Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The polluted air feels thick on his skin as Matt steps foot onto the railway platform, weaving through the crowd with relative ease. He pretends to bumble here and there, lest a curious onlooker becomes too curious about why a blind man can find his way through without a fuss. Matt knows that he could explain his somewhat supernatural sense of being aware of what’s around him because he’s a sorcerer, but he wants to keep that a secret as much as he can. His career forces his hand in revealing his powers since people prefer hiring a private detective who can use magic than one who cannot. It certainly helps with finding clients, of course, as it puts dinner on the table for him and Ms. Page, but he’d rather keep it to himself when he has the chance. Keeping his identity as a sorcerer allows Matt to live a quieter life without people trying to fawn over him because of his apparent status within society. 

As a child, Matt lived with his father—Jack Murdock—in a cramped, one-room apartment, a life wholly different from the one he has now. His father had a job at the clock factory down the street, like most people who lived in the building. He hadn’t made much, but it was enough for them to scrape by. Being poor and without magic meant that it was hard to find a job that paid more than coins. His father was only a human, and while his mother was a sorcerer, she didn’t stay long enough for Matt to remember seeing any magic. 

Society structured itself in a way that favored the wealthy and magically powerful. Noblemen and aristocrats alike were high up in class status, even more so if they were a sorcerer. Being rich and able to use magic meant you were the ruling class, the population’s peak. A sorcerer in the middle-class received respect and lived comfortably, slightly more so than a regular human but less so than an aristocrat. As one traveled down the social class rungs, the less seen and protected they were. Matt and his father were at the bottom of the barrel, therefore forced to struggle through life.  

Matt remembers being stuck at home as his father worked tirelessly at the factory, leafing through the same children’s book repeatedly until its spine was worn loose. He struggled to read beforehand, as there were no schools at the time, especially for poor children like him. The old man who owned a small bookshop on Main Street took pity on him because he stood outside the storefront window staring at the books on display for hours. The man handed him the children’s book, and at first, Matt refused, but the man insisted and offered to teach him how to read. So, when his father was gone, Matt would visit the old man for lessons sometimes. 

That is until Matt saved the owner from an oil spill. The two walked back to the bookshop after the old man treated him to an oyster supper—a luxury Matt hadn’t experienced before—when a man on a horse clopped down the cobblestone street with a huge wooden cart. Inside the wagon were several large oil cans, presumably for the train station at the city’s edge. A group of boys played with a ball near the street, and one threw it too hard, launching it into the road. One of them rushed in to retrieve it, causing the coachman to pull on the reins harshly. All the sudden movement, though, jostled the cart and tipped it over. A few oil cans hurtled towards the old man, and Matt pushed him out of the way without realizing it. There isn’t much that Matt remembers afterward besides the burning in his eyes and screaming, whether it was his or someone else’s. When he awoke, darkness and his father’s voice greeted him. 

For a while after, Matt was forced to stay home, per his father’s orders. He’s since found peace with his blindness, but there will always be a twinge of guilt associated with it, as his father had to find other means of making money to pay for Matt’s hospital bills. A factory job was enough before, but the added financial burden caused Jack Murdock to involve himself with an underground boxing ring run by a local crime syndicate. His father tried to hide it from him, but Matt always knew that the gang forced him to lose matches on purpose. It never mattered to him, but it was a great deal of hurt on his father’s pride. 

During this new period in both of their lives, Matt’s powers sprouted. For every sorcerer, the kind of magic they can conduct is unique. Matt’s came in the form of fire, a burning flame that engulfed his world anew. He still couldn’t see, but it wasn’t the same as being thrown into darkness. Along with the fire, Matt discovered his other senses had heightened. His powers were out of control; he had no one to guide him through the unfamiliarity. As such, the city overwhelmed him. 

Notably, the sounds, by God, the sounds. They beat down on his ears. Horses neighing, train wheels screeching, shovels hitting coal, shrill cries of babies. It crashed over him in waves, too much all at once. He’d cradle his ears some days, curled into a corner to try to make the loudness stop, but his magic was relentless. 

Matt wanted to tell his father, but he was exhausted, barely giving his son a simple greeting upon coming home. Matt refused to add to the stress, and he feared that he’d get taken away, too. He knew his mother left when he was young because, despite being a sorcerer, she still was a lady who had a child with a destitute human. It was either stay and suffer through poverty or leave and find a stable home. If he told anyone that he was alone, what if someone tried to take him away to a “more suitable” place? Matt could never forgive himself if he left his father to waste away, so he spoke not one word about his newfound powers. 

But as fate would have it, their family was torn apart anyway. The memory plays through Matt’s head without his consent whenever it wants to. His father had another boxing match, and with immense regret now, Matt asked to come and listen. He wishes he hadn’t, but that night, he was possessed with the want to see his father in action. Matt rarely saw him back then due to his constant traveling between the two jobs. He missed him. So, Matt asked, and his father—unable to refuse his loving son—indulged him. 

At the time, he hadn’t realized it, but it all went so wrong so quickly. His father was supposed to lose the match, but his pride wouldn’t have it, especially with his son in the audience this time. At least once, Matt reckons, Jack Murdock wanted to win. And he did—he won by a landslide, utterly decimating his opponent. Thrill and pride ran through Matt’s veins upon hearing the announcer’s booming voice, shouting that for the first time, Battlin’ Jack finally won. He cheered in the crowd, jumping up and down with his small fists in the air. He couldn’t see, but his magic allowed him to know that his father was staring down at him. At that moment, they indeed were father and son. Matt will never forget it. 

The match was over, and everyone began filing out, but Matt stayed behind, waiting. He heard a man call out his father’s name. They needed to have a “talk” with him. Instinct told Matt to grab his father’s hand and run, but he was told to go outside and wait while the adults talked. Of course, Matt listened. 

