C1: Phantom Thief's Announcement
Announcement: April Fool's, under the red moonlight, at the crossroads of the world, I will give a magnificent performance...
—Phantom Thief Kidd
…
"…following the string of gruesome murders in the third block of Midtown West, Manhattan, the NYPD has stated—"
"Sorry to cut in, Kate."
NBC New York's live broadcast was interrupted. The anchor, visibly flustered, glanced at the teleprompter.
"We've just received breaking news. The NYPD confirms receipt of a new notice from the so-called Phantom Thief, announcing a forthcoming heist. Commissioner George Stacy vowed to deploy all necessary resources to apprehend the thief and bring him to justice."
Phantom Thief Kidd. A name that had stirred the city's underworld and captivated its media landscape over the last three months. His thefts, while criminal, bore a theatrical elegance a flair reminiscent of Mysterio's illusions, yet grounded in sleight of hand and meticulous planning.
Unlike other rogues in the Marvel and DC universes like Catwoman or the Riddler Kidd didn't crave chaos or destruction. Often, he would return the stolen goods, making his actions more akin to performance art than profiteering. But it was still theft, and Commissioner George Stacy refused to romanticize it.
After addressing the media in front of NYPD Headquarters, George stormed back into the precinct, frustration creasing his weathered face.
"Are you sure this notice wasn't penned by one of those internet wannabes playing dress-up?"
"We verified it," replied an officer. "The handwriting, phrasing, and signature avatar identical to previous authenticated letters."
"Then break it down. Decode every cryptic syllable of this arrogant manifesto!"
The signature notice handwritten, marked with a Q-version cartoon of the Phantom Thief, and sealed in lavender wax was his calling card. His messages read like riddles, much like those from the Gotham rogue known as the Riddler, demanding the NYPD engage in a mental chess game.
The press tore into the department for every failure to preempt a theft, portraying the force as outmatched. And George, already weary of metahuman politics since the Sokovia Accords had brought federal eyes to every NYPD case involving "enhanced" threats, had no patience left.
"Detective Sidis, you're lead on this."
"But Commissioner, I'm deep into a triple homicide in the Third District evidence suggests involvement by something not entirely... human."
"Put it on hold. I'm tired of being this clown's punchline. You're on this now. Get it done."
"…All right, you're the boss." Detective Maya Sidis former SHIELD candidate, turned NYPD homicide sighed as she turned away. The Third District murders had potential links to mystical interference, maybe even something like Dormammu's cultists. Dropping it felt wrong.
"Hey Sidis," called Officer Rem, her partner. "You're gutsy, talking back like that."
"I'm just being real. And let's not kid ourselves, Kidd's not exactly someone we're equipped to handle. He moves like Nightwing, thinks like Loki, and leaves fewer traces than the Question."
"Well, keep your voice down. George is steamed enough already."
"I know, Rem. I'm not suicidal."
…
Elsewhere in Manhattan atop Fisk Tower's penthouse, veiled in low clouds and silence.
Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin of Crime, sat with the gravity of a monarch on his obsidian throne, fingers steepled over a printed notice.
No noise.
Only weight.
Only darkness.
"Have I become so invisible in my own city," he rumbled, "that fools believe I won't respond?"
His bodyguard, Lester known in the underground as Bullseye stood still, tension hidden beneath sleek tactical fabric. "No one's forgotten, King. Your name still whispers across Hell's Kitchen and Harlem. They fear your shadow."
"Then why has this child dared to challenge me?"
Fisk's massive frame loomed as he stood, his muscles rippling beneath a pristine white suit. He unfurled the thief's latest message with disdain.
Announcement: With thoughts of the deceased, on a quiet night, the king dormant in the shadows, I shall steal the rod of power.
—Phantom Thief Kidd
"The 'rod of power'... my cane," Fisk growled. "This whelp seeks symbolism."
Lester smirked. "Want me to take care of it?"
"No. He made it personal. And personal insults are not handled by subordinates."
Fisk turned toward the window, gaze locked on the city below his dominion, his chessboard. Not even the Avengers, Daredevil, or Spider-Man had dented his reign for long.
Kidd would be no different.
"The world runs on order, Lester. And I am that order."
Gripping the silver-handled cane, Fisk muttered with ominous clarity.
"Let this child come. And when he does... only death will answer."
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