Chapter 62:
[Jessica Jones POV]
[Jones's Apartment, New York City]
Working my list of contacts, one of them tells me they spotted Zoey roaming around a nightclub. It's a lead, albeit a faint one, but in my line of work, even the smallest glimmer of information can lead to a breakthrough. I jot down the details provided by my contact, making a mental note to follow up on it as soon as possible. Nightclubs are not exactly my scene, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I dig out some old clothes from the back of my closet, opting for something that won't draw too much attention but still allows me to blend in with the crowd. After all, the last thing I need is to stick out like a sore thumb and attract unwanted attention. With my disguise in place, I head out into the bustling streets of New York City, the neon lights of Times Square casting an otherworldly glow over the city that never sleeps.
[The Boon Floor Nightclub, New York City]
Navigating the maze of streets and alleyways, I finally arrive at the nightclub in question, a pulsating mass of music and flashing lights that assault the senses from the moment I step through the door. The air is thick with the smell of sweat and alcohol, and the bass thumps so loudly that I can feel it reverberating in my chest. I weave my way through the throngs of people, scanning the crowd for any sign of Zoey. It's like searching for a needle in a haystack. A solid hour passes in a blur as I move from one corner of the club to another, questioning bartenders and bouncers and showing Zoey's picture to anyone who will spare me a moment of their time. Most of them brush me off with a shake of their heads, too caught up in their own revelry to bother with a stranger asking questions. But just as I'm about to call it a quit, I spot her – a flash of blonde hair disappearing into the crowd. Heart pounding, I push my way through the crowd. It's a chaotic dance of bodies and flashing lights, but I refuse to lose sight of the girl. Finally, I reach her, grabbing her by the arm before she can disappear into the sea of faces once more. "Zoey?" I call out, my voice barely audible over the deafening music. She turns to face me, surprise flickering in her eyes before it's quickly replaced by fear. "Who are you?" she demands, trying to pull away from my grasp.
"I'm Jessica Jones," I reply, flashing her my PI license for good measure. "Your mother sent me to find you." Zoey's eyes widen in recognition, and for a moment, I see a flicker of relief in her gaze. But it's quickly overshadowed by suspicion. "How do I know you're not lying?" she asks, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "You don't," I admit, releasing my grip on her arm. "But I'm the best shot you've got at getting out of whatever mess you've gotten yourself into." Zoey hesitates for a moment, chewing on her lower lip as she weighs her options. Finally, she nods, a sense of resignation settling over her features. "Fine," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. With that, I lead Zoey out of the back exit, away from the pulsating beats and flashing lights of the nightclub, into the dimly lit alley behind the building.
[Outside.] Zoey's eyes dart nervously around the alley, her hands trembling ever so slightly as she tucks a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She's on edge, and who can blame her? Disappearing from home and getting involved with shady characters – it's a recipe for trouble, and she knows it. I take a seat on a nearby crate, gesturing for Zoey to join me. She hesitates for a moment before reluctantly taking a seat beside me, her body tense with anticipation. "So, what's your story, Zoey?" I ask, keeping my tone gentle but firm. "And don't give me any of that 'I can't tell you' nonsense. Your mother is worried sick about you, and I'm not leaving until I get some answers." Zoey chews on her lower lip, wrestling with her inner demons as she struggles to find the right words. Finally, with a heavy sigh, she begins to speak, her voice barely above a whisper. She tells me about the Japanese company she's been working for, a shadowy organization with ties to the criminal underworld. They promised her money, lots of it, enough to help her family out of their financial mess. But as she soon discovered, the price of that money was far higher than she ever could have imagined. "They made me do things," Zoey confesses, her voice breaking with emotion. "I didn't know what I was getting into, I swear. But now they won't let me leave, not without consequences." Her eyes well up with tears, the weight of guilt and fear bearing down on her like a ton of bricks. "Please, you have to help me. I don't know what else to do." I listen to Zoey's story in silence, my heart breaking for the young girl who's been caught in the crossfire of forces beyond her control. It's a familiar tale, one that I've heard all too often in my line of work – innocent people being exploited by those in power, their lives torn apart in the pursuit of profit.
