[Jessica Jones POV]
Oh god, my head.
I blink awake to sunlight stabbing through floor-to-ceiling windows that probably cost more than my apartment. Right. Harry Osborn's penthouse. The night comes back in flashes – expensive whiskey, that hole-in-the-wall bar, and then... everything after.
I stretch, feeling muscles pleasantly sore in ways they haven't been in a long time. Hard to find someone who can actually keep up. The other side of the bed is empty, sheets cool to the touch. He's been gone a while.
Fucking billionaires. Always somewhere important to be.
The bedroom is ridiculous – minimalist rich-people furniture that probably has some Italian designer name I've never heard of, and a view that belongs on a postcard, not out someone's actual window. Not a single personal item anywhere though. No photos, no books, nothing that says "a human lives here." It's like sleeping in an Architectural Digest spread.
I should leave. Put on my clothes (wherever the hell they ended up), slip out, maintain some semblance of professional distance from the guy I'm investigating. That would be the smart thing to do.
Instead, I find myself doing what comes naturally. Snooping.
His closet could be a department store display. Suits arranged by color, shoes lined up like they're afraid to touch each other. Bathroom's the same deal – fancy products with French names I can't pronounce, everything precisely arranged. I peek in the bedside drawer and find...nothing. Who doesn't keep anything in their bedside drawer? Even I have a drawer full of random crap, and I'm barely functional as an adult. Someone with secrets, that's who. Or someone who keeps the interesting stuff somewhere else.
If he wasn't a smoke-show and interesting, I'd think Harry was an American Psycho.
I catch my reflection and grimace. Bed-head, yesterday's makeup smudged to hell, real professional, Jones. Great look for the morning walk of shame.
My dress is somewhere in the living room, probably still ripped from our enthusiastic entrance. Not exactly dignity-preserving exit attire.
Screw it. I grab one of his dress shirts from the closet. If he's going to bail before I wake up, shirt theft is justified, and find a pair of sweatpants in a drawer. They're hilariously huge, but I roll the waistband over twice and pull the drawstring tight.
Following the smell of coffee (the only reliable thing in my life), I find myself in a kitchen straight out of a magazine. Instead of Harry, there's an older guy in a suit that probably costs more than my month's rent, arranging food on a tray like he's preparing for royalty.
He looks up, not even slightly surprised to find a strange woman wearing his boss's clothes. "Good morning, Miss Jones. I trust you slept well?"
Not a flicker of judgment. Either he's got an Olympic-level poker face or finding women in Harry's clothes is a regular occurrence. Great.
"Where's Harry?" I ask, skipping the pleasantries. Morning small talk is not in my skill set.
"Mr. Osborn is currently engaged with his morning exercise routine." He gestures to a stool at the kitchen island. "Coffee? I've prepared a selection of breakfast options as well."
My stomach growls traitorously. I haven't had a proper breakfast in... actually, I can't remember the last time. Free food is free food, even if it comes with awkward morning-after butler conversation.
"You must be Bernard," I say, taking the offered coffee.
"Indeed. Mr. Osborn mentioned me?" He sounds mildly surprised.
"Once or twice." The coffee is so good it actually makes me angry. Like, of course even his coffee is perfect. "So what are you exactly? The butler? Manservant? Professional British guy?"
"I prefer 'personal assistant,' though my duties encompass various responsibilities." He arranges fresh fruit on a plate with the precision of a surgeon. "Including ensuring the privacy and comfort of Mr. Osborn's guests."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "I believe the terminology is entirely up to you, Miss Jones."
I study him over my coffee. This guy's not just a butler. The way he stands, the way his eyes constantly scan the room, how carefully he chooses his words. Ex-military, maybe intelligence. Definitely more than just someone who makes breakfast and picks up dry cleaning.
"You know, don't you?" I ask suddenly. "About his nighttime activities."
Bernard doesn't miss a beat. "I'm afraid I don't understand the question."
"Yeah, you do." I set down my cup. "Harry is Batman. And you help him."
His expression doesn't change. Not even a blink. "Mr. Osborn's schedule is quite demanding. I merely ensure it runs smoothly."
Non-denial denial. Interesting.
"Does that include cleaning up after he brings home women with questionable judgment?"
