Chapter 11 – The Art of Persuasion

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Jack sat cross-legged on the cold rooftop, his expression calm, his posture lazy. The city lights of New York flickered in the background, painting a golden glow on his face.

Across from him, the assassin leader sat frozen, his body perfectly still—not because he was tied up, but because he literally couldn't move.

Jack rested his chin on his palm. "Alright, let's start with something simple—why were you following me?"

The assassin's lips parted slightly, as if trying to respond, but no sound came out.

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Huh. Are you a mute?"

The leader's eyes twitched with frustration.

Jack tapped his chin, humming in thought. "Hmm… no, I definitely heard you speak before."

Then realization dawned. "Oh, right. Acupoints. Kekekeke."

He reached forward and casually poked the man's throat.

The assassin immediately gasped, sucking in air like he had been drowning.

Jack grinned. "Sorry, forgot about that. Happens more than you'd think."

The leader scowled, but his voice was steady. "Just kill me. I won't talk."

Jack nodded thoughtfully. "Okay."

Without hesitation, he touched his earring.

Ruyi Jingu Bang appeared in his grasp.

The staff extended instantly, its tip stopping just a hair's breadth away from the assassin's nose.

The leader's eyes went wide.

"WAIT—!"

Jack paused mid-motion, tilting his head. "Hmm?"

The assassin swallowed hard, sweat forming on his brow.

"Aren't you supposed to… I don't know, persuade me?"

Jack shrugged. "Nah, I don't really care."

Silence.

The assassin stared at him, utterly baffled.

Jack smiled, resting his staff lazily on his shoulder. "Look, man. Torture is boring. I ask, you say no, I break a finger, you still say no, then we repeat until you either talk or die. That's like, an hour of my life wasted."

He twirled his staff. "So I'd rather just skip to the end."

The assassin hesitated, his jaw clenching.

Then—his entire demeanor changed.

His posture loosened, and his eyes lost the cold defiance from earlier.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I don't even know who my superior is. Even as a leader, I'm still just a grunt in their eyes. I do what I'm told, and that's it."

Jack clicked his tongue. "Tsk. So you're just a little errand boy?"

The leader stiffened slightly but didn't argue.

Jack sighed dramatically and scratched his ear. "Fine, fine. What do you know about New York then? Like this Kingpin guy?"

The assassin's eyes gleamed.

"I know plenty. His empire, his network, his people. I can tell you about his territory."

Jack grinned.

"Now we're talking."

He leaned forward. "Alright, let's hear it."

The assassin took a deep breath—and began to spill everything.

…

Deep within the heart of Chinatown, in a dimly lit chamber lined with intricate wooden carvings and ancient scrolls, Madame Gao sat in silence.

The scent of burning incense curled through the air, the only movement in the otherwise still room.

She carefully examined a report, the parchment aged, her frail fingers tracing the ink with a practiced touch.

The words on the page were meaningless now—she had read them a dozen times already.

Her thoughts were elsewhere.

She had been away.

Her focus had been on The Hand's grander ambitions—the dragon bones beneath New York, the hidden power waiting to be unearthed.

But now, another problem demanded her attention.

A knock at the door.

"Enter."

The heavy wooden door slid open, and a woman in dark robes stepped inside.

Her second-in-command. Loyal, disciplined, and efficient.

She bowed. "Madame Gao, we have… news."

Gao slowly exhaled, already weary. "Speak."

The woman stepped forward, voice measured. "A sighting. A man using techniques resembling K'un-Lun's martial arts."

Gao's expression remained unreadable, but her fingers paused on the parchment.

Her voice, when she spoke, was calm, measured. "The Hand has many warriors trained in such techniques. Is he one of ours?"

The woman shook her head. "No, Madame. He is not associated with The Hand."

That made Gao look up.

A stranger. Someone outside the Hand's influence—yet moving with the grace of a K'un-Lun disciple.

Impossible.

"Where is he now?"

"Last seen in Hell's Kitchen, Madame."

Gao's fingers tapped the wooden table softly.

"Hell's Kitchen."

That brought another issue to mind.

Her meeting with Wilson Fisk had been… unsatisfactory.

She had helped him take control of Hell's Kitchen, expanded his empire, bolstered his power.

And yet, his recent actions had begun to undermine her.

Fisk was a man of great ambition, but ambition often bred arrogance.

She had seen it before. She had broken men like him before.

But this new variable—this unknown warrior—was an issue she had not foreseen.

She glanced back at her lieutenant. "And the scouts we sent to observe him?"

A slight hesitation.

"…We have not heard from them, Madame."

Gao's eyes narrowed.

She had lived for over a century, seen warriors rise and fall, watched men build empires only to see them crumble.

And now, a shadow moved through her city—one she did not recognize.

She tapped her cane against the floor, rising slowly.

"Find out who he is."

Her voice was soft. But it carried weight.

"If he is from K'un-Lun… I will deal with him personally."

The woman bowed low. "Yes, Madame."

As the lieutenant exited, Gao turned toward the dim candlelight flickering on her desk.

A shadow she did not cast had entered her world.

And she did not like shadows she could not control.

…

Back in Hell's Kitchen, on the edge of a crumbling rooftop, Jack stood.

The assassin leader sat before him, bruised, beaten, and out of breath.

Jack stretched, yawning. "Well, that was fun."

The assassin scowled. "I told you everything I know."

