Marvel: Familia System

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Frank Martin walked the polished marble corridors of the skyscraper, his footsteps echoing lightly against the cold, sterile walls. The lights overhead cast a stark, almost clinical glow, a sharp contrast to the dark deeds that transpired within these walls. He was headed to the top floor, the pinnacle of power in Hell's Kitchen—the office of Wilson Fisk, known to most as Kingpin.

It had been a year since Frank had been summoned to this world by Nero, a year of climbing from the lowest ranks as an errand man, enduring the grind that had shaped him into a trusted figure within Kingpin's organization. Bullseye, Fisk's notorious right-hand man, had taken notice of Frank's efficiency, his ruthlessness, and gradually, so had Fisk himself. Now, Frank was on the cusp of something more, something greater than just another faceless enforcer in the criminal empire.

As he reached the double doors of Fisk's office, Frank paused, hearing the muffled sounds of violence from within. The door wasn't completely closed, and through the slight gap, he could see the scene unfolding inside. The scent of blood was thick in the air, mingling with the expensive cologne that Fisk favored.

With a steady hand, Frank pushed the door open and stepped inside. The office was a stark contrast to the violence it housed—elegantly furnished with leather chairs, a massive oak desk, and walls lined with expensive artwork. But the centerpiece of the room was Fisk himself, standing over a crumpled figure on the floor.

Wilson Fisk, a towering man of immense size and strength, was in the midst of delivering a brutal beating. His fists, enormous and unforgiving, rained down on the unfortunate Russian, who lay bleeding and broken at his feet. Each strike landed with a sickening thud, the sound of flesh and bone giving way under Fisk's relentless assault.

Bullseye leaned casually against the far wall, his arms crossed, watching the scene with a dispassionate gaze. His presence was as sharp and lethal as the blades he so expertly wielded, but for now, he seemed content to let Fisk work out his rage on the hapless man.

Frank stepped further into the room, his expression unreadable as he took in the scene. He'd seen violence before, plenty of it, but there was something particularly savage about Fisk when he was in one of his rages. The Russian on the floor had clearly crossed a line, and now he was paying the price.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Fisk paused, his chest heaving with exertion. The Russian, barely recognizable, let out a weak, gurgling groan, his body twitching involuntarily. Fisk stared down at his handiwork, his face a mask of cold fury.

"Frank," Fisk said without turning around, his voice deep and gravelly. There was a calmness to it now, as if the violence had purged the anger from his system. "I assume you have news?"

Frank stepped forward as he addressed Fisk. "The shipment from the docks was intercepted. Only half of it made it through. The rest was taken by Kira."

Fisk's head snapped up, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as the name left Frank's lips. "The King of Hell?" he spat, his voice a low growl. The title hung in the air, heavy with disdain. The very idea that another could claim to be a king in his domain, in Hell's Kitchen, was an insult Fisk couldn't stomach.

Bullseye's expression remained impassive, but there was a glint of interest in his eyes as he watched Fisk's reaction. The name Kira had been circulating through the underworld, whispered with fear and curiosity. But in Fisk's territory, there was only room for one ruler, and Fisk wasn't about to let some upstart challenge his reign.

"He's been hitting our operations hard," Frank continued, his tone professional, devoid of any emotion. "He's careful, but his strikes are precise. It's not just about taking the shipments—it's about sending a message."

Fisk's massive fists clenched, his knuckles turning white as he processed the information. "A message," he repeated, his voice laced with venom. "What does he want?"

Frank met Fisk's gaze evenly. "To undermine your power. He's targeting your revenue streams, cutting into your influence. If this continues, it won't just be about the money—it'll be about control."

Bullseye uncrossed his arms, pushing off from the wall with a smooth motion. "Sounds like he's picking a fight, boss," he said, his voice casual but with an edge of anticipation. "Maybe it's time we sent a message of our own."

Fisk's eyes flickered with anger, but beneath the fury was a cold, calculating mind at work. He was no stranger to challenges, and he knew that dealing with Kira would require more than brute force. This was a battle for dominance, for the soul of Hell's Kitchen, and Fisk intended to win.

"He's made a mistake," Fisk rumbled, his voice low but filled with dangerous resolve. "He thinks he can take what's mine and walk away unscathed. But he'll learn, just like all the others before him."

Bullseye's grin widened, the prospect of a fight clearly appealing to him. "You want me to pay him a visit?" he asked, his tone eager, as if already imagining the violence to come.

Fisk considered the offer for a moment, then shook his head. "

Fisk considered the offer for a moment, then shook his head. "No. I need you on the next delivery," he said, his voice a deep rumble that left no room for argument.