"It includes whatever Mr. Osborn requires." He places a plate of something that looks like it belongs on Instagram in front of me. "Though the cleaning service has already addressed the... situation in the living room."
I feel my face get hot despite myself. Right. The couch. That happened.
"Where exactly is he working out? Some secret bat-gym?"
"The private fitness facility. If you've finished your coffee, I'd be happy to show you."
Curiosity wins over dignity. I follow Bernard through more fancy hallways to an elevator I definitely didn't notice last night. It takes us down two floors to what appears to be Harry's private fitness level – because of course billionaires have entire floors just for working out.
The space is ridiculous – equipment that looks like it belongs in a NASA training facility, a lap pool visible through glass doors, and what looks suspiciously like a combat training area with mats and practice dummies. On the far side, Harry Osborn is running on a treadmill.
"Running" doesn't cover it. He's sprinting at a pace that would make Olympic athletes look like they're moving in molasses, the machine whining in protest. His form is perfect, not a hint of strain on his face despite the fact that he's pushing thirty miles per hour.
Definitely enhanced. And irritatingly hot.
He spots us, flashes that stupid charming grin, and hits a button that gradually slows the machine. Even his cool-down is graceful. Asshole.
"Morning," he calls, grabbing a towel as he steps off the treadmill. He then gives me a wink "Sleep well?"
"Like someone hit me with a truck," I reply honestly. "You could have warned me about your... stamina."
He laughs, not even trying to hide his satisfaction. Bernard materializes with a tray holding water, protein shake, and what looks like vitamins.
"Your post-workout supplements, sir," Bernard says, like serving sweaty billionaires is the most normal thing in the world.
"Thanks, Bernard." Harry downs the water in one go, then looks at me with obvious amusement. "I see you've helped yourself to my wardrobe."
"My dress had an unfortunate encounter with someone's impatient hands," I counter. "I think the seam ripper was you, Osborn."
"Oh, how Tragic." He doesn't look remotely sorry. Instead, he grabs the towel from around his neck and playfully tosses it over my face.
I snatch it away, glaring. "Real mature."
"Just thought you might want to wipe the drool away. You were staring."
I was not... okay, maybe I was. The combination of whatever gave him his powers has created something that belongs on a fitness magazine cover, all lean muscle and defined abs currently glistening with sweat. It's objectively distracting.
"I was calculating how many sit-ups it would take to develop an ego as inflated as yours," I retort.
Bernard makes a sound that might be a laugh disguised as a cough.
"That will be all for now, Bernard, thank you," Harry says, eyes still on me.
"Very good, sir." Bernard withdraws with professional discretion, leaving us alone in the gym.
"So," Harry says, leaning against a weight rack. "This is usually the part where one of us says 'last night was fun' and the other agrees, then we exchange awkward pleasantries before parting ways. Unless you'd prefer to skip right to the part where you ask me if I'm Batman."
His directness catches me off guard. "You think you know me pretty well after one night."
"You're very talkative under "pressure" Jones...", Tch, he can't get over himself.
"I think I recognize a fellow 'cut the bullshit' person when I meet one." He takes a sip of the protein shake. "So which is it? Awkward morning-after talk or interrogation?"
"Neither, actually." I tug at the too-large sweatpants that keep threatening to fall down. "I should return your clothes and get going. Some of us have actual jobs that don't involve running companies daddy built."
"Keep them," he says with a shrug. "I have meetings all day anyway."
"I don't need your charity, Osborn."
"It's not charity, it's practicality. Unless you want to walk out of this building in a torn dress and give the paparazzi a field day?"
He has a point. "Fine. I'll mail them back."
"No need." He studies me with those too-perceptive eyes. "You want my number, don't you Jess?"
'Jess,' huh.
The presumption should irritate me, but he's right again. I've never sex like that... honestly ever. Damn it. "Professional reasons," I clarify. "In case I have follow-up questions about my case."
"Uh huh, Of course." The smile says he doesn't believe me for a second. "Hand me your phone."
I hesitate, then pull my phone from the sweatpants pocket. He takes it, types quickly, then hands it back.
"There. Professional access to Harry Osborn, for all your investigative needs."
"Thanks," I mutter, pocketing the phone. "I should go."
He nods, not pushing. "The elevator will take you directly to the private lobby. Bernard has arranged a car if you want it."
