In Marvel with the Force?

The room was cloaked in shadow, heavy curtains blocking most of the sunlight save for a few thin beams that slashed across the polished surface of a long table. Figures sat scattered along its length, their identities obscured by masks, hoods, or strategic positioning in the dim light.

Each exuded a distinct air of authority—bosses, overlords, and puppet masters of New York's underworld. Tension crackled in the room, a palpable force threatening to snap.

A sharp voice broke the silence, its tone clipped and irritated. "This has gone far enough."

Heads turned toward the speaker, a lean figure dressed in a tailored suit, a metallic mask covering half their face. They leaned forward, their fingers drumming against the table. "The so-called Violet Wolf has been dismantling our operations piece by piece for months. Smuggling routes disrupted. Safehouses compromised. Revenue streams gutted."

Another figure, their voice deep and gravelly, growled in response. "You're not the only one feeling the heat. My people are too scared to move after dark. They whisper about him like he's a damn ghost."

"Ghosts don't break bones," a third voice interjected with a dark chuckle. "He's not supernatural—he's methodical. He's turning fear into a weapon, and he's using it against us."

A woman seated near the end of the table finally spoke, her tone cold and calculating. "Fear is useful when we control it. Right now, he's wielding it against us, and it's working. The longer this continues, the harder it'll be to reclaim the streets."

"Exactly," said the masked figure at the center of the table. They sat upright, their presence commanding despite the obscured light. "He's cost us too much already. We need a solution."

A ripple of agreement passed through the room, though the atmosphere remained tense.

"Solutions," sneered a figure lounging near the corner. They spoke with a sharp, mocking tone. "We wouldn't need one if some of you had handled this mess earlier."

The gravelly voice growled in response, low and threatening. "Careful, or you'll find yourself needing a solution."

The mocking figure shrugged, unbothered. "Say what you want, but facts are facts. This vigilante isn't playing by the rules. He doesn't care whose operations he's dismantling. He's going after all of us."

"Enough," snapped another figure, their tone sharp enough to cut through the building argument. "If we keep bickering, he'll take us down one by one."

"Agreed," said the calculating woman. "What do we know about him?"

"Too little," admitted the figure in the metallic mask. "He's careful. Leaves no trace of his identity. No slip-ups, no patterns we can exploit. He's not just a brawler—he's a tactician."

Another figure spoke, their voice almost amused. "A tactician? Please. He's a vigilante with a hero complex. Take away his tools, and he'll crumble."

"Underestimating him is why we're here," the gravelly voice countered. "He's not a street thug. He's something else."

The conversation shifted, the tension thickening as they debated their next move.

"We need precision," the calculating woman finally said. "The usual muscle won't cut it. We need someone who can think like him, someone who can anticipate his moves."

"Someone who can kill him," added the gravelly voice bluntly.

The masked figure at the center of the table leaned forward, their hands steepled. "I've already taken steps to address this problem. Resources are being pooled, and a... candidate is being considered."

Whispers rippled through the room, curiosity and skepticism mingling in equal measure.

"A candidate?" the mocking figure asked, their tone laced with doubt. "And who, exactly, are you considering?"

The masked figure didn't answer right away, letting the question hang in the air. Finally, they said, "Someone uniquely qualified to deal with this... Violet Wolf. Let's leave it at that for now."

"Vague as always," muttered the mocking figure.

The meeting adjourned with no more specifics, but the tone was clear: the Violet Wolf was no longer just a problem for individual factions. He was now the unified target of New York's criminal elite.

As the figures filed out one by one, a heavy silence settled over the room. The masked figure at the center remained seated, their fingers drumming rhythmically against the table.

In the stillness, they muttered to themselves, their voice cold and certain.

"You've had your victories, Wolf. Let's see how long they last."