The diner was a slice of Hell’s Kitchen’s soul—greasy, warm, and unpretentious, tucked on a corner where the neon sign flickered “Open 24/7” through a smudged glass window. You sat across from Matt Murdock in a cracked vinyl booth, the big window beside you framing the street’s damp glow, rain streaking the glass.

The air smelled of burnt coffee and bacon, and the jukebox hummed a faint Springsteen tune. Matt, in a navy blazer and red-tinted sunglasses, leaned forward, his reddish-brown hair catching the diner’s yellow light. His white cane rested against the booth, but his posture—shoulders tense, head tilted—screamed vigilante, not lawyer.

His voice was low, urgent, as he traced a finger along the rim of his coffee mug. “Fisk’s men are moving again,” he said, his words clipped, carrying the weight of nights spent on rooftops

“They’re hitting the docks, shaking down workers. Someone’s gotta stop it.” His jaw tightened, a faint scar on his lip catching the light, and you felt the gravity of his world pulling you in.

You nodded, your hands wrapped around your own mug, the warmth grounding you.

“What’s the plan, Matt? You can’t just… punch your way through this one.” Your voice was soft but firm, pushing him to think beyond the fists.

He tilted his head, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “That’s the thing. Punching’s easy. It’s the aftermath—keeping the city from falling apart—that’s the trick.” His fingers tapped the table, a restless rhythm, as if mapping out Hell’s Kitchen in his mind.

The bell above the diner door jingled, but it was the clink of plates that made you both pause. The waitress, a tired woman with a messy bun and a name tag reading “Doris,” shuffled over, balancing a tray of pancakes and eggs.

You and Matt fell silent, his head tilting slightly, tracking her footsteps. She leaned in, setting a steaming plate in front of you, her perfume sharp in the air.

“Breakfast at midnight, huh?” Doris said, a half-smile breaking her weary expression. “You kids eat up. Looks like you need it.”

“Thanks,” you said, offering a quick smile as she slid Matt’s plate down, eggs and toast, simple and cheap. Matt’s lips curved politely, but his body stayed still, senses locked on her until she turned away.

As Doris retreated, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum, Matt leaned in again, his voice dropping lower.

“I’ve got a lead on a shipment tomorrow night,” he said, his tone all business now

“If we can get evidence, Nelson and Murdock can take it to court. Hit Fisk where it hurts.” His hand brushed his cross necklace, a fleeting gesture, as if wrestling with the line between justice and vengeance.

You leaned forward, your voice a whisper. “And if the court fails? What then, Matt?” Your eyes flicked to the window, the city’s pulse just beyond the glass, and you felt the weight of being his confidant, the one he trusted with this

He exhaled, a faint chuckle masking the tension. “Then I do what I do best.” His head tilted toward you, his smile soft but edged with that reckless spark, the one that made him Daredevil.

The jukebox clicked to a new song, and the diner’s hum swallowed your words, leaving just the two of you, plotting in the glow of Hell’s Kitchen’s heart.