Suddenly, four men in suits stroll into the alley, their presence casting a chilling aura over the dimly lit space. Zoey's reaction is immediate; she jumps to her feet and instinctively hides behind me, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she whispers, "Roxxon's privacy security. They must have followed me." The men advance with calculated confidence, their movements synchronized as if they've rehearsed this encounter a hundred times over. Each step sends a ripple of unease through the air, their intentions veiled behind stoic expressions and dark sunglasses that conceal any flicker of humanity. As they draw nearer, I can feel Zoey trembling against my back. She knows as well what these men are capable of, the lengths to which Roxxon will go to protect their interests and silence anyone who dares to oppose them. I stand my ground, shielding Zoey from their line of sight as best as I can, my heart pounding in my chest like a drumbeat. The leader of the group, a tall man with a face like granite, fixes his steely gaze on us, his lips curling into a predatory smile that sets my teeth on edge. "Well, well, what do we have here?" he purrs, his voice dripping with malice, "Seems like our little runaway has found herself a guardian angel." "What do you want?" I demand, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. The men come to a stop a few feet away, their gazes cold and calculating as they assess the situation. "We're here for the girl," he says gruffly, "She's a liability, and my employer doesn't take kindly to liabilities."
I square my shoulders, refusing to back down in the face of their threats. "Over my dead body," I growl, my fists clenched at my sides, "You're not laying a finger on her." The leader gestures for the others to attack, a subtle flick of his hand that sets a chilling chain of events into motion. In response, all five of them snap out electrical batons with a metallic click, the devices humming to life with a menacing buzz. Zoey's grip tightens on my hand, her knuckles turning white. The men advance with predatory grace, their batons crackling with lethal energy and ruthless intent. I scan our surroundings for any sign of escape, but the alley is a dead end, a trap from which there's no way out. The only option is to fight.
Goon-1 swings the electrical baton at my head, the air crackling with the deadly energy of the weapon as it hurtles toward me with frightening speed. Acting on pure instinct, I push Zoey behind the dumpster, shielding her from harm while simultaneously ducking to avoid the lethal strike. The baton whizzes past my ear with a hair's breadth to spare, the electric charge sizzling through the air like a bolt of lightning. With lightning-fast reflexes, I pivot on my heel and lunge towards Goon-1, closing the distance between us in the blink of an eye. I tag him with a body blow to his midsection, the impact knocking the wind out of him and causing him to double over in pain. In a swift movement, I follow up with a devastating right-hook punch to his face, the force of the blow sending him staggering. Blood spurts from his split lip. Goon-1 recovers quickly, shaking off the effects of my assault with a snarl of rage. He lunges towards me with renewed determination, his baton crackling with deadly intent as he seeks to repay the favor in kind. But I'm ready for him this time, my senses honed to a razor-sharp edge as I prepare to meet his attack head-on. With a deft sidestep, I evade his swinging baton and deliver a punishing blow to his ribs, the force of the impact driving the air from his lungs with a wheeze of agony. He stumbles backward, off balance and disoriented, giving me the opening I need to press my advantage. Before he can recover, I unleash a barrage of strikes. Blow after blow connects with bone-crunching force.
I may not be a trained martial artist, but I know my way around a brawl. Utilizing my boxing and wrestling skills, honed through years of street fights and barroom scuffles, I unleash a relentless barrage of strikes and grapples against the oncoming assailants. With each movement, I draw upon the muscle memory ingrained in my body, flowing seamlessly from one technique to the next. Two more goons close in from either side. Trying to overwhelm me with sheer force of numbers. I charge headlong into the fray. One of the goons attempts to grab me from behind, but I twist out of his grasp with a deft hip toss, using his own momentum against him as I send him crashing to the ground. Another tries to flank me from the side, but I sidestep his attack with a quick shuffle of my feet, delivering a powerful roundhouse kick to his midsection that sends him reeling backward with a cry of agony. With a fierce battle cry, I press the attack, my movements a blur of speed and power. As the last of the assailants crumples to the ground in defeat, I take a moment to catch my breath. I peer back to where I left Zoey just to see she's gone. In a panic, I frantically look around the alley, but Zoey is nowhere in sight. My heart races as I try to process what could've happened. Did she run off? Was she captured by those goons from Roxxon? Or perhaps she managed to slip away unnoticed, seeking safety in the maze of alleys and streets that crisscross this part of the city. I curse under my breath, berating myself for letting my guard down even for a moment. I should have been more vigilant.