"I'll take the subway."
"Of course you will." That infuriating smile again. "See you around, Jess."
It sounds like a promise rather than a goodbye. And the worst part is, I'm not entirely against the idea.
[Jessica Jones POV End]
____________________________________________
The New York Sanctum stands on Bleecker Street, hidden in plain sight behind mystic veils that make most people's eyes slide right past it. But I know exactly what I'm looking for, and where. The knowledge from countless hours watching MCU films proves useful once again. I had forgotten about it at first.
Night has fallen by the time I approach the building, dressed in an inconspicuous suit rather than the Batman armor. This isn't a confrontation...it's a request for assistance, for training. I can't be a prick. Intimidation won't work against sorcerers who can trap me in the Mirror Dimension with a gesture.
The heavy wooden door should be locked, but it swings open at my touch. Either they're expecting me, or they're overconfident. Both possibilities have merit.
The interior is exactly as I remember from the films—ornate woodwork, display cases containing mystical artifacts, a grand staircase leading to upper levels. The air itself feels different inside, charged with subtle energy that makes my enhanced senses tingle in warning.
"The Sanctum is not a tourist attraction," a voice calls from above. A man in blue robes descends the staircase, his hands positioned for spell-casting. Not the Ancient One, but one of her disciples. "State your business or leave."
"I'm here to see the Ancient One," I reply calmly, remaining still.
The sorcerer's eyes narrow. "The Ancient One sees those who are worthy, not those who demand audience."
"I'm not demanding. I'm requesting." I take a measured step forward. "My name is Harry Osborn. I seek training in the mystic arts."
"Another wealthy thrill-seeker looking for exotic experiences?" His tone drips with disdain. "The mystical is not a plaything for the bored and privileged."
"That's not why I'm here."
"Then why?" He circles me slowly, assessing. "What does Harry Osborn, heir to Norman Osborn's empire of weapons and war, seek from the Masters of the Mystic Arts?"
"Understanding. Protection." I meet his gaze directly. "I've encountered forces I can't explain through science alone. Forces that threaten this reality."
"The Hand," he says, surprising me with his knowledge. "Yes, we felt their activity beneath the city. Their attempts to access power beyond their comprehension."
Two more sorcerers appear from side rooms, hands similarly positioned for combat. This is deteriorating faster than I'd hoped.
"I mean no disrespect," I say carefully. "But time is short. Forces are gathering—not just the Hand, but others. Threats from beyond this world. I need to be prepared."
"And you think a few mystical tricks will prepare you?" The first sorcerer scoffs. "Go back to your towers and technology, Osborn. Leave the protection of reality to those who understand its true nature."
My patience thins. "I understand more than you think."
"Prove it."
The challenge hangs in the air between us. I could walk away, find another approach. But something tells me this is a test—one I need to pass to proceed.
"The Time Stone," I say quietly. "You protect it here, in the Eye of Agamotto. One of six Infinity Stones that, if united, could destroy half of all life in the universe with a single snap. That's what's coming. That's what I'm preparing for."
Shock ripples across all three sorcerers' faces. This knowledge is not public, not known to anyone outside their order. The first sorcerer recovers quickly, conjuring golden energy circles around his fists.
"How could you possibly know that?" he demands, advancing on me. "Who sent you?"
"No one sent me." I stand my ground as the mystical energy crackles around his hands. "I just know it to be true..."
"Impossible."
"Is it? In a multiverse of infinite possibilities, is it so hard to believe that knowledge might cross boundaries just as people sometimes do?"
The standoff might have escalated further, but a voice cuts through the tension—calm, measured, with quiet authority that commands immediate attention.
"That's quite enough, Master Wong."
The sorcerers all turn, immediately dropping their aggressive stances. At the top of the staircase stands a slender figure in yellow robes, head shaved, ancient eyes set in a timeless face.
The Ancient One.
She descends with graceful efficiency, each movement precise and deliberate. The other sorcerers step back, creating a path for her. When she reaches me, she circles slowly, her gaze penetrating beyond physical appearance to something deeper.
"Fascinating," she murmurs. "You are not from here, are you, Mr. Osborn?"
Her perception is unsettling but not entirely surprising. "No. I'm not."
"And yet, here you are. Wearing another's life like borrowed clothing." She completes her circle, facing me directly. "Why come to us? With your... other abilities, you are already more powerful than most."
