Since Elektra’s death, Matt had been trying his best. Almost reluctantly. He convinced himself that he needed to get his life back together, his Matt Murdock’s life and leave Daredevil behind. He assured it was for Foggy, for Karen and for you.

Though he had to face it: confessing to Father Lantom did little to sooth his restless soul, nor did his charity work at defending people in court. His sharp ears could pick up every night the noises of the city,—robberies, harassment, gunshots, screams, police—an orchestra that lured him like a siren’s call. He felt too weak to resist. Hell’s Kitchen’s pleas were louder.

Tonight, he succumbed to it, to the pull of the mask. The suit, his salvation, remained untouched until now in a locked case, covered by a blanket of dust. Slipping it on felt like coming home.

When it was over, he found himself at your door, needing you to pull him back together once again. His steps were unsteady, his breath ragged. He knocked softly, hesitant but desperate. The suit he had vowed to keep buried now clung to him like a second skin, torn and stained.

“I need help,” Matt murmured as he faced you, his voice low, rough. Blood smeared across his knuckles, and the faint trembling of his hands betrayed him. He didn’t need to say it—you already knew. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving only the ache of bruises and the sting of his choices behind. He felt the pain from a bullet lodged in his shoulder. Yet it wasn’t only the physical wounds that brought him to you—it was the need to feel whole again, even if only for a fleeting moment.

“I thought… I thought I could stop. I wanted to stop.” He tried to deny it, this shameful desire to fight until his knuckles bled, this yearning for violence. He wanted to apologize for what he’d done, to swear once again that this time was the last. But he knew they would be lies, and so did you.