Marvel/DC: The Under Ground Doctor C218 (Patreon)

Chapter 218: Kingpin Delegates Power

Staten Island, the second-floor bedroom of the Lizewski home.

The desk lamp cast a dim, yellowish light, and the air was filled with the sweet, cloying scent of cheap Red Bull, as well as the restless friction of a ballpoint pen tip moving rapidly across paper.

"In the War of 1812, the main economic dilemma President Madison faced was... what was it again?"

Dave Lizewski dug both hands deep into his hair, mussing it up until it looked like a bird's nest.

He stared at the American history workbook in front of him, still more than half empty, his entire body twisting in agony on the swivel chair like a maggot.

Outside the window, cicadas chirped; on the desk, an alarm clock ticked. There were only seventy-two hours left until the start of the fall semester at Midtown High School.

Three days ago, he was still in the ruins of Metropolis, watching with his own eyes as two Kryptonian gods, who could drink star-destroying cannons like bathwater, smashed a city into mud;

He had been wearing the "red scale" battle armor from Wayne Enterprises, which cost millions of dollars, and with a single slide, he had incapacitated a biochemical monster capable of shattering load-bearing walls with one punch; he had sat inside that pink door of William's that spanned the multiverse, listening to the World's richest man and the Dark Knight of Gotham discuss racing.

But now, he was trapped in a bedroom of just over a dozen square meters, gnawing on his ballpoint pen until it creaked, just to avoid getting a D from his history teacher.

"Calm down. Use the profiling logic the mentor taught," Dave took a deep breath, forcing himself into the cold, detached state of a "Bat Apprentice," muttering to himself.

"The essence of war is resource allocation and logistical supply. The trade embargo policy Madison had at the time caused a rupture in customs tax revenue, coupled with the blockade by the British Navy..."

The pen tip slid rapidly across the paper, scratching out half a page of analysis.

"Click."

The sound of the security door lock turning came from downstairs.

Dave gave a start, his keen hearing as a street vigilante instantly maxing out.

The footsteps were heavy and dragging, accompanied by the crisp sound of keys being dropped into the metal tray in the entryway—it was his dad, the accountant, coming home from work.

Almost reflexively, Dave kicked his chair away, rushed to the closet in two strides, shoved the exposed piece of dark red carbon fiber armor under the bed, grabbed a basic calculus book, laid it next to his history homework, and sat up straight.

His dad's tired face peeked through the door gap: "Dave? How's the homework coming along?"

"Almost done! Dad, I'm just doing calculus!" Dave pushed up the black-rimmed glasses on his nose, flashing a well-behaved, harmless, and even slightly dull smile.

His dad nodded in relief: "Don't stay up too late, I left some macaroni in the pot."

The door closed.

Dave let out a long breath, his back pressing against the chair.

He touched his shin, which had completely healed after days of intense Kaido nourishment, but the raw ferocity in his muscle memory from smashing the monster's knee still throbbed faintly in his bones.

At one in the morning, the entire residential area fell into dead silence.

Dave closed the last workbook and twisted his sore neck. He walked to the window and pulled the curtains shut.

The storage box under the bed was dragged out. There was no cool cape, no flashy green wetsuit. The "red scale" battle armor, a weave of dark gray and deep red, shimmered with a cold metallic luster under the faint moonlight.

He put it on, fastened the dampening joints, and donned the mask with its built-in tactical visor.

Finally, Dave slotted two tactical folding knives, specially weighted and modified by William with cold, glinting edges, into the holsters on his waist.

He gently pushed open the window and, like a nimble alley cat, slid silently down the drainpipe into the back alley.

Brooklyn, 14th Street, a dark alley reeking of urine and rotting trash.

Three street thugs in hip-hop attire, wearing heavy gold chains around their necks, were cornering a convenience store clerk who had just finished a night shift. One of them dangled a switchblade, tapping the tip against the clerk's cheek.

"Be good, hand over your wallet and phone. Don't force me to open a ventilation hole in your stomach."

The clerk was trembling, his hand reaching into his pocket for change.

Suddenly, a faint metallic clinking sound came from above.

Before the knife-wielding thug could react, a dark red afterimage plummeted from the three-story fire escape!

"Bang!"

No wasted words, no superhero-style opening monologue.

Dave's right knee struck the knife-wielding thug's back with pinpoint precision. The high-kinetic energy buffer gel instantly absorbed the impact of the fall, then poured all that brutal kinetic energy directly into the opponent's spine.

The thug didn't even have time to scream; he sprawled onto the ground like a giant toad and went into shock immediately.

The other two turned around in terror.

Dave didn't retreat but advanced, keeping firmly in mind Bruce's iron rule: "Keep your eyes locked on the opponent's shoulders and hips." The thug on the left had just reached behind his back for a gun when Dave's left jab struck like a viper, the brass knuckles slamming hard into the man's collarbone.

"Snap!" A clear sound of bone cracking.

The thug retreated, screaming. Using the power of his twisting waist, Dave delivered a vicious low kick, chopping heavily into the third thug's knee joint.

