5: Chapter 5 The Food Chain in Hell's Kitchen

"Someone always dies tonight."

After saying that, Yan Zheng felt it was a bit too edgy.

But that is the objective fact; Hell's Kitchen produces over a dozen unclaimed corpses on average every week. This isn't his subjective wish; it is the publicly released statistical data from the New York City Police.

All he needs is to appear at the right time and place.

It was dawn.

The sunrise in New York in December is quite late; by the time the sunlight barely shone into the Antique Shop's display window, it was already nearly eight o'clock.

Yan Zheng had slept for less than four hours on the folding cot behind the cash register. The system's repair progress had crawled to 31%. The pain in his ribs was basically imperceptible, with only a slight tugging sensation when he took a deep breath.

He used the shop's only faucet to briefly wash his face, changed into a relatively clean black turtleneck sweater and dark gray coat from the original owner's wardrobe, and hid the Glock he had obtained last night inside his coat.

The reflection in the mirror looked pale and thin, with slightly sunken eye sockets, but at least he didn't look like someone who had "just crawled out of a grave" like last night.

Just past ten o'clock, he pushed open the door next door.

"Jack's Old Tavern"—the dilapidated wooden sign hung above the lintel with most of its paint peeled off, but the lights and heat inside had been on since early morning.

Behind the bar sat a bald old man in his sixties, with breakfast bread crumbs stuck in his graying beard, holding a cup of Irish coffee while reading a newspaper.

"Oh, little Yan?"

Old Jack looked up from over the newspaper, a flash of surprise in his bloodshot eyes.

"Haven't seen you for three days; I thought you'd run off."

"Almost."

Yan Zheng sat down at the bar, his voice flat.

"Got beaten up and laid in bed for a few days."

"I can tell. Your complexion is on par with those junkies in the alley."

Old Jack smacked his lips and fished out a bottle of cheap whiskey and a glass from under the bar.

"Want a drink? Looking at you, you need it."

"No thanks, just get me a cup of hot water."

Yan Zheng: ( ˘ ꒳ ˘ )

Old Jack shrugged and poured a cup of hot water, pushing it over.

"Need something from me? Or just here to mooch off the heat? Your crappy shop's heater broken again?"

"I'm here to buy some information."

Yan Zheng fished a fifty-dollar bill from his pocket, laid it flat on the bar, and kept his finger pressed on it without letting go.

Old Jack's gaze fell on the banknote, his graying eyebrows raised.

"Fifty? Last time you bought information, you gave twenty. Since when did you get so rich?"

"Just happened to have a little extra money on hand."

Yan Zheng's tone didn't change, his fingers tapping lightly on the banknote twice.

"Jack, I want to know the recent movements of the various factions in Hell's Kitchen, the more detailed, the better."

Old Jack put down his coffee cup and sized Yan Zheng up for several seconds with the look one gives a madman.

Old Jack: ( ꐦ ° ᷄ д ° ᷅ )

"Kid, did you get your brain beaten in? You run an Antique Shop, why are you asking about this stuff? Tired of living?"

"I need to know which places haven't been peaceful lately."

Yan Zheng picked up the hot water and took a sip, his expression calm.

"To be specific, I want to know where people might die soon."

Old Jack's hand stopped in mid-air, holding the Irish coffee in that position for a full three seconds.

"Are you serious?"

"Very serious."

"..."

Old Jack put down the coffee cup, reached out to pull the fifty-dollar bill from under Yan Zheng's finger, folded it twice, and stuffed it into his chest pocket.

"Fine, anyway, if you kept the money, those Irish Gang pigs would just take it, might as well let Old Jack earn it."

He lowered his voice, leaned forward, and gestured on the bar with his liver-spotted hands.

"There are three factions in Hell's Kitchen right now, you know."

"The Irish Gang in the West, the Russian Gang at the docks, and the Chinese gang in the East."

Yan Zheng nodded.

"Right. But that's just on the surface. There's someone behind the scenes whose entire business, combined, isn't enough to even tie his shoes."

"Who?"

