The rain had left Hell’s Kitchen slick and shimmering, its neon glow bleeding into puddles outside the upscale art gallery. Inside, the air was different—cool, heavy with the scent of polished wood and expensive wine. He navigated the marble-floored space with a practiced ease, his white cane tapping softly, a rhythm that grounded him amidst the murmur of patrons and the faint strains of a violin quartet. Beneath the polished exterior, though, Matt was a coiled spring, his voice low and edged with a bitterness that had been simmering all evening.

“They’re calling him a hero,” he muttered, his breath warm against your ear as you paused near a towering abstract painting, all jagged reds and blacks. “Wilson Fisk, the great philanthropist. If they knew what he’s done to this city…” His jaw tightened, You could feel the heat of his frustration, the way it radiated off him like a pulse.

“Matt, let’s just… enjoy the art,” you said, your voice soft, almost pleading.

He let out a short, humorless chuckle, adjusting his sunglasses with a quick flick of his hand. “Art’s not really my thing,” he said, but his tone softened for you, a flicker of that warm, boyish charm breaking through. “But you’re right. Let’s keep moving.”

You drifted through the exhibit, Matt’s cane tapping a steady beat, his head tilting slightly as he “saw” the room through sound and scent—the clink of glasses, the rustle of silk dresses, the faint tang of cologne. You were admiring a sculpture, its smooth curves catching the light, when Matt froze. His arm stiffened against yours, his breath catching in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. His head tilted sharply, like a predator catching a scent, and his voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the gallery’s hum.

“He’s here.”

You didn’t need to ask who. Matt’s shoulders squared, and he shifted, stepping just in front of you, his body a subtle shield. His fingers brushed your elbow, a protective gesture, and you felt your heart kick up, knowing what—who—had triggered this change.

Across the room, Wilson Fisk entered, his massive frame filling the doorway like a storm cloud. He was dressed in a tailored cream suit, pristine and imposing, with Vanessa Marianna on his arm, her elegant black dress a stark contrast to his bulk.

Matt’s hand tightened on your arm, guiding you slightly to the side, away from the approaching danger, but his movement was too sharp, too deliberate. Fisk’s gaze, cold and calculating, flicked toward you both. You saw the moment his curiosity piqued—the way Matt stood, protective, almost defiant, despite the cane and sunglasses that screamed harmless civilian.

Fisk approached, Vanessa at his side, her expression serene but watchful. His voice, when he spoke, was deep, measured, like a man who knew the weight of every word. “Good evening,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly as they settled on Matt. “I don’t believe we’ve met. You seem… protective of your companion.”

Matt’s lips curved into a polite smile, but it didn’t reach his voice. “Just looking out for a friend,” he said, extending a hand, his grip firm, almost challenging “Matt Murdock, attorney.” His head tilted slightly, as if listening past Fisk’s words, catching the steady thud of his heart, searching for any hint of recognition. “And you are…?”

“Wilson Fisk,” the man replied, his smile thin, almost predatory. “And yes, the art is… transformative.” “You have a keen interest in it, Mr. Murdock? Or perhaps in something else?”

“Art’s not really my thing,” he said, his tone light but laced with something sharper “But I appreciate the atmosphere. Keeps the city grounded.” He tapped his cane once against the floor, a small, deliberate sound, and his other hand rested briefly on your shoulder, anchoring himself as much as you.