Less than four seconds.

One of the three thugs was unconscious, and the other two lay in the mud, clutching their broken bones and wailing.

Dave stood up straight, his dark gray armor not even having a speck of dust on it. He glanced at the convenience store clerk, who was slumped on the ground in terror, and lowered his voice, making it sound deep and cold through the mask's voice filter:

"Call the police, then go home."

After saying that, Dave turned and fired the micro-grappling hook from his waist, his body soaring into the air and vanishing into the night.

He left a piece of stiff cardstock the size of his palm on the brick wall.

There was no name on the card, only a crude but sharp-looking red symbol outlined in glow-in-the-dark fluorescent ink—Night Glow.

Meanwhile, deep beneath Manhattan.

This was a top-secret private intensive care unit, encased in layers of two-inch-thick bulletproof steel.

The air held no scent of flowers, only the pungent smell of Lysol, high concentrations of antibiotics, and a smell that no exhaust fan could clear—the smell of burnt, charred meat.

On the hospital bed lay a weak mountain of flesh.

Wilson Fisk, Kingpin.

This emperor, who had once trampled the New York underworld under his feet, was now fixed to a specially reinforced hospital bed in a posture of extreme humiliation.

His face, once covered in rolls of fat and radiating majesty, now had its right half turned completely into a rotten, overripe peach.

The three-thousand-degree heat from the high-yield concentrated incendiary bomb had burned completely through his skin, despite the cushioning of four hundred pounds of terrifying muscle and fat.

Hypertrophic scars, like dark red centipedes, crawled all over his right cheek, neck, and down to his chest, which was riddled with IV tubes.

"Hoo—shhh—hoo—shhh—"

The ventilator wheezed like a broken bellows with the giant's gasps. With every breath, pale yellow tissue fluid seeped from the charred skin on Kingpin's chest.

Standing three meters from the hospital bed, Frank DAmico felt as if his expensive custom Italian suit had turned into a tight-fitting garment; his tie choked him, and a dense layer of cold sweat broke out on his back.

As Kingpin's most capable lieutenant and a mob boss who controlled the entire East Side's drug and arms network, DAmico was no stranger to the dead.

But Kingpin, lying there, even though he could barely move a finger, still had such a fierce glare in his one remaining eye that DAmico's calves cramped with fear.

"Boss..." DAmico swallowed, his voice extremely low.

"Osborn Group... has wired the one hundred million dollar compensation. But Norman Osborn put the word out that this money is for medical expenses, not a compromise."

"Cough... hehe..."

Kingpin's throat emitted a harsh, sandpaper-like laugh, followed by a fit of violent coughing.

The monitor beside him let out a piercing beep, his heart rate spiking instantly.

"Norman... that lunatic who injected himself with garbage serum..." Kingpin spoke hoarsely, every word sounding as if it were squeezed out of blood foam.

"Let him go crazy; he won't live long."

Kingpin turned his head with great effort, his one good eye pinning itself onto DAmico's face.

"The mayoral campaign... stop it. Pull back all peripheral propaganda."

DAmico was stunned for a moment, then hurriedly stepped forward: "Boss! We've poured so much money into it, and we've already greased the palms of the city council. To pull out now..."

"Do I look... like I'm in any shape to wear a suit and give a speech at City Hall?!"

Kingpin suddenly roared, the sheer volume making the glass of the ICU vibrate. He slammed his bandaged right hand, punching the metal railing of the hospital bed.

"Bang!" The two-inch thick steel pipe was dented inward by the force.

DAmico recoiled in fear, swallowing all his words back into his stomach.

"Listen, Frank." Kingpin wheezed, his eyes gradually turning cold and pragmatic, "I'm going to Switzerland for a skin graft, and I need to be with Vanessa and Richard. For at least half a year, I won't show my face in New York."

DAmico's heart thumped wildly and uncontrollably, an indescribable ecstasy shooting from the base of his spine to the back of his head.

"Boss, you mean..."

"The group's daily business—smuggling, venues, collection—it's all yours to handle." Kingpin leaned back against his pillow, his eyes like knives, "Don't provoke those lunatics, and don't touch those politicians. Just keep the order of the underworld stable for me."

"Understood! Boss! I will absolutely keep the gang running like a well-oiled machine!" DAmico was so excited he nearly bowed his head to the floor.

"Get out." Kingpin closed his eyes.

The heavy bulletproof steel door opened and closed.

Walking down the corridor leading to the private elevator to the surface, the humility and fear on DAmico's face evaporated in a second. He loosened his tie, his mouth curling into an insanely arrogant grin, his eyes filled with greed for power.

Kingpin was done for! For at least this half year, the entire New York underworld would be run by him, Frank DAmico!

The elevator door opened, and his right-hand man, Red Mist—his own son, Chris DAmico—was waiting outside with a few bodyguards.

"Dad, what did that fat pig Kingpin say?" Chris asked, leaning in.

"Call me Boss!" DAmico glared at his son, then couldn't help but sneer himself.

"Though, calling me Boss from now on will be the same thing."