James Wesley returned home, loosening his tie and taking off his suit jacket as he prepared to unwind for the evening...
"Good evening, Mr. Wesley." A hoarse voice echoed through the living room.
Wesley who had just taken a bottle of milk from the fridge stiffened momentarily, before regaining his composure.
"I wouldn't recommend going for a gun or trying anything foolish, Mr. Wesley. That's not your strong suit..." The voice seemed to anticipate his thoughts.
"...Sit at the table. Let's talk face to face. That's why I'm here."
After a brief moment of consideration, Wesley decided to comply. He was a smart man... he knew how to survive.
"Who are you?" The bespectacled, refined young man hesitated before asking the clichéd question.
"That's not important." The shadowed figure in the darkness spoke, a glinting pistol emerging from the gloom and pointing directly at Wesley, "The real question is... who are you?"
The figure didn't let Wesley reply, and instead continued:
"Mr. Wesley, at just twenty-eight, you own a duplex in Manhattan's wealthy district, wear a limited-edition Piaget Watch, and dress in custom Italian suits. Not to mention, you own three properties in Long Island and Brooklyn..."
"...Frankly, given your salary and background, this seems… improbable. You grew up in Hell's Kitchen, the son of working-class parents, barely scraping by on scholarships and charity to finish school. Now you're a manager at a trading firm... but even with your salary, affording this place would be a stretch."
As his personal details were laid bare, Wesley felt a chill. Whoever this was, they had done their homework down to the smallest details...
The gun in the darkness and the unseen speaker unnerved him. What did this stranger want?
"What's truly fascinating," the voice continued, "is that you graduated from Stanford Law, a promising young legal mind. And the 'generous donor' who funded your education? None other than Hell's Kitchen's infamous real estate mogul, Wilson Fisk... Or as he's more commonly feared, the Kingpin..."
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Wesley's pulse quickened, "You're here because of Wilson? Who sent you? The Russian mob? The Hand? The Mexican cartels?" His mind raced, listing off rival factions in Hell's Kitchen's underworld.
"Wow, Kingpin sure has a lot of enemies." The figure chuckled, "Like I said, my identity doesn't matter. I'm here to make a deal."
The shadow shifted slightly, revealing a hooded silhouette.
Wesley adjusted his glasses and leaned forward, "You want me to betray Wilson?"
The sharp-witted lawyer knew he wasn't the real target... only the crime lord he served could draw this kind of attention.
"Bingo!" The figure snapped his fingers, his tone almost playful, "Not 'betrayal'... nobody is foolish enough to ignore Kingpin's reputation. Most who cross him end up at the bottom of the Hudson. You, as his personal assistant, know that better than anyone."
"Then what do you want? I'm nobody special." Wesley was thoroughly confused now.
The hooded man gave a low laugh and slid the gun to the center of the table as if daring Wesley to make a move.
"I'm interested in Kingpin's empire... well, the 'legal' parts anyway. Hell's Kitchen is a mess. Fisk built his rule on blood and fear, but the Russians, the Hand, the cartels... they all want their territory back. A war is coming."
The figure paused, watching Wesley's furrowed brow, "I plan to kick all of them out. Including Kingpin."
Wesley stared dumbfounded, 'This guy's insane... Taking down Fisk and every major gang in Hell's Kitchen? Not even the NYPD could pull that off...'
Kingpin commanded thousands of ruthless men. If he wanted someone dead, their body would be fish food by dawn.
"You're thinking I'm either joking, or just plain crazy," The man smirked as if reading Wesley's mind, "I don't need you to believe me. I don't even need your word. I came here tonight for one reason, Mr. Wesley..."
A deliberate pause. Then, "Tomorrow night, Kingpin dies. So does his enforcer, Bullseye."
The words hit like a thunderbolt. Wesley's mind blanked.
'This lunatic's actually going to kill Fisk and Bullseye?!'
"And when they're gone," the figure continued calmly, "You James Wesley, Kingpin's right hand, the man who manages his empire, will become one of the most powerful men in Hell's Kitchen."
Wesley's shock deepened as the plan unfolded...
"The only other person with your level of access is Leland Owlsley, Fisk's money man... That's if he cooperates. You'll take over Fisk's legitimate assets. As for the illegal operations? Well, I'm sure the Russians, the Hand, and the cartels will fight over those..."
"...Your job? Clean up fast. Rebrand yourself as a legitimate businessman, Hell's Kitchen's newest rising star. Then, you'll invest in a geneticist named Dr. Curt Connors. Fund his research."
Wesley's mouth hung open. This was a madman, one who laid out his coup like a business proposal. Did he really think Wesley wouldn't warn Fisk?
"You're smart. I appreciate that you didn't try to grab the gun. Otherwise you'd be meeting your maker right now."
The icy edge in the voice sent a shiver down Wesley's spine.
"Of course, you could run to Kingpin. Tell him some lunatic's coming to kill him and steal everything." Again, the figure anticipated his thoughts.
Wesley felt exposed, as if his mind were an open book.
"But… a man of your talent shouldn't settle for being a gangster's assistant. You could go much further, Mr. Wesley... That's if you're as smart as I think you are." With that, the shadow melted back into the darkness.
Silence returned to the room, leaving Wesley alone with the gun on the table and a storm of thoughts.
The Kingpin's right-hand man stared at the weapon, his expression unreadable...