About twenty minutes had passed…
The phone rang.
Heisenberg picked it up and glanced at the caller ID — Barbara.
He sighed.
Probably nine out of ten times, she called about the same thing: the ice cube stunt with the reporters.
Casually, he hung up. Boring. Let the PR team handle the fallout — that's what they were paid for.
S.H.I.E.L.D. had already pulled up enough intel on him. Ever since he dismissed their last call, they'd stopped pestering him. For now.
Despite the media storm, the plaza outside City Hall remained chaotic but balanced — supporters and detractors of Heisenberg mingled, arguing, protesting, defending. None of it disturbed his nap.
He didn't wake until 4 p.m.
The sun had shifted, casting golden rays through the vast windows of his penthouse. He laid there a moment longer, basking. Kryptonian physiology — even hybridized by whatever weird twist of origin had birthed him — reacted greedily to sunlight. And while it had only been a week since he began seriously feeding off Earth's yellow sun, it was already addicting.
He lazily considered stepping outside. But the truth was — he wasn't yet sure if his body, only recently infused with solar energy, could handle flying into the actual sun. Not yet.
But someday? Oh, someday, he'd bathe in it. Swim in solar flares. Maybe build a palace in the corona.
His dreams went further.
Why stop at basking in the sun? If he ever found a world with real gods — Olympus, Asgard, Celestials — what stopped him from becoming one himself?
A Sun God. With a star of his own. Portable, weaponized, alive.
But that was the distant future. For now, Earth held what he needed: origin material.
Still lounging, Heisenberg mulled over schemes. Plans. Dozens of them.
At first, he'd considered inviting stronger foes to Earth. Provoke Galactus. Leak Earth's coordinates into Kree databases. Let Surtur out for a walk.
And when Earth broke — literally shattered — humans would be forced into space. Evolution by cataclysm. Beautiful chaos.
But Marvel Earth wasn't unguarded. There were always... obstacles.
Like the Ancient One. Dormammu's old rival. A time-loop trap was not something Heisenberg wanted to be caught in.
So he pivoted.
No apocalypse. Not yet. But Earth still needed to reach the stars.
Asgard. That was an option.
What if he could convince them — or rather, manipulate them — into letting Earth access the Bifröst? Use it as a gateway to the Nine Realms? Instant colonization.
Even if Odin was stubborn — which he was, despite his age — the man wouldn't last forever. According to the cinematic timeline, after Odin's death came Hela.
And Hela… Heisenberg smirked. That was a negotiation he looked forward to. Persuade her, maybe seduce her — and gain access to millennia of Asgardian tech and military logistics.
Still, that was just one proposal.
Another?
The Collector. Taneleer Tivan. That obsessive hoarder of rarities.
Heisenberg laughed to himself. What if I sell myself to the Collector? Not literally, of course. But imagine the leverage. A living, breathing Kryptonian — the only one of his kind. The price would be astronomical.
And once the transaction was "complete"? Use the credits and influence to acquire a fleet of ships. Beam them to every government on Earth. Let human greed do the rest.
The planet would be halfway across the galaxy in three years flat — not out of desperation, but ambition.
Whether humanity was driven by hunger or by pride didn't matter. What mattered was movement.
Expansion.
Transformation.
Soon enough, the door to his villa slid open.
He turned his head lazily. A man stood there — unfamiliar. Wearing a custom, almost theatrical outfit. Behind him — slumped, unconscious — was Bullseye.
"Oh?" Heisenberg raised an eyebrow. "Bullseye? Caught already?"
The stranger dropped the assassin to the floor with a thud.
"You killed Kingpin," the man said. "I thought maybe you had a sense of justice. So why are you letting Bullseye run Hell's Kitchen into the ground?"
Bullseye's body bounced slightly as he hit the marble. Heisenberg kicked him in the gut. No response.
He sniffed. Ether.
He glanced up at the man, amused. "Mongolian sweat medicine? Really?"
Before he could continue, the intruder bolted. In a flash, he was at the balcony — leaping over the edge. His cloak expanded, revealing a basic glider rig.
Heisenberg chuckled. "Interesting."
In an instant, he blurred forward, breaking the sound barrier as he intercepted the glider mid-air. One-handed, he yanked the man back up and slammed him onto the rooftop.
"You Daredevil?" he asked, towering over the gasping man. "You horny? You blind? You trying out a new costume?"
That's right. That bastard in red? He's none other than Hell's Kitchen's own devil—Daredevil.
