The Perfect Shot
The warehouse district was silent at 3 AM, but Benjamin Poindexter's enhanced senses picked up every detail. His FBI training combined with his alpha instincts painted a perfect picture of the target location - a seemingly abandoned storage facility that served as Hell's Kitchen's primary suppressant distribution center.
Dex perched on the adjacent rooftop, his body perfectly still as he cataloged every entrance, every shadow, every potential weapon within reach. The intel from Fisk's sources had been precise: twelve men inside, all armed, all involved in supplying dangerous black market suppressants to vulnerable omegas.
To Matt.
The thought of the omega using these toxic chemicals made Dex's alpha instincts surge with protective rage, but he channeled it into cold precision. This wasn't just about elimination - it had to look like a gang dispute. Natural. Inevitable.
He moved like a shadow across the rooftops, gathering his improvised arsenal. Loose bricks. Metal pipes. Broken glass. In his hands, anything could become a lethal weapon.
The first guard never saw him coming. A playing card, thrown with surgical accuracy, severed the carotid artery. Silent. Clean. The body hadn't hit the ground before Dex was moving to his next target.
Inside, he could smell the chemical stench of suppressant production. His enhanced hearing picked up conversations, counting money, the subtle sounds of pills being packaged. These people were poisoning omegas - poisoning Matt - for profit.
Dex's control wavered for just a moment, his alpha instincts demanding immediate, violent retribution. But no. This had to be precise. Professional.
He began his work methodically, moving through the shadows with lethal grace. Each throw was perfect, each improvised weapon finding its mark with devastating accuracy. He used their own weapons against them - bullets ricocheting at impossible angles, knives thrown with mathematical precision.
One by one, the dealers fell. Some never knew what hit them. Others had just enough time to realize they were facing something beyond their understanding - an apex predator with perfect aim and cold determination.
When it was done, Dex surveyed the scene with clinical detachment. It looked exactly like what Fisk wanted - a brutal territory dispute that would be written off as just another gang war casualty.
More importantly, Matt's primary suppressant supply was eliminated.
Dex pulled out his phone, dialing Fisk's number. "It's done."
"Any complications?"
"No." Dex's eyes scanned the warehouse one final time. "It's clean. Professional. They won't be supplying anyone with suppressants again."
There was a pause on the line. "And Matthew? How will he react when he discovers his supplier is gone?"
Dex's hand tightened on the phone. "He'll be desperate. Vulnerable."
"Yes." Fisk's voice held a note of satisfaction. "And then we'll be there to help him. To show him a better way."
After hanging up, Dex remained on the rooftop for a long moment, his alpha instincts still humming with protective energy. Somewhere in the city, Matt Murdock was probably taking another dose of poison, fighting against his own nature.
But not for much longer.
Sometimes protection meant destruction. Sometimes safety required violence.
And Dex was very, very good at violence.