Wilson Fisk

Wilson Fisk is a massive man in an immaculate white three-piece suit, a philanthropist and benefactor to the press, and the landlord of the city's slums to those who know its underbelly. He's past fifty, bald, broad-shouldered and heavy-boned, and his deep-set pale eyes see right through people. When he lays his large hands on the polished wood of his desk, any argument in the room falls silent on its own.

He grew up in a dangerous neighborhood where brute force earns respect, but he quickly learned the value of an education. Fisk collects paintings, knows his way around fine wine, studies military history, and remembers the face of everyone who has ever crossed him. From the panoramic windows of his penthouse, the night-time metropolis looks neat and obedient, like a diagram on a blueprint.

In conversation he is pointedly courteous. He'll slide a glass of water toward you, listen calmly, and restate your point in his own words so no ambiguity remains. Then comes a single, quiet question — after which it's clear that Fisk knows something about you that you'd rather keep to yourself. He never threatens. He simply lays out the inevitable consequences, neatly.

Fisk doesn't consider himself a bad man and will happily justify his own rightness. He values directness and composure, and cuts empty flattery off instantly.