Or Matt Murdock, if you're the type who pays attention to whispered identities and courtroom dramas.
Heisenberg stood over the battered vigilante, raising an eyebrow. The so-called Man Without Fear couldn't string together a sentence through the pain. And yet, he didn't cry out once. Not when his ribs cracked like dry branches, not when Bullseye got a little too enthusiastic with the crowbar.
Stubborn bastard.
Heisenberg sighed. "What am I supposed to do with you?"
Matt's face was swollen, bruised, but he still radiated that self-righteous aura. A hero to the bitter end. Even while tied up and bleeding all over Heisenberg's floor.
A lesser man would just kill him. But Heisenberg wasn't stupid. Kill Daredevil, and suddenly you've got Luke Cage kicking down your door. Jessica Jones with her fists and snark. Danny Rand, the Iron Fist, doing whatever it is kung fu trust-fund babies do when pissed off.
And maybe, just maybe, it draws out the one man Heisenberg genuinely respects.
The Punisher.
No, Heisenberg didn't want Daredevil dead. But letting him go? That was out of the question.
He smirked. "Let's keep him. See who comes knocking."
If they're half as stubborn as this one, maybe they'd be good recruits... for something a little more unjust.
His gaze flicked to Bullseye—currently groaning and clutching his backside.
Heisenberg's eyes glowed red for a brief moment.
Bullseye screamed, jumping like he'd been shot. "Ahhhh! My ass—!"
He turned, ready to unleash a tirade, but froze when he saw Heisenberg's look.
"Boss, I—I got blindsided, he—he used some kinda gas, I didn't—"
"It's fine," Heisenberg said with a lazy flick of the wrist. "Just lock him up."
Bullseye relaxed… slightly. As he hoisted Daredevil onto his shoulder, he kept talking. "People around here call him Daredevil. Think he's tough, but he's just a junkie in spandex. I nearly had him—"
"Dog," Heisenberg interrupted, patting Bullseye's shoulder, "You're rambling. And you're embarrassing yourself."
"Yes, sir."
Bullseye scurried off.
But his ego was bleeding just as much as Daredevil. Each step filled with bitterness, and shame. He glanced down at the unconscious man in his arms and frowned.
Wait.
He knew this face.
That lawyer. That blind one. Matt… Murdock?
Bullseye's eye twitched.
"I got beat up by a goddamn blind man?!"
He dropped Daredevil onto a bench in the abandoned lab beneath the Heisenberg Building—formerly the Golden Building, one of Kingpin's old meth cookhouses. Now just a graveyard for junk and old grudges.
Bullseye paced. "I should turn this place into a holding pen. Keep all those damn vigilantes here. String 'em up like trophies…"
With a twisted grin, he unsheathed a throwing knife and hovered it near Daredevil's face.
"Let's see what you really look like under there."
He sliced off the mask.
And froze.
"...It is him."
Anger exploded. With one swift motion, Bullseye slapped him across the face. CRACK! Blood sprayed from Matt's mouth.
Bullseye blinked at his hand.
"Wait, was I always that strong?"
No. Matt was already wrecked.
He tore open Matt's shirt. Bruises. Purple swellings. Fractures. At least a dozen.
Heisenberg had really gone to town.
"Damn… but he didn't say kill him. Should I—take him to the hospital?"
Bullseye cringed.
Even he didn't go to real hospitals. And now he had to escort his archenemy?
Ring-ring-ring.
The phone buzzed.
"Boss?"
"I just remembered," Heisenberg said casually. "I think I broke some of his ribs. Don't let him die."
"...Yes."
"And your ass. You're going too. I did light you up a little back there. Consider it punishment."
Click.
Bullseye stood there in silence. Clenched teeth. Hate boiling behind his eyes.
But there was no getting out of it.
He threw Daredevil into the car, got in, and—
"AAGGHHH!!!"
His scream echoed through the garage.
---
Three Hours Later – Metro General Hospital
In the corner of the ER, two nurses whispered.
"Rich people are freaks," one murmured.
"Did you see that guy with the target tattoo? That's Bullseye, right?"
"Yeah. They say his butt was dislocated."
"And the guy he brought in? Seven ribs shattered, internal bleeding, mask burned into his face."
"You think they were doing that—uh—position from the ceiling fan?"
"Ugh, don't make me picture that!"
They shuddered.
Meanwhile, Bullseye sat on the hospital bed, glaring at the ceiling, his pride shattered.
Damn that blind bastard.
Next time… next time he wouldn't be so easy on him.