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"Lester Sullivan!"
Lester looked up, staring hard through the bars of his holding cell at the bored police officer who had called his name. She tucked the clipboard away beneath her arm as she went to her belt to pull of a set of keys, the metal jangling against itself as she fumbled to unlock the cell's door.
"Your bail's been posted. Get up."

Lester complied. He didn't ask [i]who paid my fee.[/i] He didn't ask [i]why did they bail me out.[/i] He didn't ask [i]what do they want in return.[/i] He complied, getting up silently and calmy, nodding slightly to the officer as he left the cell. The officer ignored him, locking the empty cell back up behind him. The station was quiet as Lester walked from the holding area through the front lobby toward the main entrance - nothing but shuffling paper, clacking staplers, the ocassional bored whistling or slurping of coffee coming from cops stuck behind desks. There was no mob lieutenant awaiting him with a favour to be done. There was no mafia boss to whom a life debt was owed. There was no one but police officers in a police station. Lester nearly laughed. He never missed a mark...and sometimes he dodged bullets too.

He almost skipped down the stairs out of the station, disinterested passer-bys questioning his joviality, and he paused at the bottom to survey both lengths of the street, watching the city churn in front of him. A hand placed itself deftly on his shoulder from behind. Lester locked up. He hated being surprised. He felt like he'd been shot.

"Mr. Sullivan. Your erstwhile benefactor would like a word, if you could spare a moment of your time." Came a calm, stoic voice. Relaxed, but calculating. The hand fell, and Lester turned. A man, who held a calm demeanour and wore an expensive suit, with carefully-coiffed hair and a pair of designer glasses. He reached up with one hand and adjusted his tie as Lester summarily studied him, before gesturing with the other a short way down the street. There, on the curb a few yards away, sat an unassuming - yet stunningly dignifed - all-black sedan. Lester didn't hesitate. He probably would have been killed if he had.

[hr]

Matthew walked carefully, stick clacking the ground in front of every step. Karen held his arm, matching his pace but slightly behind; she felt odd - being led by a blind man, who seemed so confident in his pace. She attributed it to the years Matt had spent in the dark. The human being could get used to anything.

In truth, Matthew was only paying half-attention to the burning miasma of counters, boxes and stall-runners. He was picking scents from the air, trying to place the hints of perfume he'd caught from the arms-dealer the night previous. Matthew had smelt it the moment they walked in - he had planned to attend alone, but Karen was concerned for him. The docks were violent, and he was blind. Technically, at least. It took a couple more passes of the aisles to avoid seeming suspicious - Matt told Karen he was looking for fresh Swordfish for steaks - but they finally stopped at the dealer's stall. She was selling, rather than buying, as Matthew had initially suspected. It made more sense, he supposed. A good cover for late night activity, money laundering built-in, and a lot of storage space for an arsenal.

"Can I help you?" She asked, voice course and short on patience. Matthew looked at the source. Karen spoke first. 
"We're looking for swordfish? No-one else seems to have exactly the quality we're after."
"That's because no one wants to fish it themselves just to sell it in Hell's Kitchen. I've got a couple recent catches, though - I'll even do the cuts for you myself. Some kind of anniversary?"
Karen giggled. "No, no. Just looking for my friend here." 
Matthew smiled. "I like to impress."
The dealer raised a skeptical eyebrow that garnered a frown from Karen. Matthew didn't see either. "I bet you do, cooking blind." She said. Matt just threw her a wide grin.
"I'm resourceful."
"I bet you are..." she bent over for a second and lifted a large coolbox onto her counter, unclipping it. Matthew could smell the ice and the meat inside it. She wasn't lying - it [i]was[/i] a recent catch. The stench of sea salt and boat oil was still fresh.

"I'll take it." He said. "But I'll need to return to collect it later. When do you close up?"
The dealer nodded as she put the case back and marked it with a pen. Judging by the sounds of her strokes, she had written 'BLIND GUY'. "Got into the city at 3AM. Been here since 5. We'll close at about midday and then I'm back out of the city at 2PM. You've got until 1 to pick it up."
Matthew nodded, pulling his wallet out of his jacket pocket and handing over the necessary cash. Karen squeezed his arm as he did so, and he smiled again.
"Thank you so much. I'll see you later." He said, and Karen squeezed his arm again as they walked away.

"Looks like you got what you came for, then, Matt." Karen said as they left, heading back to her car.
"Certainly did, Karen." Matthew replied.
"I just wish you'd tell me how you're going to manage to cook swordfish."

[hr]

"Good morning, Mr Sullivan."

Lester swallowed nervously, lifting a hand to wipe his forehead.

"No need to be nervous, Mr. Sullivan. Let us make introductions first, before we begin with our business. You may not know me, but I'm sure you've heard of me-"
"I've heard of you, sir. You're the Kingpin."

There was a moment of silence. The Kingpin leant forward in his seat, ever so slightly, near-imperceptibly - but the micro-movement carried all the intimidation of a shark's fin breaking the ocean's surface. "I would appreciate it, Mr. Sullivan, if you did not interrupt me. Yes, I am the Kingpin. And that is the name you will use while under my employment - if you use [i]any[/i] name at all." It was almost a growl, but still maintained that level of civility that was friendly yet still off-putting. Ever-so-subtly, Kingpin moved back. "But, so we are on equal grounds in this conversation - my name is Wilson Fisk."

Lester swallowed again. Next to him, Kingpin's assistant reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out a small, vicious-looking custom-made knife, which he rest on his leg. The doors locked, and the car began to move away from the curb and join the main traffic of Manhattan, heading to the higher echelons of Hell's Kitchen.
"Now, Lester," Kingpin continued, "let us talk about [i]debts.[/i]"