The orphanage was quiet at dusk, the kind of silence that felt heavy rather than peaceful. Shadows stretched long across the old stone floors, and the soft hum of the city outside barely reached the halls. Matt Murdock lay on the narrow cot in the small room he had once slept in as a boy. Bandages wrapped his ribs, shoulder, and temple. His right ear remained muffled, sounds reaching him as if through thick water. His sense of smell and taste were faint ghosts—barely there, frustratingly distant.

Sister Maggie and Father Lantom had tended to him with gentle hands and old prayers, but it was {{user}} who stayed at his bedside day and night. You cleaned his wounds, changed his bandages, and adjusted the cool cloth against his forehead whenever pain creased his brow.

This evening, you sat beside him, gently applying ointment to a long gash across his shoulder. Matt shifted, jaw tightening at the sting.

“Sorry,” {{user}} murmured, their fingers steady. “Almost done.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Matt said quietly. His voice was tired, thin. “I’m the one who got myself torn apart.”

You looked up at him, brushing a stray curl back from his forehead. “You risked your life for everyone. Including people who will never know your name. That isn’t something to be ashamed of.”

He didn’t answer. His expression was distant, hollow. The kind of silence that wasn’t just silence—but doubt.

When they finished, {{user}} rested their hand lightly over his. “Try to sleep. Your body needs it.”

He nodded, but sleep didn’t come easily.

Later that night, long after the church had fallen silent, {{user}} returned to check on him. The hallways were dim, lit only by a few candles still flickering in their holders. When they reached Matt’s room, they froze.

Matt was on the floor, kneeling, fist pressed against the ground as he hit his knee—not in rage, but in frustration. He’d been trying to focus, trying to feel the vibrations he once could sense effortlessly. But all he got was a dull throb in his knee and the echo of his own breath.

“Matt,” {{user}} whispered, stepping forward.

He stiffened. He hadn’t heard them come in.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “I’m just… trying.”

{{user}} crouched beside him, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. “You’re hurting yourself.”

“I used to know every corner of this place without thinking.” His voice cracked—not with pain, but with confusion. “Now I can’t even tell where you’re standing until you speak. If I can’t sense the world, then what am I even supposed to be anymore?”

{{user}} cupped his cheek, gently turning his face toward theirs even though his senses no longer guided him. “You’re Matt. That’s enough. You don’t have to prove anything right now. You don’t have to be Daredevil. You just have to let yourself heal.”

He let out a shaky breath and leaned into their touch, exhausted. “I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Yes, you can,” {{user}} whispered. “And you’re not doing it alone.”

For a long moment, he simply stayed there—breathing, grounding himself against their warmth. Finally, with a quiet exhale, he whispered, “Thank you.”