But then, like a piercing screech of an eagle, he heard gunshots ring. His blood ran cold as he searched for his father, assuming the worse, and tragically, he guessed correctly. Lying in the middle of the boxing ring, Matt found his father’s body, growing colder by the minute. He should have called for someone, anyone, but all young Matt could do was beg him not to leave him alone. The last thing he felt was his father’s hand gripping his for as long as Jack could manage. Eventually, his soul departed, and Matt remained, holding a limp hand as he cried. 

The fury and grief stuck with him ever since, albeit the roaring of his blood simmered down to where Matt could control himself. He never wanted to be as helpless as he was then, so he directed his efforts towards learning to utilize his powers and become a detective. It was the least Matt could do, in his father’s honor. Since starting his practice, he’s gained some notoriety; being known as a sorcerer has earned him respect, which he must admit is pleasant. He can live comfortably in a small house with his office downstairs, a vast difference from his time spent in a moldy apartment. The real joy was from helping others, though. By doing so, Matt has a sense of purpose.

Matt walks towards the streets near the station, choosing a hopefully quieter street that doesn’t grate on his ears. He whistles under his breath as he makes his way down, feeling particularly jovial after his most recent case. In another town near the city, a widowed woman hired him to find her missing daughter. Ms. Page urged him to take the case pro bono, not that he needed much convincing. He used a flick of the wrist to look into her heart and see how pure her intentions were. There was no trickery there, nor any malintent. All that existed within her heart was a yearning to have her daughter returned, which Matt made sure to accomplish. 

As he passes by Josie’s Bar, two ladies of dizzy age call out to him from their apartment porch above. 

“ Oi, Mr. Murdock! Where have you been after so long? We haven’t seen you in weeks, my dear!” One lady, Agatha, shouts out.

“I missed seeing your darling face, Mr. Murdock!” The other lady, Irene, jeers. 

Matt refrains from rolling his eyes, even if they’re hidden behind his tinted glasses. “I’m sorry, madams, I’ve been away on a case outside the city. I’ve only just returned.” He tries a smile, hoping it’ll satisfy the two long enough for him to escape. 

He hears Irene scoff, turning to her companion to whisper. Matt can listen to her despite her efforts, of course, and is by no means surprised by her words. “I reckon he’s been galavanting with a pretty young woman. He may act as if he’s in gas-pipes, but with a face like that, I’d bet he’s a real gal-sneaker!” 

Agatha giggles like an elementary school girl. “Oh my, perhaps our Mr. Murdock finally eloped with that girl he insists is his secretary!”

The women cackle, loud enough that Matt doesn’t need to use his powers. Now, he couldn’t resist giving his eyes a good spin. They are nice ladies, but their gossiping can be ridiculous at times. 

“Well,” Matt calls out, “I must get on now. I have quite a bit of work to attend to, so if you’ll excuse me. Take care now.” He bows slightly, much to Agatha and Irene’s enjoyment. 

The rest of his stroll goes by without incident, thankfully, and he arrives at his combined office and home. The door creaks as he steps inside.

“Ms. Page? I’ve returned.”

Karen perks up from her desk. “Oh, welcome back, Matthew. If I remember correctly, you were supposed to arrive only ten minutes after two!” She nags playfully. 

Matt chuckles. “I ran into Agatha and Irene again. They pressed me for my whereabouts this past week and conjured the idea of us eloping together.” 

Karen huffs, standing up. “What a pair of church-bells, those two. As if a refined lady like me would ever think of eloping with a man like you. Simply outrageous!” 

“Perhaps I should say the same, Ms. Page. Do you even have a dowry to offer upon our supposed marriage? I think not.” He teases. 

She snorts in response, a guttural sound. It’s rather unladylike, to which Matt appreciates. Throughout his youth, after his father’s passing, he’s worked himself to the bone to shape into what society considers to be an “upstanding man.” It’s essential to keep up mannerisms if he wishes to make it through these times without hardship or ridicule. If he’s honest, he hates the act he has to put on. It’s one of the reasons he enjoys Ms. Page’s company. She cares not for anyone’s opinion and acts as she pleases, especially when around him. 

“And what have I told you about calling me ‘Ms. Page,’ Matthew? How many times must I remind you to refer to me as Karen?” 

“I’ll continue to do so until you stop calling me Matthew,” Matt says, sticking his nose up.

“You have not spent enough time around me if you assume that I’m going to give in first, Matthew.” Karen drawls, enunciating each syllable of the name to annoy him. “Oh, I figure I should mention you had a potential client come by while you were away. I do believe he’s a rather rich fellow. Sure seemed like it, what with him speaking down to me all afternoonified.” 

“Is that so? Did he leave a name?”

Karen hums, walking back to her desk. She rustles around some papers, picking a slip of writing up. “Yes, his name was Leland Owlsley, I believe?”

Matt’s eyebrows raise at the name. He’s heard of the man—an aristocrat. He’s never had someone of that status come by to request his services before. Usually, he gets clients of middle class at the highest. “You’re right; he is rich. Did he give any details as to what he wanted me to investigate?”

Her hair brushes against her shoulders as she shakes her head no. “None at all. He insisted that he speak to you directly.” She crosses her arms. “It was infuriating! He had me thinking that he didn’t want to give his business to a woman! He was a real skilamalink if you ask me.” Karen practically spits out.

Matt hums in agreement. “Do you suggest I not write him back, then? I refuse to interact with anyone who disrespects my employees, you know.” Karen laughs in response, a pure sound. 

“Not at all. I say you let Owlsley hire you, and you wring as much money as you can from that old rag. We rarely find someone of high status. I’d like to buy a new purse from the boutique!”

“Of course, Ms. Page. Do you mind writing a letter in response for me? You can tell him that I’m willing to meet him throughout the next week, anytime in the afternoon.”

“I’ll get right to it.” Karen chirps, plopping into her desk chair.

