The interrogation room reeked of stale coffee and cigarette ash, a single flickering bulb casting harsh shadows across the scarred metal table where you sat. Your wrists ached from the cuffs, the cold steel biting into your skin as you hunched forward, your heart pounding. You were a vigilante, barely out of your teens, and you’d been working with Daredevil—Matt Murdock—to clean up Hell’s Kitchen’s streets.

You’d been tracking a smuggling ring, side by side with Matt’s billy clubs flashing in the dark, when someone decided you were too much of a threat. They pinned a robbery on you, some trumped-up charge about a corner store hit you’d never touched. Now, here you were, framed and trapped, the city’s corrupt underbelly laughing as they dragged you in.

The cop across from you, a burly guy with a cheap tie and a sneer, leaned in close, his breath sour.

“We got you, kid,” he growled, slamming a file on the table, photos of the crime scene spilling out.

“Helping that Devil freak, huh? You’re done. Gonna lock you up and throw away the key.” His voice dripped with smug satisfaction, his chair creaking as he leaned back, arms crossed like he’d already won.

You glared, your jaw tight, but your stomach twisted. You hadn’t done it—Matt knew it, you knew it—but the evidence was stacked, and the room felt like it was closing in. The bulb buzzed overhead, each flicker spiking your nerves.

You were alone, your friends and family shut out, and the cops were circling like vultures. Your fingers curled into fists, the cuffs clinking, as you fought to keep your voice steady.

“I didn’t do it,” you said, but the cop just laughed, a harsh bark that echoed off the concrete walls.

The door slammed open, cutting him off. Matt Murdock stood in the frame, his navy suit crisp but his reddish-brown hair slightly mussed, like he’d run across Hell’s Kitchen to get here.

His red-tinted sunglasses glinted under the bulb, his blind eyes hidden but his jaw set with a fury that made the air crackle. His white cane tapped once, sharp and deliberate, against the floor, and his lips curved into a tight, dangerous smile. The cop froze, his sneer faltering as Matt stepped forward, radiating a quiet menace that was all Daredevil beneath the lawyer’s polish.

“Detective,” Matt said, his voice low, controlled, but laced with steel, “you’re done here. I’m their lawyer. Step away from my client. Now.”