A sharp, metallic click—the sound of a knife being unsheathed.

Bullseye’s voice cuts through the silence, smooth and almost amused. “Y’know, I used to wonder why Daredevil always had a weakness for people like you.” His boots scrape against the ground as he circles you, lazy, predatory. “The ones who think they can keep up, who think they can matter in his world. But now? I get it.”

A cold touch against your cheek—his blade, tracing a slow, deliberate path down to your jaw, your throat. He sighs dramatically. “You do make it interesting.”

Pain flares sharp and immediate as he suddenly presses the tip into your shoulder—not deep, just enough to make you gasp, to make the agony coil through your body like fire. He chuckles.

“There we go,” he murmurs. “There’s that little reaction I was waiting for.”

You refuse to give him more. Refuse to let him win. Matt will come. He has to.

Bullseye seems to read your thoughts because his smirk widens. “You’re waiting for him, aren’t you?” He leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “Poor thing. Do you really think he’ll get here in time?” His voice dips lower, mockingly soft. “Because I don’t.”

The knife twists. A fresh wave of pain tears through you, white-hot and blinding.

“You think he cares about you the way you want him to?” Bullseye muses, wiping the blood off his blade against his sleeve. “Nah. You’re just another liability. A distraction. And if he does show up?” He lets out a dark chuckle, stepping back to admire his work. “Well… let’s just say he won’t be saving much of you.”

The world tilts, pain swimming in your vision, but you bite your tongue. You won’t break.

Even as Bullseye reaches for another knife.