Chapter 12: Ripples in the Dark

The scent of smoke still lingered in the air the next morning as Alexander Reid sat on his penthouse balcony, coffee in hand. From his vantage point, he could see the distant plume of gray smoke rising from the ruins of Warehouse 9. The faint glow of the sun was barely breaking over the horizon, casting an orange hue across the cityscape. Cars honked below, and life in New York went on as usual—but Alexander knew the underworld had been shaken. News reports were already flooding the airwaves—an attack on a suspected criminal storage facility, arson suspected, but no suspects identified. The authorities were treating it as another gang-related skirmish. Fisk's name had not been mentioned, but Alexander knew better. The king would feel this.

He sipped his coffee, the bitterness grounding him in the present, though his mind was racing ahead. The first strike was a success, but this was only the beginning.

[Task Progress: 1/3 Supply Chains Disrupted.]

The system notification hovered in his vision, a quiet reminder that his work was far from over. He had taken the first step, but Fisk's empire was vast. One wound was not enough to cripple the beast. It was merely a scratch.

Alexander flexed his fingers, feeling the strength surging through him from his recent level-ups. His muscles felt denser, his reflexes sharper. He had tasted power, and it had only increased his hunger. But power needed direction. He would not charge blindly into the dark.

He needed more information.

His first thought was to return to the docks, but he knew that area would now be swarming with both Fisk's men and the authorities. No, he needed to look elsewhere. His mind drifted back to the ledger he had recovered from Dock Office 17. The names listed there were not just suppliers—some were local informants, eyes and ears within the criminal network.

One name stood out: Marcus "Rat" Delgado.

A low-level fixer who handled minor shipments and kept an ear to the ground in Hell's Kitchen. According to the ledger, Delgado had a bar he frequented—The Rusted Nail.

That evening, under the cover of dusk, Alexander donned his usual dark attire and made his way to the bar. The streets of Hell's Kitchen were alive with activity. Neon signs flickered, casting distorted shadows on the damp pavement. The scent of rain mixed with the stench of garbage and alcohol. He kept his hood low, his eyes scanning every alleyway and corner.

The Rusted Nail was exactly as he expected. A grimy, dimly lit place, filled with the scent of stale beer, cheap whiskey, and desperation. The jukebox in the corner played a low, crackling tune, but the volume wasn't enough to drown out the murmurs of hushed conversations. Conversations about drugs, debts, and violence. These were people who knew the streets and knew trouble when they saw it.

Alexander slipped into a shadowed corner, his gaze sweeping the room until he found his target. Delgado was at the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey, his eyes darting around nervously as if expecting danger at any moment. He was a wiry man with thinning hair and sunken cheeks, the kind of person who survived by being useful to the powerful.

Perfect.

Alexander approached slowly, his presence calculated to be both unassuming yet authoritative. He slid onto the barstool beside Delgado without a word, causing the man to stiffen. Delgado glanced at him from the corner of his eye, his fingers tightening around his glass.

"Who the hell are you?" Delgado muttered, his voice low but edged with fear.

Alexander leaned in slightly, his voice cold and firm. "Someone who needs information. About Fisk. About his supply lines. You can either talk here, quietly, or we can step outside and talk louder."

Delgado's face paled. He looked around quickly, realizing there was no easy escape. The weight in Alexander's voice was not the bluff of a common thug—it was the tone of someone who meant every word.

"Look, man, I don't want any trouble. But if you cross Fisk..." Delgado whispered, his voice trembling.

"Fisk won't help you if you're dead," Alexander interrupted, his eyes narrowing. "Names. Routes. Tell me everything you know."

The fixer broke. Fear was a powerful tool, and Alexander wielded it expertly. Delgado spilled everything—shipment routes, warehouse locations, and the names of a few lieutenants overseeing Fisk's supply chain. He spoke quickly, his voice shaking with every word, desperate to get the information out and end the conversation.

Alexander committed it all to memory. Every name, every location. It was a roadmap to dismantling Fisk's empire.

Satisfied, he finished his drink and stood. Delgado slumped over the bar, his hand trembling as he reached for another shot. He knew the man would talk, but it didn't matter. Fear would work in Alexander's favor. The shadows would soon whisper his name.

[Task Updated: New Locations Identified for Supply Chains.]

Alexander stepped into the cold night air, the city lights reflecting in his eyes. He took a deep breath, the crisp air filling his lungs. The city felt different now. He was not a hero. He was not a villain. He was something else—a force moving through the dark, growing stronger with every step.

And Fisk was beginning to feel it.

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