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Jack ascended, the wind whipping against his white robes, the red streaks of blood on his master's costume fluttering in the night. The city stretched below him—a patchwork of neon lights and darkened alleys, buildings towering like monuments to men's ambitions.
He threw his head back, golden eyes gleaming. And then… he laughed. "KEKEKEKEKEKEKEKEKEKEKE!" It boomed across New York. The laugh of a mad king. The declaration of a conqueror.
A reminder. That Jack Hou was here. That Jack Hou was real. That Hell's Kitchen now belonged to him.
…
Far from the battlefield, in the safety of his high-rise penthouse, the mayor of New York sat in the dim glow of his whiskey glass. His tie hung loose, his sleeves rolled up, sweat beading at his temples. The man who once held power over this city now sat in his chair, hollow-eyed, staring at the flickering TV screen.
The news anchors spoke in rapid-fire succession—footage of Jack's Halloween festival, videos of Kingpin's territories crumbling, debates on why the government hadn't stepped in sooner.
And then came the sound. "KEKEKEKEKEKEKEKE!" The laugh rang out, echoing through the night, bleeding through the TV speakers.
The mayor dropped his glass. It shattered against the marble floor. His hands trembled. "It's over…" he muttered, barely a whisper. "Fisk is done." He leaned back, running his fingers through his disheveled hair, his mind racing.
And so am I.
…
In front of Fisk Tower, black-clad agents moved into position. The SHIELD emblem shone under the harsh glow of spotlights. The air was thick with tension. Their target was already gone, but the remnants of his war still needed cleaning up.
Phil Coulson stood at the front, hands in his pockets, watching the tower like a man approaching a viper's nest. He had seen a lot in his years at SHIELD. But Jack Hou? That was something else entirely.
One of the STRIKE team captains approached, adjusting the tactical gear strapped to his chest. "Sir, are we sure our equipment is enough to subdue Jack's clones?"
Phil sighed. "I'll say this again." He turned, fixing the captain with a level stare. "We are not here to apprehend Jack Hou. We are here to clean up the mess Fisk left behind."
The captain hesitated. "But sir—"
"Enough." Phil's voice was firm. "I lead this operation. I was briefed directly by the higher-ups. You follow my orders, or you can take it up with Director Fury himself."
The captain swallowed, nodded. "Understood."
Phil gave a small nod in return. Then, he turned back to the tower, eyes narrowing. "Move in." The agents fanned out, entering the building floor by floor, gathering evidence, securing Fisk's remaining men.
Above them, the sky still rang with Jack's laughter. Jack stood on his staff, perfectly balanced, nearly a kilometer above the city. The wind howled, tugging at his robes.
He breathed in the cold air, golden eyes scanning the skyline. A storm did not come with rain. Not this one. It came with laughter. It came with a voice, booming from above, rolling across New York City like thunder. "TRICK OR TREAT, NEW YORK CITY!"
The echo carried through skyscrapers, bounced off glass, rattled in the bones of those who heard it. The streets below, bustling with Halloween festivities, fell into a stunned silence. People looked up.
From the Bronx to Brooklyn, from the Upper East Side to Queens, even those nestled safely in their penthouses turned toward the sky—where a figure, robed, hovered high above the city, balanced on a staff. His golden eyes gleamed like molten suns.
Jack Hou. "HAPPY HALLOWEEN!" The Devil of Hell's Kitchen was dead. And a new god had taken his throne.
"Tonight is a night of joy! A night of tricks! A night of treats! But before we let the children feast, before we let the candy flow, before the ghosts and ghouls go back to sleep…"
Jack tilted his head, golden gaze sweeping the city. "We need to say goodbye."
The wind howled, carrying his words across every borough, slipping through alleyways, crawling into bedrooms, echoing in the ears of every citizen.
"Goodbye to the LUST of Marco Crusetti."
"A man who took flesh and coins as if they were the same currency. Who sold daughters and mothers and sisters, not for necessity, not even for greed—but for pleasure. He rots now, in a grave he dug with his own hands."
People listening felt their stomachs twist. Whispers passed through the streets.
"Goodbye to the WRATH of William Lopez."
"The enforcer. The butcher. The man who took violence as his gospel. Who saw Hell's Kitchen as nothing more than a ring to spill blood. Who ruled through fear, through broken bones and bodies left in dumpsters. Now, his bones are the ones rotting in the dirt."
Some gasped. Some cheered.
"Goodbye to the GREED of Anne Marie Hoag."
"The vulture. The one who did not break bones, did not pull triggers—but stole homes, crushed families, ripped away security with the stroke of a pen. She did not need muscle to steal. She only needed the law to look the other way. She is now dust beneath the wind."
Those who knew her legacy, those who had lost homes, felt something deep, something bitter, something victorious.
"And now, let's welcome our newest departed!" Jack's grin widened.
"Goodbye to the GLUTTONY of Cody Felan."
"Oh, Cody! Who gorged himself not on food, but on the souls of the weak. Who drowned his own streets in poison, made addicts of those who once had hope. Who took what was already broken and shattered it beyond repair. Gluttony isn't just about food—it's about taking and taking and taking until nothing remains. And tonight, Cody took his last breath."
The streets were not quiet anymore. There were murmurs. There was a shift. Some didn't know what to feel. Others knew exactly what they felt.
