A/N: I wrote this for three reasons:
1. Wesley was too fucking smart to die like he did.
2. I hate Karen's character.
3. Wesley deserved to live. There. Somebody said it.
There was a part of James Wesley that always admired Karen Page. There was a cunning ruthless to her that was both provocative and familiar.
When he stared into the chamber of the gun he'd left in the middle of the table, he knew why she felt so familiar.
She would do whatever was necessary for her own life, and her own cause. Just as Wesley himself did—just as his employer had learned to do as well. For all of her flouting and touting about, she had become one of the monsters she fought against.
Karen was her own worst enemy, though she kept the gun pointed squarely at him. She'd pull the trigger, but she wouldn't regret it later. She'd chosen herself over him. She would, perhaps, he decided as he looked into her wavering gaze, have nightmares. Horrific nightmares that may well keep her awake for weeks or months.
But she wouldn't regret it.
One day, her nightmares would stop, and she'd understand the path others like Wesley had walked before her. She'd see the light at the end, and she'd know what must be done to finally arrive there.
He laughed quietly to himself as she pulled the trigger. Karen was more like Wilson Fisk than any of her little friends even knew.
But he knew.
And as she pulled the trigger several times into what she believed to be his unprotected chest, he laughed and laughed until both he and the chair he sat in were knocked back onto the floor.