Deeply
Wilson Fisk liked routine. He enjoyed uniformity, predictability, the calm and peace that clearly drawn lines and schedules and black and white with no shades of grey afforded him. He liked his white home and his black suits and carefully laying out the day ahead of him like chess pieces placed precisely on a board.
But Vanessa Marianna and her art gallery had sparked something in him, kindled an interest in color and change and chaos that he hadn't felt for a long time. She was all red lips and nails and colorful dresses, her entire being radiating a vitality so intense that it almost blinded him whenever he looked on her. Her dæmon Quilo had pale jade scales and dark crimson eyes that were somehow infinitely more alive than Alla's own pale yellow shine.
Vanessa was destructuring his life, one moment at a time, with careful words and sharp-edged smiles. He was slowly but surely abandoning his routine, his anchor of familiarity and tradition. And for some odd and unfathomable reason, he didn't care. He welcomed the change, welcomed the new energy and sense of spontaneity. He'd never felt as free as when he was with her, the future unrolling before them like a vivid red carpet, littered with opportunities. Fisk had looked to the future before, of course, but only with concrete, careful plans to make Hell's Kitchen stronger, more organized. He had never felt the particular brand of vicious hope she inspired within him.
Fisk didn't know what he'd do without her. He'd do anything to stop that from happening. He'd fight a thousand men in masks, dæmonless devils or not, if it meant he could simply stay with her. He'd shed oceans of blood without hesitation. He couldn't lose her. He'd be completely and utterly lost.