"Power isn't understanding. And understanding is what I need now."
She studies me for another long moment, then nods once. "Follow me."
The other sorcerers exchange concerned glances but say nothing as she leads me up the staircase and through corridors that seem to shift subtly as we walk, distances expanding and contracting in ways that defy normal physics.
We emerge onto a balcony overlooking New York, though we seem impossibly high given the building's actual height. The night air carries the sounds and scents of the city below—a reality I've sworn to protect, though it isn't originally mine.
"You have knowledge of events that have not yet occurred in this timeline," the Ancient One says, making it a statement rather than a question. "Dangerous knowledge."
"Knowledge I intend to use to save lives."
"By altering the natural flow of events? By playing god with fate?" Her tone isn't accusatory, merely curious.
"By preventing unnecessary suffering where possible." I meet her gaze steadily. "Isn't that what your order does? Prevent threats to reality before they fully manifest?"
A small smile touches her lips. "Clever. Using our own philosophy to justify your interventions." She turns to look out over the city. "But there are rules to reality, Mr. Osborn. Consequences to every change. Ripples that become waves, waves that become floods."
"I'm aware of the risks."
"Are you?" She glances at me sideways. "You've already altered this timeline significantly. Benjamin Parker lives. The spider chose you instead of the boy. You've accelerated HYDRA's exposure. These changes will have consequences beyond what you can predict, even with your foreknowledge."
Her awareness of my actions is startling but not entirely unexpected.
"I couldn't stand by and do nothing, knowing what I know."
"No," she agrees softly. "I don't believe you could. It is not in your nature—either your original nature or the one you have crafted since arriving here." She turns to face me fully. "Which brings us to why you're here. You wish to learn the mystic arts."
"Yes."
"Why? You already possess extraordinary physical abilities. Technology beyond what most can imagine. Why seek mystical power as well?"
The question is fair. My motivation needs to be honest if I expect her help.
"Because I've seen firsthand that there are threats in this world—in this universe—that can't be fought with physical strength or technology alone. The Hand showed me that. And there are greater mystical threats coming that I need to be prepared for."
She nods slowly. "Honest, at least. But incomplete." Her eyes seem to look through me rather than at me. "You seek balance, do you not? Between the physical realm you now inhabit so powerfully and the mystical forces you've only begun to perceive. Between the man you were and the man you are becoming."
Her insight is unnervingly accurate. "Yes."
"The training you seek is not easy, nor quick. It requires dedication, humility, and openness to concepts that defy conventional understanding."
"I'm willing to learn."
She considers me for a long moment, then makes a decision. "Very well. We will begin your instruction. Not here—you have too many commitments in this city to disappear completely. But you will come to Kamar-Taj for periods of intensive training, and practice what you learn under supervision."
Relief and anticipation wash through me. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," she cautions. "The path ahead will challenge you in ways you cannot anticipate. And there is something else you should understand." Her expression grows more serious. "The knowledge you carry of future events—it is both gift and curse. As you change the timeline, your foreknowledge becomes less reliable. The further you diverge from the original path, the less certain your predictions become."
I've considered this already. "I understand."
"Do you? Some who were originally meant to exist have started much earlier" She looks out over the city again. "Like the one currently creating such violence in Hell's Kitchen."
Who...? Frank. Ah shit, here we go again.
"I can handle Castle," I say confidently.
"Perhaps. But can you handle what he represents? The consequence of a world where Batman exists?" She gives me a penetrating look. "Every action creates reaction, Mr. Osborn. Remember that as you continue reshaping this reality."
With that cryptic warning, she gestures, creating a portal of sparking golden energy. Through it, I can see a courtyard surrounded by ancient stone buildings—Kamar-Taj.
"Your first lesson begins now, if you're ready."
I step toward the portal, then pause. "There's something I need to handle first. Castle. The situation in Hell's Kitchen."
She studies me, then nods once. "Very well. Return tomorrow night. We will begin then." The portal closes with a gesture of her hand. "Until tomorrow, Mr. Osborn. Or should I say... Batman?"
"Tomorrow," I confirm, then take my leave.
.....
....
.....
