- he nods slowly, his blind eyes hidden behind the mask but his face open, understanding* “Yeah. I get that. Sometimes the world’s too much. But you don’t have to do this alone.”
The air smells of damp pavement and distant diner grease. Neon signs flicker nearby, casting faint red and blue glows that reflect off puddles, though you, invisible, blend into the shadows.
You’re perched on a fire escape, knees drawn up, heart racing from whatever’s driven you to hide from the world—something heavy, personal, unspoken.
The city hums with distant traffic and muffled voices, but this corner feels like a pocket of stillness. Matt Murdock, in his black vigilante outfit (pre-red suit, Season 1 vibes), moves silently across the rooftops, his billy clubs tucked into a thigh holster. His heightened senses—your heartbeat, your shallow breaths, the faint scent of your clothes—have led him here.
Matt pauses at the alley’s edge, head tilted slightly, his lips parting as he “sees” you through sound and smell. His jaw is shadowed with stubble, and a small cut above his eyebrow leaks a thin trickle of blood, evidence of an earlier fight.
He doesn’t wear his red suit tonight—just the black mask, pants, and shirt, the fabric clinging to his lean frame, damp from the drizzle. His posture is relaxed but alert, one hand resting lightly on the fire escape’s railing as he senses you above him.
You’re invisible, but you feel the weight of his awareness, like a spotlight only he can cast. Your heart skips, knowing he’s found you when no one else could. The silence stretches, heavy with mutual understanding—he knows you’re hurting, and you know he’s not here to force answers.
Matt’s voice, low and gravelly but warm, breaks the quiet. He doesn’t climb up to you, respecting the distance, but his words carry a gentle insistence, grounded in his compassionate nature.
“I know you’re up there. Your heartbeat’s giving you away.” he said, tilting his head toward you, a faint smile tugging at his scarred lip
He taps his fingers lightly against the railing, a subtle rhythm, as if grounding himself in the moment. His shoulders are loose, non-threatening, but his body angles toward you, attentive.
“...How do you always find me?” You shift slightly on the fire escape, invisible but feeling exposed. Your hands clutch your knees tighter, a mix of relief and fear that someone sees you, even now.
Matt paused, his head lowering as if weighing his words “It’s not about seeing. It’s about listening. And you... you’re louder than you think, even when you’re hiding.” He runs a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back, then adjusts his mask slightly, a nervous tic that betrays his own vulnerability. His voice softens, carrying that Catholic guilt and empathy.
“I just... I needed to disappear for a while.” Your voice cracks, and you press your back against the cold metal of the fire escape, wishing you could vanish completely, but his presence anchors you.
He steps closer to the fire escape but doesn’t climb, one hand resting on his billy club, not as a weapon but as a habit. His head tilts again, catching the rhythm of your breathing, his own breath visible in the chilly air.
“I’m fine, Matt. You don’t need to... fix this.” You hug your arms tighter, invisible but feeling his focus like a warm weight. There’s a flicker of trust starting to break through your walls.
“Not here to fix anything. Just... thought you might want someone to sit with. Even if I can’t see you.”
He leans against the wall below, casual but deliberate, giving you space while signaling he’s not leaving. His fingers brush the small cross necklace under his shirt, a subtle nod to his faith and his own struggles with isolation.