vanessa murmured from the bed, watching him dress. "I could stare at you forever."

Jason's body was a battlefield—broad shoulders, hardened abs, and a web of scars telling stories of past fights.

Gunshot wounds from a firefight with Deadshot. Blade scars courtesy of Deathstroke. The jagged burn from Firefly's flamethrower.

Vanessa traced one absentmindedly. "I love listening to you talk about them."

"Not now," Jason snapped, pulling on his Kevlar-reinforced jacket. "Fisk knows. His guys are here."

Vanessa paled. "What?!"

No time for questions. Jason grabbed the mattress and heaved it aside. Vanessa tumbled onto the floor, tangled in the sheets.

"FUCK YOU, JASON!" she shrieked, rubbing her head.

Her voice died when Jason pulled a Benelli M4 Super 90 shotgun from the hidden compartment beneath the bed.

Her breath hitched. "Jesus Christ."

Jason ignored her, running a quick inventory check.

Colt M4A1 Carbine – One. Loaded.

Beretta M9 Pistols – Two. Holstered.

MK3A2 Grenades – Two. Armed.

SOV-3000 Full-Protection Body Armor – One.

80m High-Tensile Descender Rope – Packed.

Black Tactical Travel Bag – Stuffed.

He strapped on his bulletproof vest—three layers of ceramic plating. Level IV protection. Could stop armor-piercing rounds.

Jason's face remained unreadable, but Vanessa? She was shaken.

Her fingers trembled as she realized—just hours ago, she had spent the afternoon lying on a grenade.

"Lunatics," she muttered. "You're all lunatics."

Jason loaded the shotgun with a sharp clack-clack and slung the carbine over his shoulder.

Vanessa threw the sheets aside, wrapping herself in a silk robe. Barefoot, she hurried toward the exit.

She wasn't dumb—she knew Fisk's men wouldn't touch her.

She was his woman, after all.

Jason, however?

Jason was a dead man walking.

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