Chapter 42 – Desperation and Depravity

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The air in Fisk Tower was suffocating. For the first time in his reign, Wilson Fisk felt something foreign clawing at his chest—an emotion he refused to acknowledge.

It wasn't anger. It wasn't frustration. It was fear. A single man had dismantled half of his empire in less than a month. Half.

His trusted assassin, Bullseye, had been reduced to a cripple. Mary Walker—gone. Vanished as if she never existed. His six commanders? Reduced to three.

Cody Felan, the Irish gang leader, sat across from him, his usual arrogance nowhere to be found.

Peter Stokes, head of the Stokes Crime Family, rubbed his temple as he muttered under his breath.

Michael Adams, the medical mogul who ran the hospitals, shelters, and charity fronts, adjusted his tie with shaky hands.

The weight of their losses hung thick in the air. Fisk sat behind his desk, his massive frame looming in the dim light. He stared at them, then at his reflection on the darkened window. This city was slipping from his grasp. His knuckles turned white as his fingers dug into the mahogany desk.

Then, in a low, guttural voice, he spoke. "Problems… are just opportunities that haven't presented themselves yet."

Silence.

Cody leaned forward. "So what's the play, boss?"

Peter sighed. "We're out of plays. We've tried to smear him in the media, but it's not sticking. The new social media platforms are making it impossible to control the narrative. The second we push a story, forums and Twitter shut it down. People are questioning everything."

Michael nodded. "Even now, protestors are demanding the NYPD arrest Jack Hou. The pressure is there, but Jack himself? He doesn't care."

Fisk listened. He processed. Then, he made a decision. A final, desperate gamble. He had already sent Vanessa to the UK. She was the only thing that truly mattered. If he was going to lose Hell's Kitchen, then no one was going to have it.

He spoke slowly, deliberately. "Cody." The Irishman straightened up.

"Distribute your strongest batch to the streets. Make it free. Every corner, every block. Have the brothel girls slip it to anyone who walks in. I want the entire Kitchen drowning in it."

Cody whistled. "You want to start a plague, huh?"

Fisk ignored him and turned to Michael.

"I want every shelter and hospital in shambles by this night. Make it look like Jack's clones did it. Burn the resources, shut down the services, force people into the streets."

Michael stiffened. "You want me to sabotage my own sector?"

Fisk glared. "Your sector means nothing if Jack wins."

Michael swallowed hard and nodded.

Then, he turned to Peter.

"Spread the rumors. Jack's unpredictable. Spin it to our advantage. Make people believe he's targeting our community services. Pin everything on him—every burnt shelter, every dead addict, every ruined family. The parade tonight? Make sure the chaos reaches it."

Peter exhaled. "This kind of smear takes time to spread."

Fisk's expression darkened. "Then start moving."

The room fell into motion. Cody pulled out his phone, barking orders in Gaelic. Michael texted his men, his fingers trembling. Peter lit a cigarette and sighed before making his own calls.

Fisk leaned back in his chair, his fists clenched. If he was going down… He was taking Hell's Kitchen with him.

…

The streets of Hell's Kitchen churned with chaos.

Cody Felan's men moved like shadows, creeping through every alley, every rundown block. They handed out 'free samples' of their most potent batch—drugs laced with chemicals so addictive, so toxic, that one hit was enough to hook a man for life.

The homeless weren't just given drugs. They were given food laced with it. Some took it willingly, their hunger overpowering their instincts. Others? They had no idea. 

It spread like wildfire. The smell of desperation mixed with the putrid scent of decay in Michael Adams' collapsing sector.

The shelters? Set ablaze. The ones that weren't burning were flooded with desperate, displaced people clawing at the doors, trying to get in. Staff members screamed at them to leave, overwhelmed by the sheer numbers.

The hospitals? Purging their patients. One by one, people were being dragged out into the streets. "We can't help you! The hospital has been threatened by Jack Hou himself!" The security guards shoved out the sick, the weak, the injured, dumping them onto the cold pavement like trash.

And then there was Peter Stokes. His men whispered in the right ears, planted stories in the right newsrooms. The headlines started type in.

"Hell's Kitchen in Crisis—Jack Hou Declares War on the Needy?"

"Golden Peach or Golden Tyrant?"

"Meta-Menace Jack Hou—Protector or Dictator?"

The media machine started to spin its web. The casualties, the destruction, the pain—it was all placed on one man. And in the chaos of it all, J. Jonah Jameson stormed into the Daily Bugle's newsroom, his voice shaking the walls.

"GET ME A PHOTO OF JACK HOU!"

His assistant pointed at the desk. "Sir, we already have one—"

Jameson snatched it up, scowling at the grainy, blurry image of a figure leaping across rooftops. "This blurry mess? This could be ANYBODY! How do we know this ain't just one of his damn clones?"

An editor hesitated. "Does it matter? Clone or not, he's still the one behind all this."

Jameson's face twisted in rage. "OF COURSE IT MATTERS, YOU DIMWIT! How can you be this stupid?! You're FIRED!"

The assistant muttered. "That's the third editor this week, sir. We haven't even replaced the others."

Jameson turned back toward the fleeing editor. "Wait, you! Congratu-fuckin'-lations, you're rehired!"