The construction site on 46th and 10th is supposed to be abandoned for the night, but the gunfire echoing from within tells a different story. According to police channels, this is the third mass shooting in a week—all connected to a Russian gang that apparently crossed the wrong man.
Frank Castle has been busy.
I perch on the skeletal framework of the half-completed building, tracking heat signatures through multiple floors. Twelve bodies already cold. Five still moving—four clustered together, likely the remaining targets, and one moving methodically through the structure, hunting them.
Castle.
The remaining Russians are panicking, firing blindly into shadowed corners while Castle systematically closes the distance.
Time to intervene.
I drop silently to a lower level, positioning myself between Castle and his prey. Not to save the Russians—their rap sheets include human trafficking, murder, and worse. But Castle's methods are drawing too much attention, creating complications for my own operations, and leaving too much collateral damage in their wake.
Do what you want, but I will now allow anyone to destroy the credibility of Batman as a vigilante. Not now. Not when everything is just starting.
I hear him before I see him, measured footsteps, controlled breathing, and the sound of a weapon being reloaded. Then he rounds the corner, Punisher vest covered in blood that isn't his, face set in a mask of cold determination.
The Punisher.
He spots me instantly, weapon raising with practiced speed. I don't move.
"You're in my way," he growls, voice hoarse from disuse or perhaps from the smoke filling the lower levels.
"That's the idea."
His eyes narrow, taking in the suit, the cowl, the symbol. "The Bat," he says flatly. "Thought you were an urban legend."
"I get that a lot."
"Whatever beef you have with these animals, get in line. They're mine tonight."
"It's not about them," I reply calmly. "It's about your methods. You're drawing too much attention, Castle. Making it harder for everyone."
He doesn't seem surprised I know his name. "Don't care. Not here to make friends. Now move, or I'll move you."
My spider-sense flares suddenly—warning of danger behind me. I spin just as one of the Russians emerges from hiding, not running away as expected, but charging directly at Castle with something clutched in his hand.
A grenade, pin already pulled.
I react instantly, launching myself between them. My speed allowed me to intercept the attacker mid-charge, driving him away from Castle with enough force to send us both crashing through a partially constructed wall. As we fall, I twist, positioning the Russian beneath me to absorb the impact.
We hit the ground hard as shit, the Russian taking the brunt of the collision. The grenade tumbles from his grasp, rolling several feet away. I dive for it, scooping it up and hurling it out the window.
And then, it goes off (mid-air). When I turn back, Castle has already caught up, his weapon trained on the stunned Russian at my feet.
"Move," he orders, finger on the trigger.
"No."
His eyes harden. "He was ready to blow us both to hell. The rest of em' deserves what's coming."
"I might agree, but you're sloppy. So for tonight, that's not for you to decide." I step between them again. "This ends now, Castle. Enough blood for one night."
"You don't get to tell me when it's enough," he snarls. "Not until every last one of them is in the ground. Every last one who had anything to do with what happened to my family."
"And then what? Move on to the next group? And the next? Where does it end?"
"It ends when they're all dead." He attempts to move around me. I block him effortlessly. "Last warning, Bat. Step aside."
"Not happening."
He fires—not at me, but at the Russian on the ground. I move faster than the bullet, my hand intercepting it before it can find its target. The impact stings against my palm, even with my level of durability, but the bullet doesn't penetrate.
Again. I don't give a shit if these scum live or die. But Frank simply doesn't understand how awful this crime scene is going to be within the next 7-12 hours. He's killed enough for tonight.
Castle's eyes widen slightly—the first genuine surprise I've seen from him. "What the hell are you?"
I don't answer, instead closing the distance between us before he can fire again. He's good—military trained, combat experienced, with natural talent honed by years of practice. Against a normal opponent, he'd be lethal.
That ain't me, I'm not normal.
He manages to get off two more shots before I disarm him, both bullets harmlessly absorbed by the suit's armor. His hand-to-hand skills are impressive—efficient, brutal, no wasted movement.
But against me, it's futile.
it's like watching someone fight in slow motion.
I pull my punches, using just enough force to demonstrate the futility of resistance without causing permanent damage. Within seconds, he's on his knees, one arm twisted behind his back at an angle that promises dislocation if he struggles.
"You're done for tonight," I tell him, my voice leaving no room for argument. "The Russians, the Irish, the cartel—they'll all face hell. But not like this. Not your way."
