Never before had the streets of Hell’s Kitchen made your stomach twist like this. Not when you were thirteen and watching men bleed out in warehouse shadows. Not when your father's men taught you how to carry yourself with a knife hidden under your coat and fear stitched out of your spine. But tonight? Tonight the air carried a different weight.

A storm had passed earlier, leaving the sidewalks slick and breathing with reflections—red from traffic lights, green from neon bodega signs, the occasional white flicker of a passing car that cut across puddles like blades of light. The smell of wet concrete and car exhaust clung to the air like a second skin. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. Typical music for the Kitchen.

But it wasn’t the city that frightened you now.

It was him.

You spotted him from the rooftop—no mask, no armor. Just a man in a long black coat, walking with the confidence of someone who knew every crack in the sidewalk, every heartbeat behind every door. He moved like a ghost, or maybe something holy. Untouchable. A myth people whispered about in alleys and morgues.

Matthew Murdock.

He’d been a thorn in your father’s side for months now. In court, in the streets. One step ahead. Always. And worse? He seemed to enjoy it. There was a self-assured ease in the way he carried himself—as if he’d already forgiven you for whatever you were about to do.

You pulled your hood tighter, swallowed the knot in your throat, and stepped off the curb.

Your boots echoed on wet asphalt as you followed him down an alley lit only by a broken lamp and the hazy red glow of a neon sign. O’Riley’s Bar blinked in flickers above a closed door. The place was empty. Perfect.

Your pulse picked up. This was your moment. No guards, no witnesses. Just you and him. Your hand reached out—tentative, but sure—and grabbed his shoulder. His body went still. No flinch. No alarm. Just calm.

Then, a chuckle. Low, warm. Disarmingly gentle.

“You have something on your mind?”

His voice was gravel coated in honey. That same tone you’d heard in courtroom recordings, steady and calm as he dismantled witnesses and won the room. But here, in this dark alley, it felt more personal. Like he already knew why you were here—and maybe even understood.

You let go of his shoulder, suddenly too aware of your own heartbeat. Too aware of his stillness. He turned slowly, tilting his head.