MARVEL'S BIG VILLAIN

Jason stood up and retorted, "What price has New York paid for this so-called peace you talk about?"

He started counting on his fingers. "Illegal arms deals. Mutant growth hormone flooding the streets. Underground casinos and human trafficking rings running with impunity. Every legitimate business in Hell's Kitchen forced to pay Wilson Fisk's 'protection tax.'"

He stepped forward, voice growing sharper. "And let's not forget, anyone who ever dared compete with Fisk is now wearing cement shoes at the bottom of the Hudson."

Jason narrowed his eyes. "Tell me, Wesley, is that the kind of peace you want to defend?"

Wesley clenched his jaw, struggling for a counterargument. "At least the civilians the ones who'd otherwise be caught in the crossfire are alive."

Jason scoffed. "Spoken like a true believer. Wake up, Wesley. We're not heroes. We're criminals. Fisk is just another devil in a suit, preaching 'order' while keeping his hands soaked in blood."

"Shut up!" Wesley snapped, red-faced, fists tightening. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. I don't have the answers you want. Get out of my house."

Jason smirked, leaning back into the chair like he had all the time in the world. "Then I guess I live here now. Hope you've got a spare bedroom."

Wesley groaned, rubbing his temples. "Why me? You know plenty of people."

Jason's expression darkened. "Because you're Fisk's right hand. The man who keeps the machine running. If anyone knows what's really happening, it's you." He exhaled sharply. "Besides, there's a three-million-dollar bounty on my head. Every 'friend' I had is probably weighing whether I'm worth more alive or dead."

Wesley sighed, rubbing his face. Jason had him pinned he wasn't leaving without an answer.

After a moment, something seemed to click in Wesley's mind. His head shot up. "Wait. There is something."

Jason's eyes sharpened. "Talk."

"Since your 'betrayal,' Fisk ordered a full-scale purge." Wesley's voice was low. "Your entire crew? Gone. Your businesses? Seized. Even guys who just took orders from you got reassigned shipped off to operations outside New York."

Jason barely reacted, already expecting as much.

"But… there's one exception."

Jason frowned. "Who?"

"Paul."

Jason's blood ran cold. "You better be damn sure about that."

Wesley nodded grimly. "Your most trusted guy. He should've been taken out first, yet not only did he survive he was given a chunk of your old territory."

For a moment, Jason was silent. Then his fists clenched, knuckles turning white.

"Tell me you're not screwing with me, Wesley."

"I know the stakes," Wesley said solemnly. "I wouldn't lie about this."

Jason searched his face for any sign of deception, but Wesley's gaze was steady.

"Son of a bitch." Jason slammed his fist on the bar, breathing heavily.

Paul.

His brother in arms. The man he trusted above all others.

After a long pause, Jason exhaled sharply and stood. "Keep your phone on. I'll be in touch."

Wesley's expression twisted. "Damn it, Jason! This is the last time I help you."

Jason chuckled, pulling out his phone. "You sure about that?" He tapped the screen, showing Wesley a paused video.

Wesley's face drained of color.

On the screen: a video of his wife. And her lover his broken, mangled hand the result of Wesley's earlier 'punishment.'

The audio? Every single word of their conversation tonight.

"If you don't want trouble from either the NYPD or Fisk, you'll keep helping me," Jason said smoothly.

Wesley's face contorted with rage. His hands twitched toward his gun.

"Three times," Wesley snarled. "I'll help you three more times. Then you delete everything. No backups."

Jason smirked, twirling his phone. "We'll see."

And with that, he walked out the door.

Wesley slumped against the stairs, feeling like he'd just signed a deal with the devil.

---

Midnight, Five Blocks Away

Jason moved quickly through the streets, his head low. Paul lived in a ten-story apartment complex a step down from Jason's old high-rise but still a solid middle-class spot.

Within half an hour, Jason stood outside the building, staring up at Paul's darkened fifth-floor window.

Something felt… off.

He shook the unease away and walked inside.

At Paul's door, Jason knocked—three sharp raps.

No answer.

He knocked again.

Inside, there was a muffled curse. Then: "Who the hell "

Jason dropped his voice. "It's me."

Silence. Then hurried movement.

A few seconds later, the door creaked open.

A tall, muscular Black man in his early twenties peered out, eyes flicking down the hallway before yanking Jason inside.

"Boss," Paul breathed, shutting the door quickly.

The apartment was modest but neat not the kind of place a lone man kept clean.

Jason eyed the room. "Lisa and the kids asleep?"

Paul's face softened. "Yeah. Lisa's feeding the baby should be out soon."

Jason nodded. "Sorry for showing up like this."

Paul waved it off. "Nah, man. You saved my ass back in Hell's Kitchen. Gave me everything this home, a way out. I owe you my life."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "Getting sentimental on me, Paul?"

Paul chuckled. "I'm serious, boss. You're family."

Jason exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I just need to lay low for a while. Fisk put a price on my head, and I'm running out of safehouses."

Paul's smile didn't waver. "You can crash here as long as you need."

Jason nodded, finally relaxing a fraction. "Thanks, man. You got any food? Haven't eaten since "

"Yeah, yeah. Got some leftover pizza. I'll heat it up."

Paul turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

Jason slumped onto the couch, exhausted.

Then, just as Paul reached the fridge…

He pulled out his phone.

His fingers moved quickly, typing a message.

"Jason is here. Come fast."