[Jones's Apartment, New York City]
Bursting into my apartment, I quickly rush to my cell phone to call Murdock for assistance on the case, but the call goes straight to voicemail. Frustration getting the best of me, I slam the phone onto my desk, cracking the screen. My heart pounds with a mixture of adrenaline and anxiety as I pace the small confines of my living room. Matt's expertise and connections could be invaluable in navigating the murky waters of Zoey's predicament, but it seems luck isn't on my side tonight. With a frustrated growl, I shove my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket, feeling the weight of the situation bearing down on me like a ton of bricks. The cracked phone screen mocks me from where it lies on my desk. At that moment, my eyes catch sight of a small square-shaped paper lying underneath Zoey's case File. It's a business card provided by Zoey's mother I had completely forgotten about. I note the address printed on the card. Midland Circle, 560 West 44th Street. As I stare at the address, a flicker of recognition ignites in the recesses of my mind. Midland Circle – the name triggers a memory, a fleeting glimpse of a conversation I had with a former client months ago. They had mentioned something about shady dealings and clandestine meetings at that very address, a hub for underground activity hidden in plain sight. Without hesitation, I snatch up the business card and stuff it into my pocket, my mind racing with possibilities. If there's even a chance that Midland Circle holds the answers I seek, then I have to investigate.
[Midland Circle, New York City]
I stand in front of a construction site, the skeletal framework of half-built buildings looming ominously against the night sky. An unsettling chill runs across my neck. To be sure I double-check the address on the business card. Midland Circle, 560 West 44th Street – the words stare back at me, confirming that I'm in the right place. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself for what lies ahead, my senses on high alert as I cautiously approach the entrance to the site. The chain-link fence rattles ominously in the breeze, its rusted metal frame casting long shadows across the cracked pavement below. With each step, the ground beneath my feet feels increasingly unstable, as if I'm treading on thin ice. But I push aside the creeping sense of dread and focus on the task at hand. Passing through the makeshift gate, the air grows thick with the scent of dust and decay. I scan the area for any sign of activity. But aside from the occasional creaking of metal and the distant hum of traffic from the streets outside, the site remains eerily quiet. With a sense of trepidation, I make my way deeper into the heart of the construction site, my eyes darting nervously from shadow to shadow. Every creak and groan of the building seems to echo in the darkness, amplifying the sense of foreboding that hangs heavy in the air. A faint glimmer of light catches my eye, drawing me towards a dimly lit corridor at the far end of the site. With cautious steps, I approach the source of the light. The light leads me to a chamber, its soft glow casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. As I step into the room, a wave of unease washes over me, sending a shiver down my spine. The air is thick with the smell of damp earth and mildew, and the faint sound of dripping water echoes off the walls, creating an eerie symphony of sound. A voice echoes through the chamber, "Welcome. We have been expecting you."
[Spartan POV]
I notice Daredevil, Elektra, Karai, Colleen, Luke Cage, and Jessica Jones enter the chamber through different passages. Their presence adds weight to the already charged atmosphere as if the very air itself recognizes the significance of their arrival. I stiffen, catching a foul odor in the air. It's the unmistakable scent of blood, thick and metallic, hanging heavy in the chamber like a sinister omen. My senses sharpen as I instinctively scan the surroundings, searching for the source of the ominous aroma. Daredevil's jaw clenched in silent acknowledgment, his heightened senses likely already detecting it. Beams of light come to life, flickering into existence with a soft hum that reverberates through the chamber. Each beam casts a radiant glow, illuminating the intricate details of the chamber's architecture. As the chamber is bathed in light, we find ourselves momentarily dazzled by the horrifying spectacle unfolding before us. Rows of cages fill the chamber, stretching out in all directions like a forest of metal bars. Inside the cages are twelve teens, their frail forms huddled together in the dim light, their faces pale and gaunt from their prolonged captivity. Each one has a tube connected to their necks, the cruel contraptions draining them of their blood with ruthless efficiency. The sight is enough to turn our stomachs. Daredevil's jaw tightens as he takes in the scene before us, his fists clenched in silent fury at the sight of such wanton cruelty. Elektra's expression remains unreadable, but the gleam of steel in her eyes betrays her determination to put an end to the suffering of these innocent victims. Karai's lips curl into a silent snarl of disgust, her hand tightening around the hilt of her pistol as she prepares to mete out justice to those responsible for this heinous crime. Colleen's heart aches at the sight of the teens imprisoned before us, her hands trembling with rage as she struggles to contain her emotions. Luke Cage's fists clench involuntarily, his muscles tensing beneath his unbreakable skin as he fights to contain the surge of anger threatening to consume him.