The editor stumbled back to his desk, looking half-relieved, half-traumatized.

Then, a new voice rang out from the intern section. "Boss! There's a rumor that Jack Hou is destroying shelters and threatening hospitals!"

Jameson froze. Then, his face split into a devilish grin. "I KNEW IT! Get the news van ready—we're going to the field."

His assistant blinked. "Wait… you're going yourself?"

Jameson snatched his coat, storming toward the door. "OF COURSE I AM! I'm the FACE of this goddamn paper! Let's MOVE!"

The newsroom erupted into a frenzy. The wheels of public opinion were turning. And Hell's Kitchen was descending into madness.

…

The streets of Jack's territory pulsed with life. Jack stood atop a rooftop, gazing at the sprawling festivities below. Golden lanterns flickered, casting an ethereal glow over the streets. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts, caramel apples, and the faint, crisp scent of autumn. The parade was about to begin.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted them. A familiar group of people, standing out among the crowd. Jack's golden eyes gleamed. "Well, well, well…"

With a single leap, he descended gracefully onto the cobblestone street, landing right in front of them with his usual dramatic flair. 

His robe billowed as he spread his arms wide, flashing his signature unhinged grin. "X-Kids! X-Nannies! X-Dilfs! And my personal favorite—X-Milfs!"

Scott Summers sighed, rubbing his temple. "We already greeted you. No need to do it again."

Jack beamed. "Oh, my dear ruby eyes, that was just one of my clones. I am the real deal."

Ororo crossed her arms, raising an amused brow. "And how exactly can we tell the difference?"

Jack placed a hand over his chest, dramatically offended. "My love, how can you not see? I'm the most handsome!"

The group collectively groaned. Ororo just chuckled. Then, Dr. Moira MacTaggert stepped forward. She didn't hesitate to place a hand on Jack's shoulder, then lightly pressed along his arm, then his collarbone—her eyes narrowing with pure scientific curiosity.

Jack sputtered, stepping back. "Buy me dinner first, ma'am!"

Moira tilted her head. "Fascinating. If only we were in my lab—I'd be able to analyze your body structure properly."

Jack narrowed his eyes. "Uh-huh. And what do you mean by 'analyze'? Because I'd like to remind you, dear doctor, that I'm not into vivisection."

Moira ignored him, clearly too intrigued by his existence. "Rumors say that your clones are created from strands of your own hair."

Jack immediately took a step back. "Nope. Not happening. I don't like being analyzed unless there's some good ol' fashioned 'anal' involved first."

The X-Men recoiled in collective horror. Jean covered her face, shaking her head. Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. Ororo just sighed, as if she had already expected this.

Jack flashed a grin, then spotted Tenzin among the younger boys. He clasped his hands together and bowed slightly. "Amitabha."

Tenzin returned the greeting, smiling.

Jack then turned to the younger X-kids. "Enjoy the parade, little monk and miscreants. And for the love of whatever god you pray to, brush your damn teeth after all that candy."

With that, he vanished into the horizon.

Colossus arrived, scanning the younger mutants. "Are we ready to follow the parade?" The X-Men nodded, and they all started moving.

Moira stepped beside Ororo, nudging her lightly. "He's quite handsome for a lunatic."

Ororo gave her a side glance. "You're on your fourth life, and you're still talking about men?"

Moira huffed. "Ouch, who cares at this point? If I combine all my lifetimes, I've already outlived Charles."

Ororo sighed. "You're impossible."

Moira smirked. "Oh, come on, Storm. What do you think about Jack?"

Ororo didn't even hesitate. "He's a lunatic."

Moira grinned. "Ah, but they say the crazy ones are the best—if you can tame them."

Ororo stopped walking, looking at Moira as if she had lost her mind.

Moira laughed. "What? Too much?"

Ororo sighed again and walked faster.

Moira chased after her, grinning mischievously. "Wait, come back! Let's talk about your taste in men!"

Ororo pretended not to hear her. And so, the X-Men walked deeper into the Golden Peach, where the event would only get more chaotic.

…

The afternoon light stretched over Hell's Kitchen, painting long shadows against the rooftops. Jack moved like a specter, leaping gracefully from building to building, his white robe flowing behind him.

As he landed atop a decrepit warehouse, he reached for his hair, ready to multiply his forces. But as soon as he bit down, nothing happened. He paused, blinking.

Then, he pulled his hand forward and looked at the strands between his fingers. White. Jack stared. Then, it hit him. "Kekekeke—I'm too method on playing the old perv!"

He had plucked the fake beard hairs from his Halloween disguise instead of his actual hair.

He grinned, shaking his head. Then, he reached for his real hair, plucked a handful, and bit down. As if reality itself rippled, several clones popped into existence around him, each one stretching as if waking up from a long nap.

Jack grinned. "Alright, you know the drill—scatter and handle the remaining commanders. Let's finish our clean-up session before sunrise."

The clones cackled, mirroring Jack's insanity, then vanished into the city, leaping toward their respective targets.

Jack cracked his neck, stretching his arms. "Now then…" His golden eyes gleamed as he looked toward the skyline. "...Where should I go to have some real fun?"

**A/N**

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