He excuses himself to his office, closing the door behind him. It’s not a luxurious room, but it certainly does the job. Karen had helped him design the place, insisting that if they were going to advertise their services, the office must look the part. He let her do most of the decorating. According to Karen, the entire room contains delicate oak. His desk sits against one of the walls. There’s little that he keeps on there, besides a couple of law books written in braille and a lamp. The window across the room from his desk perfectly aligns with the sun, so he’s usually kept warm under its rays when he’s working here. Lastly, he has two chairs in front of his desk, where his clients sit during meetings. Overall, it’s a simple place, yet he’s proud of what’s he’s managed to do here, with Karen’s help, of course.

Leland Owlsley is a smarmy man, which Matt comes to learn with great distaste. Upon arrival, he completely ignored Karen’s greetings and immediately demanded that he go into Matt’s office. Matt didn’t need the ability to see Karen’s displeasure, but ever the professional, she opens Matt’s door, allowing Owlsley inside. He entertained the idea of smiling at the aristocrat but decided against it, considering the man’s behavior. 

“Please, take a seat, sir.” Matt gestures aimlessly. 

Without a word, Owlsley sits across from Matt. There was a moment of silence before Matt spoke. 

“I did not receive a debriefing from my secretary beforehand on the details of your case. She told me that you preferred to speak with me privately. If I may ask, what is it that you want me to investigate that requires secrecy?” He didn’t bother cutting corners. Matt needed to know how bad this potential case could be, lest he endangers Karen or anyone else who may get involved. He had low expectations for an aristocrat of any sort to value other people’s safety. They tended to be selfish people; Owlsley appeared to be no exception. 

Owlsley pushes his glasses up, a subtle sound of wire scraping against skin. “I’d rather have a limited amount of people knowing my business. To answer your question, however, yes, this may be dangerous. Although, I imagine a sorcerer such as yourself should encounter no problems. After all, that is why I am hiring you.” 

Matt’s lip twitches slightly in annoyance, but he attempts to school his expression. “I am a sorcerer, yes. What is your request, then, Sir Owlsley?” 

The aristocrat leans forward, dropping his voice almost to a whisper. The action unsettles Matt. “I am requesting that you find and capture a serial killer.” 

If Owlsley sees the surprise on Matt’s face, he doesn’t offer a comment. “A serial killer, you say? While I appreciate you wanting to approach me for business, this sounds like a case for the police force to handle.” 

The man scoffs loudly. “No, that’s a heinous idea. I will never go to those mutton shunters. This is a private matter, Mr. Murdock. This serial killer is directly after those of high status; however, he somehow strings his murders into accidents. I’ve been around this city long enough to know a suspicious trail when it appears.” He crosses his legs and nervously scratches his nails against his pants. To Matt, it sounds like rats clawing at a brick wall, which is close enough, he supposes. “I want you to find him and catch him. Collect enough evidence to get him arrested or kill him yourself. I care not for the specifics. All I need is that brute of a man off the map, so my son and I are safe.” 

“My office does not condone murder, sir.” Matt grits out, trying to remain polite. It shouldn’t be a surprise that Owlsley considers other human lives to be so trivial, but it grates on his nerves nonetheless. “I suppose I can investigate for you. If I am to collect more information, I will need help in nearing aristocratic spaces. I hope you understand that it is hard for someone of my status, sorcerer or not, to get near an aristocrat without invitation.” 

“That, Mr. Murdock, I will not be able to assist you with. As I mentioned before, I require absolute anonymity for my family’s safety. I trust that you will figure it out, though, considering your reputation. Word of your work has carried up even to our spaces. Did you know that people refer to you as a devil? You’re rather ruthless as a detective, I’ve heard.” There’s a lilt of smugness under Owlsley’s tongue. Matt wishes he could zip his mouth shut. “Worry not. I will compensate you generously. I’ll give half as a deposit and give the rest once the job is done. Does that sound fair?” 

The man stands before Matt can utter a word. He resigns himself to the situation’s reality, merely standing with Owlsley and reaching out his hand to shake. Owlsley hesitates but gingerly takes Matt’s hand, shaking it slightly. “I’ll be in contact with your secretary, Mr. Murdock.”

It takes Matt more than a few minutes before he exits his office to join Karen. After an interaction like that, he needed to recharge and get his wits about him. While it’s not entirely unlike his other cases, a murder case is unusual. 

“How was your meeting? You look as if you’re not up to dick.” Karen teases. 

Matt offers her a wry smile, taking a seat at the couch meant for waiting clients. “Owlsley wants me to find him a murderer.”  

She laughs loudly, a quick jab of sound into the air. Matt quirks his head. Her chuckles stop short in its tracks, and silence follows. “You’re not pulling my leg, are you?” 

“I’m afraid not.” 

“What will you do? You aren’t honestly going to search for a killer on the loose?” 

“I plan to be careful, Ms. Page.”

“Dear God, Matthew. Your definition of careful is much different from the common man, you must know. A herd of horses could stampede down the street, and you’d face them head-on.”

Matt nods his head, accepting the complaints. “Trust me this time. I always come back, don’t I?” 

Karen stands to join him on the couch, sitting close to him. “You must, or else that old man will cop a mouse when I find him. Regardless, what is your plan?” 

“Well,” Matt pauses. He mulls it over in his head before realizing his current predicament. “I’m not sure. Yet. I have it under control, though.” 

“No, dear, you do not.” Karen tuts. “What do you know about this killer, then? Did Owlsley give you anything?” 

“He gave me jack squat. All I have is that aristocrats are the sole victims, and the murders are disguised as accidents. From that, perhaps the murderer may also be of high status if he’s able to cover them up without incident. Or, he’s a talented killer.” 

“How do you know the murderer is a man? Maybe, it’s a woman pulling strings. The gender may play a part in how the killer can get close to the victims.” 