Bullseye raised an eyebrow but didn't protest. He knew better than to question Fisk's decisions, especially when the boss was in one of his moods. Instead, he simply nodded and stepped back, his eagerness to spill blood momentarily curbed.

Fisk turned his attention to Frank, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied him. There was something about Frank that had always bothered Fisk—an instinct, a feeling that he couldn't quite pin down. Frank was good at what he did, one hell of a transporter, but there was a cold precision to him that set Fisk on edge. Despite Frank's proven efficiency, Fisk couldn't shake the nagging doubt in the back of his mind.

"Frank," Fisk said, his voice low and measured, "I want you to handle the transportation personally. This delivery is critical, and I can't afford any more setbacks."

Frank nodded, his expression neutral. "Consider it done," he replied, his tone as flat as always. There was no emotion, no hint of the thoughts that might be running through his mind. Just a calm, professional acceptance of the task at hand.

But underneath that calm exterior, Frank was far from ordinary. In the year since he had been summoned by Nero, he had trained relentlessly, honing his skills to a razor's edge. Though he was just a normal human in his original world, here he had nearly mastered two types of Haki—skills that made him far more dangerous than Fisk could ever suspect. And Nero had gifted him another power, one that Frank wielded with the same precision he brought to everything he did. If he wanted to, Frank could end both Fisk and Bullseye in seconds, but that wasn't part of the plan.

Fisk's gaze shifted to the large screen on the wall, where footage from a recent battle replayed. The scene was chaotic—military forces clashing, explosions rocking the landscape. But in the midst of it all, an old man stood out, moving with a fluid grace that belied his age. Nigel, a man Frank had trained with when he was first summoned, now back on the battlefield.

Fisk's eyes narrowed further as he watched Nigel fight. The old man was well known in certain circles, especially among those who had dealings with the Principe family. "The dog of the Principe family is back," Fisk muttered, his voice filled with recognition and contempt. "I feel like this Kira is somehow connected to him."

Bullseye, who had been watching the screen with mild interest, now turned to Fisk, surprise flickering across his features. "Nigel and Kira? One's a hero, the other's a villain. Are you sure?"

Fisk didn't answer immediately, his mind working through the possibilities. The idea seemed far-fetched, but Fisk had learned long ago not to dismiss any connection, no matter how unlikely it seemed. In his world, alliances could be as fluid as they were dangerous, and it paid to be cautious.

"We don't deal in certainties, Bullseye," Fisk finally said, his voice steady. "We deal in possibilities. And if there's even a chance that Kira and Nigel are connected, we need to be prepared."

Bullseye's grin widened as he considered the challenge ahead. "Like I said, let me deal with this Kira. I'll find out everything he knows, and then some. Frank's the best transporter we've got—he'll get the job done, no matter what. He's proven it before."

Fisk was about to object, his instincts urging caution, but something in Bullseye's confidence made him pause. He stared at the assassin for a moment, weighing his options. After a brief silence, he nodded. "I'll contact the Assassin's Guild to assist you. Candra owes me a favor. Use her resources, but don't underestimate this Kira."

Bullseye's eyes gleamed with anticipation, the prospect of hunting down Kira clearly exhilarating for him. "Got it, boss," he said, giving Fisk a nod before turning to leave.

Frank, standing by with his usual stoic expression, simply nodded as well. He exited the office without a word, but as he walked down the corridor, he subtly pressed a button on his suit, making sure no one noticed the movement.

Bullseye wasted no time. As soon as he was out of Fisk's office, he was on the move, making his way through the labyrinth of Hell's Kitchen with the precision of a predator on the hunt. He thrived in this environment, the dark alleys and shadowy corners were his domain. He had a target now, and that was all he needed.

The first place he headed was an old bar on the outskirts of the neighborhood, a seedy dive where information flowed freely for those who knew how to ask the right questions—and had the right amount of cash to back them up. Bullseye had frequented the place enough to know that the bartender, a grizzled man with a perpetual scowl, was well-connected to the underworld's grapevine.

Bullseye slid onto a barstool, casually tossing a wad of bills on the counter. The bartender eyed the money, then Bullseye, before silently pocketing the cash. He didn't need to be told what Bullseye was after; the assassin's reputation preceded him.

"I'm looking for Kira," Bullseye said, his tone devoid of any pretense. He didn't need to threaten or intimidate; the weight of his presence was enough.

The bartender grunted, wiping down the counter with a rag that looked like it had seen better days. "Not many folks know much about him. Keeps to the shadows. But word is, he's got a safe house near the docks. No one's dumb enough to go looking for it, though."