Old Jack looked around the empty tavern, confirming there were no other guests, then lowered his voice to a level only the two of them could hear.

"Wilson Fisk. People outside call him Kingpin. The entire underworld order of Hell's Kitchen, from top to bottom, every level belongs to him. The Irish Gang, the Russian Gang, the Chinese gang—they are all chess pieces on his board; fighting over territory is just a performance for the Police."

"Such a big shot, why haven't I heard of him before?"

"Because he doesn't let people mention his name."

Old Jack's voice went even lower, carrying an unnatural tension.

"Last time, a blind reporter wanted to write a report on him, and the next day he fell off the Brooklyn Bridge. The coroner said it was suicide."

Yan Zheng: ( ⌐ ■ ͜ ■ )

"Understood. What about between those three factions? Any specific friction lately?"

Old Jack's finger drew a circle on the bar.

"Yes. And a big one. Last month, a shipment of arms was transported in from Mexico. It was supposed to go through the Russian Gang's dock line, but it ended up being intercepted halfway by the Irish Gang. Vladimir was so angry he almost hacked all his own men to death."

"Intercepted a truckload of arms? Wouldn't the Russian Gang fight for their lives over that?"

"Exactly."

Old Jack spread his hands, his tone carrying the vibe of someone enjoying the chaos.

"I heard Vladimir put the word out: before this weekend, he must get the goods back. The Irish Gang is also mobilizing manpower; the number of vehicles entering and leaving the dock area has doubled in the last two days."

"The docks, this weekend."

Yan Zheng repeated, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the wall of the hot water cup.

"Which dock specifically?"

"West Pier 12. The abandoned cold storage warehouse area by the river; usually, only the Russian Gang smuggles there, others don't go."

"Anything else?"

"Yes."

Old Jack fished out a folded newspaper from under the bar, unfolded it, and pointed to a small, inconspicuous piece of social news in the corner.

"Look at this, third one this week."

Yan Zheng took the newspaper; the headline was just a line of small print.

"Another Gang Member Attack in Hell's Kitchen; Police Urge Citizens to Reduce Nighttime Outings"

"There's a maniac in red running around the streets at night, specifically beating up gang members."

Old Jack's voice carried a strange tone, mixed with awe and unease.

"After beating them, he ties them to fire hydrants for the Police; didn't kill anyone, but broke everyone's arms and legs. The Russian Gang had two deals ruined by him, and the Irish Gang had quite a few beaten up too."

"Wearing red? What kind of red?"

"Dark red, like that... how should I put it, like that kind of masked bodysuit."

Yan Zheng's hand holding the water cup paused.

Dark red bodysuit, appears at night, only beats up gangs, doesn't kill.

"Has anyone seen what he looks like?"

"No, he's wearing a mask. But one of the thugs who got beaten said something weird."

Old Jack lowered his voice, his lips moving less and less.

"He said that guy in red seems to be able to 'see' everything. Even though his whole face is covered, even his eyes are blocked, his strikes are more accurate than anyone else's. Beating three or four people in the pitch dark is like child's play for him."

Daredevil.

Matt Murdock.

Yan Zheng put down the water cup, folded the newspaper, and returned it to Old Jack.

"Thanks, Jack, the information is very useful."

"Forget it."

Old Jack rolled his eyes and picked up his Irish coffee again.

"Kid, I don't know what you're planning, but Old Jack will add one more word of advice; listen or don't, it's up to you."

"Go ahead."

Old Jack looked into Yan Zheng's eyes, a trace of seriousness suddenly appearing in his murky gaze.

"Don't go out at night, stay away from the docks, and definitely don't provoke that guy in red. That guy doesn't care if you're a good person or a bad person; as long as you have underworld business on your hands, he will come looking for you."

Yan Zheng stood up, pulled his coat collar together, and walked toward the door.

"Don't worry, Jack."

He pushed open the tavern door, and the cold December wind, carrying a few snowflakes, poured in.

Yan Zheng's back disappeared outside the door frame, but his voice drifted back on the wind, carrying a calmness that made Old Jack's spine chill.

"I have no interest in the living; I just want to see if the dead can be put to good use."