“You may be right.” Matt groans, rubbing a hand down his face. “I simply do not have anything concrete, only mere conjectures. That bastard gave me nothing to work with.” 

Karen taps her heels against the wooden floor, a sign that she’s trying to see the problem differently. She’s as sharp as a knife. Without her help, he’s not sure he’d solve all the cases he receives. 

Matt knows there’s talk about the two of them. Some believe she’s his wife, or worse, his prostitute. The gossip doesn’t appear to phase Karen much, but Matt despises the lack of faith people seem to have in her. Women are thought to be stationed in the home and taking care of chores unless they are from a poor background. With someone of Matt’s elevated status, though, it is unusual for him to hire a woman to do a job considered “unladylike,” like work in a detective agency. Matt was never one to abide by those societal laws or tried to disobey them in little ways, at least. 

“Aren’t rich fellows rather extravagant? As in, they put on obnoxious parties and such. Why don’t you start there? Sneak into a gala.” She pokes him in the shoulder, nudging him on. 

“I suppose I could do that. How would I know where to go? I’m not exactly well-versed in the happenings of aristocratic lives.” 

“Give me a day,” Karen assures. “I’ll get in touch with Mr. Urich. You remember him, don’t you? Works at the printing press. He’s rather handy when it comes to matters like this.” 

Matt smiles. “I’ll leave it in your hands, then.”

Karen returns to him with news of a ballroom dance at the Ranskahov estate in the next couple of days. The brothers, well-known for throwing ostentatious parties, invited all the socialites within the city, so there is an expectedly large turnout for the night. It’s a perfect searching ground for Matt to start his investigation. 

It’s the night of the ball, and Matt feels a bit like Cinderella by how he’s standing at the edge of the property in a frustratingly snug suit. Karen insisted on buying a new outfit, complaining that his current ones weren’t ornate enough to look like a nobleman’s. He’s uncharacteristically skittish about entering. A part of him doesn’t want to attend the party; being in such crowded scenes is far from his comfort zone. He can easily control his powers at this age, but an overload of the senses still upset him, and he’d like to avoid them when possible. However, Matt won’t be able to circumvent this situation at all. 

He sucks air into his gut, tugs at his collar, and strides towards the estate head-on.

Matt greets an attendant stationed at the entrance and walks inside without a fuss. Mr. Urich told Karen that the Ranskahov brothers’ parties are passed by word of mouth, therefore only reaching aristocrats. Knowing that the party is happening is an invitation in itself, so there’s no barrier keeping him away this time. He allows himself to hear a bit of the noise with a snap, which leads him into a grand room, where everyone is gathered.

Upon arriving, he gets hit with the full force of the party. Immediately, there are sounds of the popping of champagne bottles and the drunken cheers of guests. He barely needs to use magic to feel the vibrations of people’s soles hitting the tiled floor as they dance. Matt keeps his cane in front of him and sticks to the wall, hoping he can avoid most people this way. 

He can smell a table lined with different food dishes, so he moves there, using it as an excuse to listen in on people’s conversations covertly. Matt doesn’t expect to hear someone openly tell another about any murderous escapades, but he may find a lead. In the couple of days that he waited for Karen, he deliberated on the killer’s possible motives. One idea he came up with was that it could be a way to further business. It’s easier to seize whatever industry the victim runs or has a hand in by killing them. Another reason is that it’s for revenge; while Matt has no clue what someone would want revenge for, he shouldn’t rule it out yet. However, he can’t decide on anything substantial until he gets ahold of the victims’ list. He can do some research on their backgrounds with their names to see if there’s any link. 

Matt curses to himself. If Owlsley wasn’t adamant on no-contact after the hire, Matt could get the list from him. He’ll have to find it some other way. Hopefully, someone at the ball will mention an accidental death of their associate so that he can approach and ask about it. 

He waits, perusing the snack table while listening to others’ chats. So far, he hears nothing out of the ordinary. Mostly, it’s mindless gossip about other party-goers or retellings of boring stories. Matt wishes they’d talk about something he could utilize, but it seems accidental deaths offer little excitement. 

As he putters around uselessly, someone approaches him, probably a woman, judging from the click of heels. 

“I’ve noticed you’ve been standing here for a while now. Is there a problem with the food?” A soft voice asks, confirming his hypothesis.

He laughs awkwardly, trying to appear demure. “Not at all. I’m merely deciding; the options may as well be endless, don’t you agree?” 

The woman hums. “Perhaps. I don’t believe we’ve met before. You may call me Vanessa Fisk.” There’s a small sound of her dress sleeve brushing against her side, indicating that she’s reaching out a hand to him. He smiles in return. While he knows she means for Matt to kiss her hand, he doesn’t want to give away that he can tell. 

He hears Ms. Fisk utter a noise of confusion before the pieces fall into place in her head. “Oh, dear, please forgive my rude behavior. If I may ask, I presume that you no longer have your sight?”

Matt nods, tapping his cane against the floor. “Yes, you would be correct.”

“I see. I reached my hand out for you to take, but I realize that you cannot see it. My apologies again for not realizing it at first. Ah,” Ms. Fisk says. “Are you not able to tell what’s on the table? I can describe the selections for you if you’d prefer.” 

Matt inwardly cringes. He can tell she pities him, but furthermore, if he stays too long in this conversation, he’ll forfeit precious time. He needs to find another spot where he can spy on others discreetly, seeing how being near the food is no longer safe. 

“It’s quite alright, madam. Thank you for the offer, but I realize that I have to find someone right about now, so if you’ll excuse me.” He bows slightly to her and leaves the ballroom altogether.

If listening in on conversations isn’t working, he’ll search the grounds for a bit and see if he runs into any employees. Matt could try asking them a few questions or even attempt spying on their conversations. If socialites refuse to gossip about the deaths—accidents or not—then maybe the workers who interact with them often will.