Jones catches sight of the blonde girl; her eyes widen in shock and disbelief. "Zoey!" she yells, her voice filled with anguish. The sound of her voice breaks through the haze of despair that hangs heavy in the air, filling the chamber with a sense of urgency and purpose. The blonde girl, Zoey, looks up at the sound of her name, her eyes filled with a mixture of hope and fear. She recognizes Jones, her face lighting up with relief at the sight of the woman. Just as we're about to spring into action, Daredevil yells for us to stop. Every stare at the masked defender of Hell's Kitchen, perplexed. That when we all see it, the faint movement within the shadows, a subtle shift in the darkness that sets our nerves on edge. All of us put our guard up. A lone masked individual steps out of the shadows. The man is geared up in a muscle suit similar to the ninja I engaged with earlier. His silhouette is imposing, towering over us with an aura of menace. As he emerges into the flickering light, his features become discernible beneath the mask. He sizes up each of us. Daredevil narrows his eyes, shoulders stiff, "How are you still alive? The Kingpin killed you." The tension in the chamber is heightened, a palpable energy crackling in the air as we await the masked man's response. Without warning, the masked man speaks, his voice low and gravelly, echoing off the chamber walls with an ominous resonance, "There is no such thing as death." His words hang heavy in the air, carrying a chilling implication.
The masked ninja shifts his gaze to the Asian girl next to Karai. "What name do you go by now, Immortal weapon?" he asks Colleen, his voice carrying a hint of familiarity and intrigue. Colleen's eyes narrow slightly at the mention of her past, a tumult of emotions flickering across her features as she grapples with memories long buried beneath the surface. She squares her shoulders, steeling herself against the flood of conflicting emotions threatening to overwhelm her. "I go by Colleen Wing," she replies evenly, her voice steady despite the undercurrent of tension in the chamber. The masked man nods, a glimmer of recognition flashing in his eyes as he processes her response. "A fitting name. Much better than your last incarnation," he remarks cryptically. Elektra watches their exchange with keen interest.
He throws two knives by Jones's feet without looking, stopping the PI from moving toward Zoey's cage. Jessica Jones freezes in her tracks, her instincts screaming at her to react, but she remains rooted to the spot. The masked man retrieves another blade from the holster at his side and hurls it at Jones's heart. Moving fast, Daredevil bats the blade away with his baton. The clang of metal meeting metal echoes through the chamber. As the blade clatters harmlessly to the ground, Jessica Jones exhales a shaky breath, her heart pounding in her chest as she realizes just how close she came to death. The masked man's eyes narrow behind his mask, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features at Daredevil's intervention. A gang of sword-wielding ninjas emerges from the shadows, surrounding us on all sides. "Kill them all! Not one of them leaves this place alive!" the lead ninja yells. "Yes, Grandmaster Nobu!" the followers acknowledge his command, their voices a unified chorus of obedience as they prepare to carry out his orders without question.
As the ninjas advance on us, Karai and I draw our pistols and open fire on them. The sound of gunfire echoes through the chamber, mingling with the clang of swords and the shouts of combat. Bullets ricochet off the metal bars of the cages, sending sparks flying as they find their marks among the advancing assailants. My shots find their mark while Karai focuses on suppressing fire, keeping the enemy pinned down. Daredevil leaps into action, his batons twirling with lethal grace as he engages the ninjas in close combat. His heightened senses give him an edge, allowing him to anticipate their movements with uncanny accuracy. Elektra is a blur of motion, her sai flashing as she darts between opponents, leaving a trail of incapacitated foes in her wake. Colleen wields her katana with finesse, cutting through the enemy ranks with fluid, precise strikes. Luke Cage wades into the fray, his unbreakable skin providing him with an invincible shield as he bulldozes through the ninjas with brute strength. Jessica Jones, though unarmed, proves herself a formidable combatant, using her superhuman strength to deliver bone-crushing blows to any ninja foolish enough to come within her reach. As the battle rages on, it becomes clear that the ninjas are relentless in their pursuit of our destruction. Wave after wave of them pour into the chamber, their numbers seemingly endless.