Jack scratched his head. "Yeah. Pretty underwhelming, to be honest. Expected some grand conspiracy, secret underground bunkers, maybe a ninja clan or two."

The assassin's expression twitched.

Jack grinned knowingly. "Ahhh. So there is a ninja clan. Nice."

The assassin cursed under his breath.

Jack stepped forward and tapped the man's forehead.

The assassin's muscles unlocked instantly, the acupoint release flooding life back into his limbs.

The leader gasped, rolling his shoulders as movement returned.

Jack patted his cheek, lightly slapping him twice.

"Go. Correct your way of life. Or don't. I don't really care."

The assassin clenched his fists, glaring at him. But he didn't attack.

Instead, he slowly got up, backed away, then vanished into the night.

Jack watched him go, then turned his gaze upward.

The sky above Hell's Kitchen was a deep, endless gray—gloomy, heavy, soaked with city lights and secrets.

Jack exhaled, his breath fogging slightly in the cold.

"I really am in a new world, huh?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the wind brush against his skin.

Then he grinned.

"Well, let's start small, shall we?"

He cracked his knuckles, glancing toward the distant skyline.

From where he stood, he could see the towering structure of Fisk Tower.

A monolith of power, rising above Hell's Kitchen like a king surveying his empire.

Jack smirked.

"Let's take things slow and have a dance."

And then—

He danced.

Right there, in the middle of the empty street.

With no audience, no reason, no plan.

Jack twirled, hopped, and swayed, his body moving with a fluid grace that made no sense in the cold, dark streets of Hell's Kitchen.

He spun on his heel, arms spreading as he let his voice ring out, singing softly.

"Darling, I... will be loving you... till we're seventy—"

His voice echoed through the silent roads, bouncing off the buildings.

Somewhere, in the distance, a homeless man peeked out from an alley, blinking in confusion.

A taxi driver, stopped at a red light, furrowed his brows as he saw a young man in ancient robes waltzing through the middle of the street, singing Ed Sheeran.

Jack twirled once more, his robes flowing around him, his expression content.

Because at this moment—

He was exactly where he wanted to be.

…

In the quiet, dimly lit chamber of Xavier's Mansion, Professor Charles Xavier sat in his wheelchair, his fingers lightly resting against the sleek surface of Cerebro.

The machine hummed softly around him, the large dome enclosing him in an infinite web of voices, thoughts, and presences across the world.

Beside him, Ororo Munroe—Storm—stood in quiet observation. Every now and then, Charles liked to use Cerebro to search for new meta humans—those in need, those lost, those afraid.

And today, he found one. His mind focused, and the world before him blurred into a different place. 

A lone Tibetan mountain. Snow-covered slopes stretched endlessly, winds howling through the monastery built at the peak.

Charles' voice was calm, but firm. "A new meta human has emerged."

Ororo stepped forward slightly. "Where?"

"Tibet," Charles answered. "A young boy, barely into his teenage years. His X-gene has just manifested."

Ororo watched as Charles' face grew solemn. "And?"

Charles sighed. "He is afraid. Afraid of himself. Afraid of hurting those around him."

A flicker of sadness passed over his face. "He ran away from his monastery, fearing what he might become."

Storm's gaze hardened. "We can't leave him like that."

Charles nodded. "Ororo, take young Scott with you. Take the X-Jet and retrieve him."

Storm raised a brow. "Are you sure Scott is ready? He's still a teenager."

Charles smiled slightly. "He needs to learn how to lead under pressure. This will be his first step."

Ororo exhaled, then nodded. "Understood. We'll bring him home."

She turned, heading out of the chamber. As the doors slid shut behind her, Charles closed his eyes. And then—he did what he always did. He searched again. Just to make sure he hadn't missed anything.

Cerebro pulsed once more, expanding his awareness, stretching across cities, across countries. He skimmed through thousands of minds, their thoughts flashing through his consciousness like distant echoes.

A woman crying in Paris. A boy dreaming in Cairo. A soldier marching in Moscow. And then—He felt it.

A foreign energy.

It was unlike anything he had ever sensed before. It came from Hell's Kitchen. His mind sharpened, focusing in on the presence. And what he saw—confused him.

A young man, dressed in flowing traditional robes, long hair cascading down his back, moving with effortless grace.

He was dancing.

Alone, in the middle of the street.

A slow, elegant waltz, his feet moving in perfect rhythm, as if he were partnered with an invisible force.

The city was dark, the streets empty, yet he danced as if the entire world was his audience.

And then—He turned.

He looked directly at Charles. His golden eyes pierce. Not just at him—through him. Through Cerebro. Through the astral plane. Through the very essence of his mind.

And then—The young man spoke.

Not with his lips. But with his very presence.

"A bird does not ask why it flies, nor does the wind question where it blows. Yet here you are, an old man peeking through the keyhole of the universe, hoping to understand what is beyond the door."

Charles froze. His breath caught. The young man tilted his head, a lazy smirk forming on his lips. 

"Curiosity is a fine thing, old man. But let me tell you a secret."

His voice—his very existence—pressed against Xavier's consciousness like an ocean against a pebble.

"Some doors should stay closed."

And then—Cerebro shut down.

The chamber went dark.

Charles gasped, his mind snapping back into his body as if it had been forcibly ejected from another plane of reality. His hands gripped the arms of his wheelchair, his breath shaky, uneven. He had seen thousands of minds.

But never—not once—had a mind seen him back. For the first time in decades, Charles Xavier felt an emotion he thought he had long since mastered.

Dread.