The mansion reads like an incredibly idiotic maze. If the Ranskahov brothers live here, Matt wonders how often they get lost, even with their eyesight intact. It takes him longer than he’d like, but he eventually finds the catering staff’s kitchen. It’s situated in the basement, probably meant to make sure the attendants are as far away from the aristocrats as possible, Matt thinks with disdain. 

He doesn’t walk right inside, choosing to stay slightly down the hallway instead so no one will see him as they exit. Matt stands against the wall, listening in to the kitchen with his eyes closed. He has to sift through the white noise of crackling fire and clanging metal, but he soon catches a meaningful conversation. 

“Didja hear about what happened last week?” One chef asks while flipping what sounds to be a slab of beef in a pan. 

“Lotsa stuff occurs every day, Aaron.” The other chef replies, deadpan.

A sigh. “That man who died! He up and fell over a balcony! Just about cracked his head open like an egg. You gotta know what I’m tellin’ you about.” 

“Not at all.”

Someone—Aaron, most likely—snaps his fingers rapidly. “You know...you’ve seen him before, probably. He came to a lot of these parties before. I swear I caught that man partyin’ at almost every event we catered for.” 

“Do you remember his name?”

“Let me think,” more snapping, “my, why must I forget now? It’s on the tip of my tongue, I tell you.”

“Excuse me, sir?” Matt jumps. There’s a male voice, much closer to him than the two chefs in the kitchen. He was so focused on the conversation that he forgot to look out for anyone who could approach him. “Sir?”

“Ah, yes?” Matt answers the man, adjusting his suit’s lapels as if it would hide any hint of suspicion. 

“Mind my potential impoliteness, sir, but I reckon you’re not supposed to be around this part of the house.”

“Yes, I—er.” He comes up with a blank, unsure of what to say. He’s been caught red-handed. If he’s quick about it, Matt can make a quick jab to the man’s neck and hightail it out of here. 

“Oh, you’re listening to the pantry-politics, aren’t you? Didn’t realize the gala up there was that boring, but I suppose all that dancing and socializing can get tiresome, huh.” The man moves closer to Matt, causing him to tense slightly. 

He doesn’t move, waiting for the other to say or do something. “I’m reaching out a hand for you to shake,” the man supplies. “If that’s alright with you.” 

Matt takes his hand. He’s given a firm grip, which he returns. He assumes that the man might be another employee, or at least, he certainly hopes so. 

Satisfied, the man pulls back. There’s a knock on the wall where Matt pressed himself against during the chefs’ conversation. “Are the walls that thin?” The man knocks again. “I never knew; I can’t hear anything through it. You must have some mighty swell hearing. Well, anything good?”

“Pardon me?” 

“Oh, anything good as in didja hear anything particularly grand from the kitchen staff?” When Matt fails to answer him, the man chuckles. “No need to get all poked up, sir. I understand. Sometimes, a man gets bored. Although, I can’t imagine us attendees being that interesting to fellows like you.”

He doesn’t know what possesses him to say this. It may be the utter honesty that seems to radiate from the man’s heart, but regardless, Matt feels the need to refute his statement. “No, I’m not—I’m not one of them.”

The man is clearly surprised by Matt’s words. “Oh? Then who might you be?”

He curses, wishing he kept his mouth shut. “Simply a visitor. That’s all.” 

“Right,” the man drawls, sounding as if he doesn’t believe a word, which Matt believes is fair. “Well, legally, I’m Franklin Nelson, but please, call me Foggy. My parents gave me such a dreadfully boring name. It sounds so stiff, don’t you think?” He huffs. “Ah, this is probably irrelevant to you, but my family owns the catering company supplying the party upstairs, which explains why I’m here, helping out. That’s usually all I do. I’m not so nifty to start helping them with anything substantial, but it’s not as if we’re all that big of a company.” Foggy mumbles the last part to himself, but he catches it regardless. 

“I’m Matthew Murdock,” he says. Once again, his truthfulness shocks him. He’d give a fake name in these instances, but Matt examines the man’s heart and sees only purity there. 

“Pleasure to meet ‘cha, Mr. Murdock. Is, uh, is there anything I can do for you? Pardon my forwardness, but I feel a touch awkward talking with you this way. I’m not sure if I’m allowed.” Foggy’s voice drops to a whisper, leaning in close. “The brothers of this estate get pretty cranky if they see us chatting up any of their guests, you know.”

“How crass of them. I won’t tattle on you; we are simply two men having a chat, aren’t we?” 

“If you say so, sir.” Foggy politely says, although Matt can sense the delight in his voice, which he counts as a victory. 

On a whim, he decides to take a chance. Since Foggy works for this catering company, he must often interact with aristocrats, overhearing bits of important information due to their carelessness. If he’s willing to share, then Matt may have a lead here. 

“Mr. Nelson—“

“Foggy. Ah, if you don’t mind. Mr. Nelson makes me sound so old.”

“Foggy,” Matt corrects. “I believe I did hear something of interest earlier, although I could not understand the end of it as you arrived by then. Perhaps, you may know?”

The man places his hands on his hips, the cloth of his apron brushing against itself from the movement. “Maybe! What didja hear?”

“I heard talk of a death—someone you may have seen or worked with? The man attended parties like these often, mostly ones your family happened to cater for. He fell off a balcony, apparently; a brutal way to pass on, it sounds like.”

“That does sound familiar.” Foggy taps his foot against the floor. Matt keeps quiet, in hopes that offering no interruptions allows the memory to surface. “Oh,” he exclaims. “Right, that’s Jasper.” 

“Jasper?” 