"My way is the only way that works," he spits, blood trickling from his split lip. "Your way, lawyers, prisons, it's a joke. They walk free while families bury their loved ones."
"My way isn't the system's way either you damn fool," I inform him, releasing his arm but maintaining a position of dominance. "But it doesn't leave a trail of bodies for the police to follow. It doesn't endanger civilians caught in the crossfire."
He rises slowly, rubbing his shoulder where I nearly dislocated it. "So what, you beat them up, leave them for the cops, they make bail, and the cycle continues? How is that justice?"
"Justice isn't always about killing, Castle. Sometimes it's about fear. About creating consequences they can't bribe or lawyer their way out of." I glance at the Russian, now unconscious from his impact with the wall. "These men fear death less than you might think. But fear of the unknown? Of something they can't fight or understand? That sticks with them."
Castle studies me, reassessing. "Nice speech. But words don't bring back the dead."
"I've made grown men eat a bullet out of fear. Can you at all comprehend that? Also, neither does creating more bodies for the NYPD." I step back, giving him space. "I'm not here to stop your war, Castle. I'm not here to preach about my amazing scale of morality and how everyone is good. Fuck no. I'm here to tell you to be smarter about how you fight it. The attention you're drawing affects everyone working outside the system."
"Including you." It's not a question.
"Including me. I'm getting leeway with the law you despise. People who actually uphold 'law and order' have started to get comfortable with the existence of figures like myself. You'll destroy that."
He considers this, tactical mind working through the implications. "So what, we divvy up the city? You take your neighbourhoods, I take mine?"
First Daredevil and now Frank with this territory bullshit.
"No. You adapt. You learn subtlety. Then execute.... Or you find yourself fighting me instead of the criminals." I let that sink in. "And as you've just experienced, that's not a fight you win. Ever."
The threat hangs between us, clear but not aggressive. Castle isn't a man who responds to moral arguments or emotional appeals. He respects strength, strategy, and clear boundaries.
"I've got no beef with you, Bat," he says finally. "But don't expect me to change my methods because you ask nicely."
"I don't expect you to change because I asked. I expect you to change because it's the smart play." I gesture to his vest, visible through his open jacket. "That skull makes you a target, a known entity. The police have your name, your face, your history. How long before they corner you somewhere you can't shoot your way out of?"
He doesn't answer, but I can see the thought behind his eyes. Frank Castle is many things, but stupid isn't one of them.
"Think about it, how you play with your food matters." I continue. "Your war doesn't end if you're dead or in prison. The smart predator stays hidden until the kill. Didn't your time in service teach you that?"
A muscle twitches in his jaw. "What exactly are you proposing?"
"Coordination. Information sharing. You stay quieter, I help you find targets that matter—the heads of organizations, not just the street-level operators."
"You expect me to trust you? A guy in a fucking bat costume?"
"Yes....", Frank, you wear a vest with a skull painted on it. Don't get me started on that occasional school shooter trench coat...
"I expect you to recognize an advantage when it's offered." I step back further, preparing to leave. "Your choice, Castle. Adapt or keep painting targets on your back. Either way, the messy bloodbaths stop tonight."
He doesn't respond immediately, weighing options with the calculating precision of a trained operator. Finally, he gives a barely perceptible nod.
"I'll think about it."
Damn. I didn't think that kind of answer was possible from him.
It's not agreement, but it's not rejection either. With Frank Castle, that's as good as I'm likely to get.
For now.
"One more thing," I add before departing. "The Russians at the Harper Street warehouse. Don't hit them tomorrow night."
His eyes narrow suspiciously. "Why? What's your interest there?"
"They're receiving a shipment I've been tracking. Something that leads back to bigger fish. I need to follow that thread before it's cut."
"HYDRA," he says, surprising me with his knowledge. "Yeah, I know about them."
Bruh...
The Ancient One exaggerating....
"Then you understand the importance of not disrupting that operation."
He considers this, then nods again. "Harper Street is yours. For now."
"Appreciate it." I fire my grapple to the upper levels of the construction site. "See you around, Castle."
"Hey," he calls as I prepare to ascend. "You got a name? Something other than 'the Bat'?"
I pause, looking back at him. "Batman."
A short, humorless laugh escapes him. "Original."
"See ya, bud."