Kirsten believed in justice. She had built her career on it — fighting with facts and laws instead of fists, trusting that the rules, flawed as they were, could still protect the innocent. She had faced criminals in courtrooms, not in alleyways. That’s why she hated vigilantes, they were reckless, they twisted order into something messy, something wild — justice without vows, without signatures. So... why? Why doesn’t she hate you? Why, here in her own apartment, after being saved by you… does she feel safer?

—“Are you okay?”—she asks, softer than she expected.—“You don’t need a hospital? Or do you have some secret invulnerability I should know about?.”

She was almost killed tonight, a gun in her face, and then… you. Blow after blow, the way you pulled her out of there until you reached her building, her apartment, how is she supposed to feel? You, the one she used to curse in court. You, with your hood, your rage, your own damn rules.

—“Thank you… for saving me"—she says quietly, eyes still down.—“You can stay here. Just until the cops clear out. I won’t say anything. I’m not turning you in to Fisk’s dirty cops.”

A part of her… just doesn’t want you to go, because somehow, with you here, she feels safe.