“Oh, Jasper Evans. He was some poor lackey that worked under Mr. Fisk. He hung around parties like these quite a bit, so I became familiar with his name. What a way to die,” Foggy says, shaking his head, causing strands of hair to brush against his cheeks. “Anyway, what’s got your noggin so curious about it? I know you said you’re not one of ‘them,’ but news like that doesn’t last that long with the crew upstairs.” 

“No reason.” Matt lies. He puts on his most charming smile, the one that seems to get him good results usually. Foggy’s heartbeat picks up slightly, proving his running theory. 

“Uh, well,” the man stutters. “I’ll leave you be, then. I won’t tell you that you shouldn’t be here, but be careful. You seem like a nice fellow, so I should warn you that when I said the brothers of this estate hate to see their guests talking to the catering crew, I meant it.” 

“Thank you, but I can take care of myself.” 

“No, sir.” Foggy’s voice turns serious, grave almost, so much so that it startles Matt a bit. “Uh, sorry. You don’t need to worry. It’s not you who’ll be punished, is all.” The unspoken part of potential harm coming to the workers is well understood. He feels a spike of anger, which he tries to damper, but it’s still there. 

“I see.” Although he can’t help the resentment he holds against the Ranskahovs and all the people who act like them, Matt tries to keep his tone light. “Don’t worry. I won’t let them find out. I’m fairly sneaky, if you’ll believe it. Besides, even if they see me around the staff, I won’t let them do anything. Trust me.” 

Foggy doesn’t speak for a few pregnant moments. “I’ll hold you to that, Mr. Murdock.” 

He can’t say for sure, but he hopes Foggy is smiling. He smiles back as a promise and bows. 

Matt takes his leave, ready to head home. He’s got a sliver of a lead, at the very least. While this gala didn’t turn out to be as informative as he hoped, he’ll attend a few more to get a couple more names. If there is a serial killer, then there should be a trail. No one can hide their darkness entirely; that’s one of the few truths Matt knows in this life.

Chapter Text

The moment he steps foot onto the first floor, a newspaper flies straight into his face. Matt hisses as it slaps him, the suddenness causing him to spill a few drops of his coffee. He crinkles it in his hands.  “Good morning, Ms. Page. I believe that this is not how you should greet someone in the early hours, especially if said someone is your boss.” Matt grunts, still shaking off residue grogginess. 

“You won’t believe what’s on the front page today.” 

“I regret to inform you that I cannot read this either.” He deadpans. He hands it back to her, grinning cheekily when she snatches it from his grasp. 

Karen groans. “Yes, I know. I did it for a dramatic effect. Are you going to ask what’s the big news or not?”

Matt lets her wait, shuffling over to her desk, and delicately sits on it. He crosses his legs, taking an obnoxious sip from his mug. “Go on,” he eventually allows. 

“Remember the gala you were at a few nights ago? One of the hosts died!”

All the excess sleepiness gets knocked out of Matt immediately once he registers her words. He straightens his back, setting his cup down. “A Ranskahov? How?”

“Well, according to this, it says, ‘Anatoly Ranskahov, well-known heir along with his brother to the Ranskahov railway company, was found dead after a gathering in their estate. Investigators presume that he drowned in his pool after falling into it while in an intoxicated state.’” Karen reads. “This cannot be a coincidence, right, Matthew? I mean, the night you go to see if there’s some serial killing afoot, a socialite up and dies!”

Matt sighs, finally slouching. “Yes, it is rather odd. However, we both know that they were infamously wild. It’s not so far off that one of them would eventually meet a deadly end. It’s not evidence, just happenstance, Ms. Page.”

“Of course, but this could very well be an important lead. You must go back to the estate. Pretend you’re a reporter, ask Vladimir Ranskahov about what happened. Wean out the real details.”

“And if the truth is a mere accident?”

“Then, we will look elsewhere. For now, Anatoly’s death is all we have to scrape the surface of this case. Unless you found anything concrete that night?”

Matt takes another swig of his coffee, gulping it all down in one go, despite the burn as it goes down. “I received a name about a recent death. Jasper Evans. He fell over a balcony. It’s nothing, really, but it’s a name.”

“Maybe you can find a connection between this Jasper and Anatoly. You know I speak the truth here, Matthew.”

He knows Karen is right, but he has some reservations. Getting information out of Vladimir won’t be an easy task by any means. However, it’s not as if he’s in his current position because it was easy. The real problem is how dangerous Vladimir could be. Just hearing the news had the gears racing in his head. Did Vladimir kill his brother? Perhaps he wanted to get rid of Anatoly to ensure he was the sole heir to their company.

Furthermore, how did Jasper tie into this? If Jasper attended parties quite often, as confirmed by Foggy and the rest of the staff, he must have been well acquainted with the Ranskahovs. Did Jasper uncover damning information involving the brothers? Matt racks his brain; there’s no evidence confirming any of his conjectures, but with what he has, it’s all he can come up with. If there is a link between the two, there has to be some hint as to what ties them together. What does the killer gain from these deaths? 

“Yes, I agree. I’ll visit the estate later this afternoon.” Matt answers. “I will take some time alone in my office. I must think.”

She sighs, walking over to pat him on the shoulder. “Let me know when you take your leave so that I can wish you safe travels.” 

“Of course, Ms. Page,” he nods.

Matt stands near the edge of the property once again, as he did several nights ago. A different sort of apprehension keeps him from taking a step forward this time, though. Instead of childish embarrassment, he’s mulling over how he should approach the remaining Ranskahov. He has no proof that he killed Anatoly, and if Matt approaches him with that in mind, he could come off as aggressive, causing Vladimir to clam up. He’s not exactly the nurturing type either, though. Matt would only upset both of them if he acted sympathetically. 

The problem, too, is he’s not sure what he’s looking to hear yet. If Vladimir had no hand in his brother’s death, what leg does Matt have to stand on? He’ll have to ask a few leading questions and see where the conversation goes from there. 

He nears the entrance and uses the door knocker, ensuring that someone hears him. Matt expects a servant to answer but is surprised when Vladimir opens the door. 