"Goodbye to the ENVY of Peter Stokes."
"The man who crafted lies. Who spun rumors, painted illusions, destroyed reputations with a whisper. Who could never stand the success of others, so he crushed them beneath the weight of falsehoods. But no more. No more whispers. No more illusions. No more lies. His lips have been sealed forever."
News anchors across the city fell into stunned silence. They knew what was coming next.
"And lastly… goodbye to the SLOTH of Michael Adams."
"The doctor who never healed. The man who built shelters that never gave shelter. Who created hospitals that never saved lives. Who spent his days in comfort while the sick rotted outside his doors. A man who could have been something more—but chose to do nothing. Well, Michael, you can finally rest."
Jack let the silence hang. The city held its breath. And then, he spoke once more.
"Now…" He tilted his head toward Fisk Tower, toward the penthouse where a king had fallen from his throne. "That just leaves PRIDE. Oh, Wilson Fisk. Kingpin."
Jack's voice turned softer, but there was an edge to it—something sharper than steel, heavier than fate.
"You, who thought yourself untouchable. You, who built an empire on suffering. You, who sat above it all, convinced you could never fall."
Jack tilted his head. "But here you are. Stripped. Broken. A king without a kingdom." His eyes flashed. "Pride comes before the fall, Willy. And you?"
Jack grinned. "You've already fallen."
The city listened. The city remembered. The sins of Hell's Kitchen had been carved into its bones, written in its blood. But now, those sins had been burned away.
…
As Jack Hou glided through the night sky, the final stroke of his staff connected the golden barrier—completing the circle. A brilliant wave of light burst forth, golden and blinding, surging across Hell's Kitchen.
Then, it came. A sound, deep and resonant, rolling through the city like a bell struck by the gods themselves.
GONNNGGGGGGGGGG.
The chime was everywhere, yet nowhere. It came from above, from the very sky itself, reverberating through the streets, bouncing off buildings, seeping into bones.
It was loud, yet it did not deafen. It was powerful, yet it did not overwhelm. For those who heard it, it was… calming. Like a heartbeat of something ancient, something celestial.
A warmth spread through Jack's newly claimed domain, rolling over rooftops, slipping into alleyways, flooding every street and home. A scent followed. Something sweet. Something rich.
Peach.
The entirety of Hell's Kitchen smelled like ripe peaches at the height of summer.
Then, the ground rumbled. Not like an earthquake. Not like destruction. But like something waking up. Something old. Something returning. One by one, in the cracks between sidewalks, in the empty spaces beside buildings, through the broken pavement of abandoned lots—something began to grow.
Trees.
Glowing trees with golden bark and lush emerald leaves, blooming in real-time as if the city had been cast into a time-lapse. People stopped in their tracks. Cars halted in the streets. Phones were lifted, recording, streaming, capturing this impossible phenomenon.
Even the SHIELD agents clearing Fisk Tower felt it. They smelled the peach in the air, felt the gentle hum in their bones.
Mario, the pizza shop owner, stood frozen mid-stretching his dough.
The baker across the street stepped out, flour dusting her apron, staring in awe.
Aunty Vivi, in the middle of a transaction, turned toward the window, her breath hitching as she saw a tree grow right outside her store.
For once, even the criminals—those still lurking in the shadows—felt something they couldn't explain.
Was this real? Was this magic? Or was this something else entirely?
Madam Gao, deep in Cody Felan's former territory, had been handling the mass hysteria of drugged-out people left in chaos. But then, she saw it. As the peach trees bloomed, the high began to fade from their eyes. They sobered up. The hysteria quieted.
Madam Gao's breath caught in her throat. This was not just a display of power. This was not just a spectacle. This… was change.
Jack's clones had been patrolling the hospitals, the shelters—keeping the people in line, making sure there was no panic. Now, they watched as the trees bore fruit.
One of the clones stepped forward, looking up at a tree that had sprouted just outside a hospital. A peach, golden and glistening, gently lowered itself into his palm. The clone turned it over in his hand, examining it. It was soft, warm, fragrant.
Jack plucked a small bite—just a taste. And it was unlike anything he had ever eaten. Like sunlight and honey, like crisp autumn air, like laughter on a summer afternoon. It was magic. It was his.
At Fisk Tower, Jack landed gracefully on the penthouse balcony, stepping through the shattered glass into the ruin of Wilson Fisk's empire. The golden glow from the city reflected in the windows, casting an eerie warmth over the room.
Kingpin sat slumped in a chair, his massive frame looking smaller than ever. His suit was disheveled, his usually pristine demeanor undone. His hands, once used to crush men's skulls, now trembled.
Jack tilted his head, observing the man who had once been untouchable. Kingpin hadn't moved. He hadn't run. Because there was nowhere left to run.
Jack smirked, rolling his shoulders as he took a step forward. "Hey, Willy."
Fisk didn't look up. His breathing was slow, heavy, labored.
Jack grinned, stretching his arms wide. "Like the view? Thought I'd give your city a makeover."
Still, Kingpin did not respond. His pride was gone. His kingdom had crumbled. And Jack? Jack was here to collect. With a soft chuckle, he stepped closer. And Wilson Fisk finally, finally lifted his head. His eyes were hollow.
His empire was dead. The Kingpin of Crime felt fear.
**A/N**
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