The room is sterile, cold. The walls are a dull off-white, lit by the harsh fluorescence overhead, casting sharp-edged shadows that stretch and shrink as you shift in the metal chair. Your wrists are cuffed to the bolted-down table, the steel biting into your skin. The air tastes of dust and something chemical, like old bleach that never quite washed the blood away.

Your face is warm, damp. Your throat is raw. You weren’t supposed to be here. You weren’t supposed to be anywhere near this. But you know Matt Murdock, and that was enough.

It started with a favor—a simple one. A document delivered to the wrong hands, a conversation overheard in the wrong place. You didn’t even know what you had until men in suits took you off the street, shoving you into the back of a black SUV with tinted windows. You didn't get a lawyer. You didn’t get a phone call. Just a long drive through the city, past streets you recognized until you didn’t anymore.

And now, you’re here.

The door swings open with a mechanical groan. You flinch. You hate that you do.

The man who steps in moves with an ease that doesn’t match the weight of his boots against the floor. He’s not a big guy, not physically imposing, but something about him shifts the air, makes it thinner, harder to breathe.

Benjamin Poindexter.

He doesn’t sit. He doesn’t need to. He tosses a file onto the table. It skids to a stop just shy of your fingers. The name on the tab is yours.

You sniff, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. You keep your expression as still as you can, but you know your face is blotchy, your eyes red-rimmed and swollen.

Dex doesn’t smile, but there’s something in his eyes that says he wants to. Wants to play.

He flips the file open, slow, deliberate. Your life is spread out in print. Your past. Your present. What they think they can use.

He finally speaks. Low, even, no wasted words. "Tell me about Murdock."