“What d’you want?” The Russian asks gruffly, his words slurring. He’s been drinking, heavily, it sounds like—and smells, too. The man’s breath is rancid. Matt has to hold back the instinctual scrunch of his nose.  

“Hello, are you Vladimir Ranskahov? My name is Jack Battler, and I work with a local, independent newspaper. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about your late brother, Anatoly? My condolences for your loss, as well.” Matt knows he sounds what others may call rude, but there’s something to be said of someone in grief. Often, people give out pity by the handfuls, and perhaps the majority take it. Matt isn’t part of that crowd; he has a hunch that Vladimir isn’t either, but even if he was, Matt isn’t the right person for that. 

He doesn’t receive an answer, so he waits. He imagines several minutes go by before Vladimir makes a move. He hears the swig of a bottle, liquid sloshing on glass, followed by a loud gulp. Vladimir roughly wipes away excess alcohol, skin scraping against a cropped beard, and then the man walks away. He never shut the door, though, so it’s not a refusal. It’s as good an invitation as Matt’s going to receive, so he lets himself in, following Vladimir’s drunken footsteps. 

Matt is led to a living room, judging from Vladimir flopping onto a nearby couch. He stands near the open entrance in an attempt to be polite. 

“Are you goin’ to stand there all day?” Vladimir sneers. Matt’s smile twitches. His twinge of annoyance is imperceptible to the socialite in his drunken state, however, so he’s not too worried. 

“Of course,” Matt says, making his way over to an armchair. The fabric is pleasant; he realizes as he sits. It’s not rough, silky even. His hands toy with the texture as he begins to ask his questions. 

“Mr. Ranskahov, were you the one who found your brother? And do you remember the last thing either of you was doing before he passed away that night?”

Vladimir takes another swig of his drink. Matt sniffs—it’s wine, from what he can tell. “Can’t remember a thing.” He rumbles. “You expect me to recall my brother’s last moments? I was drinking, lounging right here with a few dames at my side. Anatoly was nowhere near me for most of the night.”

He’s oddly defensive, Matt notes. He tries to press further. “I understand, but you two must have interacted at least once throughout the night. You two were the hosts, after all.”

The aristocrat scoffs. “Sure, we spoke. He told me he thought he could wrangle a business deal from someone’s wife, and then he left. Didn’t see him until the party was over when he was face down in our pool.” Matt hears the man’s teeth grind. Latching onto that sliver of anger, he wonders if there’s any information Vladimir is holding back.

“Did you two argue that night? Over that possible business deal? And who was the woman that your brother wanted to speak to?” 

“So many fucking questions,” Vladimir growls. Matt bristles. “We didn’t fucking argue, not over a vazey deal.” The man rises then, swaying in an attempt to stay still but he’s already too wasted. “You accusin’ me? You think I killed Anatoly, my own flesh? You’re a fucking ratbag, you hear me?” His words are slurring together haphazardly; he’s practically spitting at this point. It seems like Matt ended up setting him off anyway, so he takes it as his time to leave, but not without a few jabs back.

“I apologize for any offense. I had no intention of accusing you. All I wanted to get was a clear picture of what may have happened that night. I had no suspicion towards you, Mr. Ranskahov,” which was a lie, but he’s the only one in this room who can tell, “I’m sure there was no foul play. I’ll take my leave now.” Matt turns to find his way out, but right before he reaches the arch that leads out the living room, he hears Vladimir mutter, “I don’t know who that woman was, I don’t.” With a twitch of his finger, Matt takes a peek into the man’s heart. For that single claim, he finds that it's cloudy. 

A lie. 

Matt smirks; it looks like he did find something of use after all. 

He ends up taking a more leisurely route, just for fun. It’ll help to have more time to walk; that way, he can think about what he stumbled upon with Vladimir. 

He knew the woman that Anatoly spoke to that night, at the very least. Did the conversation about business go awry? Was she the murderer? Matt remembers Karen’s comment about the serial killer possibly being a woman. He wants to chuckle at her sharp intuition. Not to say that he’s made any concrete conclusions yet, but this mysterious woman is indeed a lead. It also helps that, if this has any tie to the murderer’s identity, it brings some light to the chance that they are another aristocrat. Furthermore, Vladimir mentioned a husband, so if he can find that man, he can find the woman with Anatoly. 

“Mr. Murdock!” Someone shouts suddenly.

Matt halts in his steps, turning to face the general vicinity of the man’s voice. It’s familiar, he realizes. 

The voice gets closer as he hears the crunch of shoes hitting gravel getting slowly louder. “Mr. Murdock? Well, now, I thought it was you! D’you remember me by any chance?”

It clicks in his head after a few beats, just a bit short on the uptake, but Matt collects himself nonetheless. “Oh, yes, you’re the man I met during the Ranskahov party. Foggy, was it?” 

“Right on target, mister.” 

“A pleasure running into you. How are you doing this morning?” Matt tries for polite conversation. Usually, he tries to make nice and run away as soon as possible. Mindless small talk isn’t his forte; he can chat if it means wrangling information for a case, but nothing more than that. People’s voices, especially the kind — the dishonest, wretched kind — of people he ends up interacting with because of his job, tend to sound almost shrill-ish. It doesn’t matter if the individual’s voice is a baritone; the worse someone’s heart is, the more they sound like chalk is scraping against a chalkboard. However, he finds that he doesn’t quite mind listening to Foggy. 

“Oh, I’m doin’ alright. You happened to pass by my parents’ shop! Alongside the catering company, we’re a butcher shop.”