Bullseye smirked, taking in the information. "Where near the docks?"

The bartender shrugged, but there was a flicker of fear in his eyes. "Last I heard, it's somewhere in the old warehouse district. Abandoned, mostly. But Kira's been moving around a lot. Hard to pin down."

Bullseye nodded, sliding off the stool and heading for the door. The bartender watched him go, relief washing over his face once Bullseye was out of sight. He knew the assassin was dangerous, but even more so when he had a target in his sights.

The old warehouse district was a maze of decaying buildings and rusted shipping containers, the perfect place for someone like Kira to set up shop. Bullseye moved through the area with the confidence of a man who knew he was in his element. The streets were quiet, deserted, save for the occasional distant hum of traffic from the main roads.

He checked each building with methodical precision, moving swiftly but cautiously. Bullseye was aware that Kira wasn't someone to be underestimated. If the man was smart enough to stay off Fisk's radar until now, he wouldn't make it easy for anyone trying to track him down.

After a couple of hours of searching, Bullseye came across a warehouse that stood out from the rest. It was in slightly better condition, the windows intact, the door reinforced. He could sense the subtle signs of recent activity—the faint impression of footprints in the dirt outside, a slight scuff mark on the doorframe where someone had brushed past.

Bullseye's grin returned as he approached the door, drawing a small throwing knife from his belt. He flicked it casually, embedding it in the lock with precision. The mechanism clicked, and the door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit interior.

Inside, the warehouse was sparsely furnished, with only a few crates stacked against the walls and a table in the center of the room. A faint light flickered from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting long shadows across the concrete floor.

Bullseye's eyes scanned the room, his senses on high alert. He could feel the tension in the air, the unmistakable presence of someone else. He moved silently, his steps barely making a sound as he circled the room, looking for any signs of Kira.

A voice echoed in Bullseye's mind, cautioning him. The Assassin's Guild's reinforcements, sent by Candra, should have already arrived. He hesitated for a split second, weighing the warning against his confidence in his own abilities. But Bullseye wasn't the type to back down, especially when a challenge was involved. Ignoring the voice, he pushed forward, deeper into the warehouse.

As he turned a corner, he stumbled upon a grim scene—a room filled with charred bodies, their forms barely recognizable. The stench of burnt flesh hung heavily in the air. These were Candra's men, he realized, their lives snuffed out in a blaze of fire that had consumed everything in its path.

Bullseye's instincts screamed at him to retreat, but before he could react, a sharp pain exploded in the back of his head. His vision blurred, and then everything went black.

In his office, Wilson Fisk sat behind his desk, his eyes glued to the screen as he watched footage of Nigel's battle for what must have been the hundredth time. The old man's skill was mesmerizing, a stark reminder of the kind of threats lurking in the shadows of his empire. But Fisk's thoughts were interrupted by a soft chime—an incoming message on his phone.

Fisk's brow furrowed as he picked up the device. A message from Bullseye? Unusual. He opened it, expecting a quick update, but what he saw made his blood run cold.

The image was brutal. Bullseye hung from the ceiling by his hands, suspended over a small, flickering circle of fire that slowly burned him alive. Behind him, the charred bodies of Candra's assassins lay scattered like discarded dolls. The scene was a nightmare brought to life, a chilling display of raw power and ruthless precision.

And then there was the message:

Thanks for the gift. And now I am coming for you.

Fisk's grip tightened on the phone, his knuckles turning white as he stared at the screen. His mind raced, trying to process what this meant. Bullseye, his most trusted enforcer, had been taken down—no, humiliated. And the message was clear: whoever this Kira was, he wasn't just another player in the game. He was coming for Fisk, and he was coming with fire.

The Kingpin of Hell's Kitchen felt a rare pang of unease, a sensation he hadn't experienced in years. But he quickly buried it beneath a wave of cold fury. He wasn't about to be cowed by some upstart with a death wish.

Fisk slammed his fist down on the desk, the impact shaking the heavy oak surface. His mind was already working on a response, a way to turn this attack around, to show this Kira exactly what it meant to challenge Wilson Fisk.

But for the first time in a long time, there was a flicker of doubt. Who was this Kira? And what would it take to stop him?

Fisk couldn't afford to underestimate this enemy. He would need to be smarter, more ruthless than ever. Because in Hell's Kitchen, there could only be one King, and Fisk was determined to make sure that title remained his.

Fisk deleted the draft he had written, opting instead to send a message to another contact. Just as he clicked the "send" button, a sudden feeling of unease washed over him. He turned, his eyes widening in shock as he saw a figure hovering outside the window, suspended in the air by flames that erupted from his hands and feet. Kira.