Nobu passes through the wave of masked foes to a large contraption. All the tubes of blood from the cages are connected to it. The contraption looms ominously in the center of the chamber, its intricate machinery humming with a malevolent energy. Each tube pulsates with the life force of the captive teens, their essence slowly being drained away to feed some dark and insatiable hunger. Nobu approaches the heart of the contraption, his masked face betraying no hint of emotion as he reaches out to grasp the core tube. With a swift motion, he cuts it free, severing the lifeline that connects the teens to the strange device. He then moves the contraption into a nearby elevator. As the elevator's doors start to close, Nobu faces us, glaring, "This is only the beginning." The other ninjas disappear into the shadows, leaving behind an unsettling silence.
[The Old Movie Theater, New York City]
After dropping the teens at a hospital, Daredevil leads us to an old abandoned movie theater. The dilapidated building stands as a forgotten relic of a bygone era, its faded marquee a testament to the passage of time. As we enter the theater, the musty scent of decay fills the air, mingling with the dust that coats every surface. Daredevil leads us to the center of the main hall, where worn-out seats are arranged in rows facing a tattered movie screen. A stark contrast to the chaos and violence we've just left behind. "What the hell was that?!" Jones is the first to have her voice heard, her tone laced with disbelief and anger. It's a question on almost everyone's mind. Daredevil remains silent for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought as he considers his response. "That was Nobu," he finally speaks, his voice grave and solemn, "A high-ranking member of Kingpin's criminal syndicate. At least he was until Fisk killed him for failing to kill me."
Colleen's expression darkens at the mention of Nobu, memories of her own past dealings with the man resurfacing with chilling clarity. Karai notices and presses her on it, "This Nobu guy seems to know you pretty well. Care to fill in the blanks for us." "It's a very long story," Colleen tries to deflect the subject. Karai rocks her head, "No, we're not playing that game. This is no time to withhold information. I let the whole thing with the Ryoshi clan slide earlier, but not again." Colleen nods, understanding Karai's point. She sighs while holding out a hand in front of her. It starts to glow brightly. "There's a reason why Noble called me the immortal weapon," Colleen starts, "It's because I am immortal in a sense. The power of resurrection. I lived countless lives for I am the Iron Fist." As the glow emanates from Colleen's hand, a palpable tension fills the air, and the flickering light casts eerie shadows across the dilapidated theater walls. Colleen's voice takes on a somber tone as she delves into her past, recounting tales of ancient battles and her role as a guardian of mystical energies. She speaks of her training in the hidden city of K'un-Lun, where she honed her martial skills and unlocked the secrets of the Iron Fist. Each word she utters carries the weight of centuries of experience, of trials endured and sacrifices made in the name of protecting the innocent.
"Okay, that explains your origin but not the connection with Nobu," I say, arms crossed over my chest. Colleen meets my gaze with a solemn nod, acknowledging the validity of my inquiry. She takes a moment to gather her thoughts, her expression grave as she delves deeper into the tangled web of her past. "It's true," she begins her voice steady yet tinged with a hint of sorrow, "My connection with Nobu runs deeper than mere acquaintance. Our paths first crossed centuries ago, in a time when the world was shrouded in darkness, and chaos reigned supreme." As she speaks, the flickering light of the theater seems to dim, as if the very atmosphere is bracing itself for the weight of her revelation. Colleen recounts the ancient conflict that pitted her against Nobu, a battle fueled by age-old grudges and the thirst for power. She speaks of the countless skirmishes they waged, each encounter testing the limits of her strength and resolve. It was a rivalry born of destiny intertwined with the fabric of existence itself. As Colleen's words weave a tapestry of ancient lore and forgotten battles, the theater becomes a stage for the epic struggle between light and darkness. Shadows dance across the walls, casting haunting silhouettes that mirror the turmoil within Colleen's soul. With each passing moment, the gravity of her connection to Nobu becomes increasingly apparent, a thread that binds them together across the ages.
Colleen tells the group that Nobu is one of five generals of a clan known as the HAND. An ancient criminal syndicate. Her words carry the weight of centuries-old secrets, each syllable laden with the weight of history. She explains that the HAND has existed in the shadows for millennia, its influence stretching across continents and spanning generations. The HAND traced its roots back to a time when empires rose and fell like tides, and power was the currency of the realm. She speaks of the clan's ruthless ambition and their insatiable thirst for dominance, driving them to commit unspeakable acts in the pursuit of their goals. As Colleen paints a vivid picture of the HAND's machinations, the group is drawn into a world of ancient rivalries and clandestine warfare. Jones drags a hand across her hair. "This is crazy," she says disbelievingly. The PI peers around the theater, expecting someone else to agree with her. I stay quiet. Karai shrugs her shoulders, "Me and Spartan have fought aliens, a Norse god, Nazis, and literal demons. Hell, Spartan's girlfriend is a wish." Her nonchalant response cuts through the tension like a knife, a stark reminder of the surreal challenge we face.
