The rooftop was quiet again.
Just minutes ago, it had been a battleground of ideology and tension. Now, with Danny gone and Daredevil carried off to recovery, only two men remained under the pale light of Hell's Kitchen's moon: Sahil Hamato, codename Splinter, and Frank Castle, the Punisher.
Frank slung his rifle onto his back, his gaze never leaving Sahil's visor-clad face. "So," he muttered, pacing the gravel and broken concrete, "why are we still here?"
Sahil stepped closer, unhurried. His black Snake Eyes-style suit moved like a second skin, quiet and deadly.
"Because I didn't come here just to rescue Matt," he said. "I came for you."
Frank's eyebrow twitched. "You gonna lecture me too? About killing?"
"No," Sahil said flatly. "I'm here to give you a target."
Frank tilted his head.
Sahil continued, voice low, controlled. "Wilson Fisk. I want him gone. But not in the dark. Not in a back alley with no witnesses. I want him to fall in public. I want the world to watch."
Frank narrowed his eyes. "That sounds more like theater than justice."
"Sometimes," Sahil said, "justice needs an audience."
A silence stretched between them, heavy with meaning.
Then Sahil added, "I'll give you everything — the locations, the gaps in his security, the patterns. I'll scrub your trail so clean no one will ever trace it back. You'll go in, put Fisk down in front of cameras, and vanish."
Frank folded his arms. "That last part—vanish. You want me to disappear?"
Sahil nodded once. "After the hit, you ghost. No more public crusades. No more trails. Fisk's empire will fall into chaos. That's the plan."
Frank stared at him for a long time, as if weighing every word, every angle.
"And you?" he asked. "What's your angle?"
Sahil didn't flinch. "I want the Kingpin dead. And I want the message loud and clear. The old powers of New York are crumbling. A new order is coming. And you… you'll be the spark."
Frank studied him for a beat, then nodded slowly.
But Sahil wasn't done. He took a step closer, voice dropping to a razor-thin whisper.
"And when it's done," he said, "when Fisk is dead and the city is watching... I'll give you Schoonover and Russo."
Frank went still.
The names hit like gunshots in the dark — Colonel Ray Schoonover and Billy Russo.
Frank's breathing deepened. "How do you know those names?"
"I know everything worth knowing," Sahil replied calmly. "And I know they're next on your list. You'll get them — clean, quiet, and unprotected. All I ask is that you make Fisk's fall public."
Frank's jaw clenched, and a long silence followed. Then he let out a bitter, low laugh. "You really do your homework."
"I don't believe in luck," Sahil said. "Just preparation."
Frank reached into his jacket, lit a cigarette, and exhaled slowly. "You're not like the others. Not like Matt."
"I'm not trying to be," Sahil replied.
Another pause. Then Frank offered his hand. "Alright, partner. Let's make history."
Sahil gripped it firmly. "Just remember, Frank. After this, you're a ghost."
Frank smirked. "I've been dead a long time, kid. One more death ain't gonna kill me."
"I want the truth to bleed into the streets. I want Wilson Fisk to die in public. And before that, I want the world to see what he really is."
Frank eyed him warily.
Sahil continued, walking to the rooftop edge and tapping a wrist console. Nanotech flickered from his gauntlet, and a holoscreen hovered in the air. It showed folders, files, audio logs, and surveillance footage.
"All of this," he said, "is evidence. Every corrupt deal. Every bribe. Every death he paid for. Every politician, judge, and cop on his leash. Fisk is a rot that choked New York from the inside out."
Frank stepped closer, watching the footage cycle — a child's death in a blown-up apartment complex, city contracts being laundered through dummy corporations, police executing innocent men under Fisk's orders.
Sahil looked at him. "Before you pull the trigger, I'll upload this to every news station, whistleblower board, and darknet site across the planet. By the time you aim at him, the whole world will be watching."
Frank's mouth tightened. "You serious?"
"As a killshot," Sahil said. "When he dies, he'll be the villain. Not a martyr.
Frank took a long drag of his cigarette. "So what's the play?"
Two Nights Later
New York buzzed with a strange electricity. The city's power grid stuttered for two minutes as Sahil hijacked every digital broadcast signal across Manhattan.
The screens flickered to black… then lit up with the truth.
CCTV of backroom dealings. Audio recordings of Fisk threatening officials. Dossiers on body disposal. Charts of money laundering into prison systems. Surveillance of children beaten by his private security forces.
Across bars, hospitals, subways, and living rooms, Wilson Fisk's mask shattered.
Then came the gunshot.
Live drone footage hovered over a gala fundraiser on the rooftop of a Midtown skyscraper. Wilson Fisk — red-faced and smug — stepped to a podium, flanked by guards, journalists, and NYPD brass.
A bullet tore through his shoulder. He spun, roaring. Panic exploded around him.
The second shot went through his throat.
Screams.
Chaos.
Blood.
Sahil watched from an adjacent rooftop, arms folded. Frank stood beside him, having used Sahil's nanite stealth suit to blend into the shadows after the shots. Before the police snipers could locate the source, Frank slipped through the fire escape. He was gone by the time they breached the neighboring building.
A Week Later – Sahil's Underground Lab
Frank Castle stood in the corner, quiet, as Sahil worked a glowing holo-display.
News anchors were still dissecting the fallout.
"Fisk's empire collapses —" "City officials resign in disgrace —" "Public faith in NYPD eroding —"
Sahil shut the screens off.
Frank Castle sat across from him again, colder this time. "You promised."
"I never break a deal," Sahil said, tapping a sequence into his display.
A map opened: one red dot in Virginia, one blinking in Jersey.
"Schoonover's in a private compound outside Quantico. He's surrounded by ten ex-military contractors and motion-triggered turrets. I've uploaded a virus into their system. You'll walk in clean."
"And Russo?" Frank asked, eyes narrowing.
"Russo's in hiding — not from you, from HYDRA. He's in an armored convoy on the move. I've marked the route, jammed the GPS, and scrambled their comms."
Frank nodded, his voice flat. "When?"
Sahil handed him a nanite disc. "Now."
Three Days Later
The news didn't catch Schoonover's death.
It didn't have time to.
Because twenty hours later, Billy Russo's convoy exploded on the New Jersey Turnpike — burned black by a shaped charge, one side of his face crushed beneath the wreckage.
No survivors. No witnesses.
Just a calling card left on the pavement: a bullet casing stamped with the word "Justice."
On a rooftop above Brooklyn, Sahil stood again in black silence, watching the city lights shimmer like fireflies.
Fisk was gone.
Schoonover — gone.
Russo — gone.
The Punisher was once again a ghost.
The balance of power had shifted. The old order had cracks.
And Sahil — Splinter — was already looking for the next empire to burn.