For a brief second, Fisk was frozen, his mind racing to comprehend the sight before him. Then, without warning, a massive spray of fire slammed into the window, causing the reinforced glass to tremble under the intense heat. Fisk's heart skipped a beat, relief flooding him as the glass held firm, but the threat was far from over. He reached for his cane, preparing for whatever was about to come next.

"Kira!" Fisk bellowed, his voice carrying both fury and a hint of desperation.

On the other side of the glass, Kira grinned wickedly, the flames around him intensifying. The fire grew hotter, fiercer, and the once-strong glass began to soften and warp, slowly melting under the relentless assault.

At that moment, Frank burst into the office, taking in the scene with a swift, practiced gaze. His eyes narrowed as he saw the glass buckling, ready to give way under the heat. "Boss!" he shouted, sprinting towards Fisk without hesitation.

Just as the glass shattered, exploding inward in a shower of molten fragments, Frank reached Fisk, throwing himself over the massive man's body. The force of the explosion sent a wave of searing heat and shards of glass across the room, but Frank's body shielded Fisk from the worst of it.

His other hand, steady and precise, drew his pistol in a fluid motion, taking aim at Kira, who was now hovering just inside the shattered window. Without missing a beat, Frank fired a single shot, the bullet whizzing through the air with deadly accuracy.

Kira's grin faltered as he twisted in mid-air, narrowly avoiding the bullet. The shot had been so precise that it grazed his shoulder, drawing a thin line of blood. Frank didn't pause; he fired again, each shot calculated, each bullet aimed to limit Kira's movements and push him back from Fisk.

Kira retaliated, flames roaring to life around him as he launched a torrent of fire directly at Frank. The heat was intense, the air around it shimmering with the sheer force of the attack. But Frank was undeterred. His movements were sharp, controlled—he sidestepped the flames with a speed that belied his size, his pistol barking with every dodge.

Another bullet clipped Kira's arm, forcing him to retreat slightly. Frank pressed the advantage, his shots forcing Kira to constantly adjust his position, preventing him from launching a sustained attack. The room was a cacophony of gunfire and roaring flames, but Frank's focus never wavered. Each bullet was aimed not to kill, but to destabilize, to throw Kira off balance and keep him on the defensive.

When Fisk's men burst into the office, their weapons aimed squarely at Kira, the intruder didn't flinch. He stood amidst the broken glass and swirling flames, his gaze locked on Fisk, who was still crouched behind Frank's protective form.

Kira's voice cut through the chaos, cold and commanding. "There is only one King, Wilson Fisk. Either vanish to somewhere I can't find you, or await your inevitable death."

The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy with menace. Kira then launched himself out of the shattered window, disappearing into the night sky as quickly as he had arrived, leaving behind only the lingering scent of smoke and the tense silence of those he had just threatened.

Fisk slowly rose to his feet, his massive frame shaking with barely contained rage. His hands tightened around the head of his cane until his knuckles turned white, his mind already racing with thoughts of retribution. He turned to Frank, who was still positioned between him and the broken window, his back scorched and peppered with molten glass.

The sight of Frank's injuries, the torn and burned fabric of his suit fused with the blistered skin beneath, did nothing to cool Fisk's temper. If anything, it fueled the fury that was quickly building inside him. He clenched his jaw, staring at the man who had just saved his life.

Frank, sensing the weight of Fisk's gaze, straightened slowly, suppressing any signs of pain. He met Fisk's eyes with the same calm detachment he always displayed, showing no indication that the injuries he had sustained were affecting him.

Fisk's voice, when he finally spoke, was a low, dangerous rumble. "Get him out of here and find a doctor."

One of the men stepped forward hesitantly, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of handling someone who had just taken a blast of molten glass for their boss. But he nodded quickly, signaling two others to help him as they carefully lifted Frank, trying not to aggravate his wounds further.

As they carried Frank out of the room, Fisk remained where he stood, his eyes still fixed on the broken window, the last place he had seen Kira. The thought of someone—anyone—challenging his authority in Hell's Kitchen was intolerable. But for someone to do so with such blatant disregard, to injure his people and threaten his life, was an affront he would not let stand.

Fisk turned to the remaining men in the room, his expression hard. "I want every resource we have dedicated to finding him. No one challenges the Kingpin and walks away. Am I clear?"

The men nodded quickly, the intensity in Fisk's voice leaving no room for doubt. As they moved to carry out his orders, Fisk added, "And from now on, Frank's words are my words. No one is to disobey him."

The men paused, taking in the significance of Fisk's decree. Frank, who had just shielded their boss from certain death, was now elevated to a position of unquestioned authority.

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