Daredevil straightens up sharply as if sensing something or someone approaching. Catching on fast, we go into a combat-stance. An old man strolls into the theater. "Gotta say this is a shit excuse for a hideout," the old man comments. "Stick?" Daredevil voices in surprise. "Long time no see, kid," he says. The sudden appearance of the old man, identified as Stick, sparks a ripple of confusion. As Stick enters the theater, his presence seems to shift the very atmosphere, filling the space with an aura of anticipation and uncertainty. The group exchanges puzzled glances, unsure of who this newcomer is and what his intentions might be.
We can all see the tension radiating between Stick and Daredevil. It's a palpable energy, crackling in the air like electricity as if the very atmosphere of the theater is charged with the weight of their shared history. For those of us who don't know Stick, his presence alone is enough to set us on edge, his sharp features and penetrating gaze hinting at a depth of experience and wisdom far beyond our own. As Stick and Daredevil exchange greetings, there's a sense of restraint in their interactions, a careful dance around topics best left unsaid. It's as if they're tiptoeing around the edges of a long-buried conflict, each word chosen with care to avoid reopening old wounds. But despite their efforts to maintain a facade of civility, the tension between them is impossible to ignore. For Daredevil, Stick represents a complicated past—one filled with lessons learned and betrayals suffered. Theirs is a relationship built on a foundation of trust and mistrust, a delicate balance that has been tested time and time again. And yet, despite the pain of their shared history, there's a bond between them that transcends words. But even as Stick and Daredevil navigate the minefield of their past, the rest of us can't help but feel like bystanders caught in the crossfire. We may not know the full extent of their history, but we can sense the weight of it in the air, a silent reminder of the burdens they carry. And so, as Stick settles into the theater and the tension between him and Daredevil simmers beneath the surface, we brace ourselves for whatever comes next. The theater may be our sanctuary for now, but with the specter of their unresolved conflict looming large, it feels like we're standing on the edge of a precipice, waiting for the inevitable plunge into the unknown.
Luke breaks the silence with a question, his voice carrying a hint of curiosity, "You know this guy," he asks, eyes shifting between Daredevil and Stick. Daredevil nods solemnly, his expression betraying resignation, "Unfortunately, I do. He's the man who trained me." The idea that Stick played a pivotal role in shaping Daredevil's abilities adds a layer of complexity to our understanding of the situation. What kind of mentor was Stick, and what impact did he have on Daredevil's journey as a hero? As Daredevil's words sink in, we silently process the revelation. The tension between Stick and Daredevil takes on a new dimension. It's not just a matter of old acquaintances reuniting—it's a collision of past and present, a convergence of conflicting loyalties and unresolved emotions. "What are you doing here, Stick?" Daredevil demands. "I'm here to help you save New York," Stick answers plainly. Daredevil's skepticism is on full display, his jaw clenched as he weighs Stick's words.
Colleen jumps into the conversation, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "You're a member of the Ryoshi clan," she says, her eyes narrowing as they fixate on the branding on the old man's hand. Stick's reaction is subtle but telling. A flicker of emotion crosses his features before he quickly schools his expression into one of neutrality. It's a moment of vulnerability, a glimpse behind the facade of confidence and self-assurance that he presents to the world. Stick meets her gaze and nods, acknowledging the truth of her observation. "So were you once during one of your many incarnations," Stick shoots back, his voice carrying a note of solemn recognition. It's not a retort borne of spite or defensiveness but rather an acknowledgment from one warrior to another. Colleen's expression softens slightly at Stick's words, a flicker of understanding passing between them.
Stick turns his attention back to Daredevil and Elektra, mainly focusing on Elektra. "The intel you obtained helped us greatly," he acknowledges, his voice carrying the weight of gratitude for her contributions. Shocked, Daredevil peers at both Stick and Elektra. Stick offers a preemptive explanation, "Elektra is my student and a member of the Ryoshi clan." As Daredevil absorbs this new information, he can't help but feel a twinge of betrayal gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. It's a startling revelation. Daredevil's gaze flickers to Elektra, searching for some sign of explanation. But Elektra avoids his gaze, her eyes dropping to the floor as if unable to meet his accusing stare. The silence between them stretches heavily.