Matt knew that; he’s passed down this road plenty of times before. He could smell the meat a mile away—it always smelled fresh. He never bought anything from it, though. Foggy’s family meat was fine, he’s sure, but the smell and taste of beef could sometimes overwhelm him, making him almost nauseous. Plus, meat nowadays was expensive, and Matt was a relatively frugal man. Despite the amount he makes, he chooses to be cheap if he can get away with it. It’s not always possible with Karen around—she complains about his habits, saying that if he has money, he should spend it. But old habits die hard; he can’t forget how he used to live with his father, always scrounging up whatever money they could find in hopes of getting through the week. 

He wonders how he never noticed Foggy before, but then again, why would he? It’s not as if he stood outside the door every day, waiting to see if Matt was passing by, especially since he was far from a regular customer. They were— are —strangers. 

“Is that so? How coincidental,” Matt says. “I’m just on my way home.” 

Foggy rocks back and forth on his heel. He guesses that Foggy is trying to find ways to keep the conversation going. Matt feels a little awkward under the attention, but he doesn’t necessarily mind. He’s spent more time with people far worse than Foggy.

“Do you mind,” Matt continues, “showing me around your establishment? I’m afraid I haven’t been inside before.” 

“Of course!” He beams. If Matt could see, he’d bet money that Foggy had a blinding smile from the enthusiasm that coated his voice. “Right this way, sir. Would you like me to take your arm to show you around? No problem if you don’t want to; I’m sure you’re plenty capable, just thought I’d offer in case.” 

 Matt smiled. “I don’t mind,” and he found that he genuinely didn’t. He offers his arm out to Foggy, which is gingerly taken in stride. Together, they walk towards his family store. 

Immediately, he’s hit with the smell of, well, meat. The scent is thick and heavy in his nostrils as if someone jammed two corks soaked in pig or cow blood up there. Matt slaps a hand over his nose and mouth before he can stop himself. His magic is well under his control now, but its powers act as if they are passively a part of him—like an organ—rather than something he can use as if it were the string of a lamp. 

He feels Foggy’s worry before he hears it. His fingers grip Matt’s suit, clinging as he leans in. “Are you alright, sir? What happened?”

“Ah, my apologies.” Matt coughs. “I seem to have forgotten to inform you that I have a fairly sensitive nose, among other things. No need to worry, I was just overwhelmed by the smell—not that it’s bad, of course. It’s merely a lot to take in at once. I’ll get accustomed to it all soon.”

Foggy doesn’t sound convinced. “Are you mighty sure, Mr. Murdock? No shame in leaving, I can escort you out and try to describe the place instead.”

“Truly, I am fine. I appreciate the concern, Foggy. We can continue.”

“Alright, if you insist.” He leads Matt inside a bit more, close to where the counter for the cashier is. He can hear that there are pieces of meat hanging over, swaying slabs on creaky, metal hooks. “Here is where we greet the customers.” Foggy lightly raps his knuckles on the wood. “It ain’t much, but it does the job.”

They continue past the counter as Foggy opens a gate that leads to the rest of the shop. Here, he recognizes the cloying scent of sourness, metal, and meat mixing together. “We cut everything here. The freezer that holds the carcasses is in the back, on your far left. Uh, next to us, on our right, is one of our metal tables where we specifically cut pork, and there are a few other tables. Another one is directly in front of us, a few more steps away. We put beef there, and the two tables on your left, near the freezer, are for sausage and chicken.”

Matt makes a noise of interest. “You keep the meat separate?”

“Oh yeah. My pops insist that we do. I think it’s a bit over the top, but it does help us earn a rather pretty reputation of having meat that ain’t questionable.” Foggy leans towards his ear and whispers as if he’s confessing a secret. “Can’t say the same for our rival butchers, though. My pops swears it's just a bunch of bags o’ mystery everywhere else.” 

Matt can’t help but chuckle. His chest feels bubbly, the way he does when he’s had a few glasses of champagne. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Foggy claps him in the shoulder, jostling him. “We’ll fix you up good, Mr. Murdock!”

They share a laugh, settling into a good-natured quiet. Matt speaks up soon, realizing that he might make Karen worry if he stays out any longer. “Thank you for the quick tour, but I’m afraid that I should be heading home now.”

“Ah, of course,” Foggy says, suddenly sobering up. “Your missus must be waiting on you.”

“Oh, no, I’m not married. I have a secretary there, but she doesn’t live with me nor are we involved. However, she will not hesitate to throw a heel at me if I were to keep her waiting. I may be her employer, but she’s the real boss here. I’ll try to stop by again to say hi if you don’t mind my company.”

“Oh! I don’t mind at all. Although you might run into my folks and my sisters, all of which are overwhelming on their own, I must warn you. Imagine your secretary lady but a whole family of her and a lot louder too.”

Matt winces. “I understand; I’ll keep an ear out, then. Well, it was wonderful to chat with you again. I hope we run into each other soon. Have a good afternoon, Foggy.” He bows slightly. 

“Well, I’ll be here. Chopping meat.” Foggy snorts. 

He really is sorry to leave, but he smiles and waves goodbye. He makes a note in his head to buy Karen a few slices of steak or pork as a gift. She’ll love it, Matt’s sure of it, and it’ll be a win for himself as well. He tries telling himself that purchasing the meat for Karen is purely for altruistic reasons, but Matt can be selfish, too.

“It’s about time you returned.” Karen pouts.

“Yes, I apologize, Ms. Page. How are you faring today?”

She sighs, leaning back in her chair. The wood creaks loudly under the weight; Matt should get that board replaced soon. “Oh, you know, dreary as ever. Honestly, it’s truly unjust that you get to have all the fun while I sit here collecting dust. You might as well start planning my funeral soon; I may very well develop a serious disease from this boredom!”

“My sincerest condolences.” Matt chuckles. “I’ll ensure that I make the arrangements soon. Would you prefer to be holding daisies or lilies while in your coffin?”

She sniffs petulantly. “Neither. I demand a bouquet of daffodils and bluebells.” 

“Of course, how dare I assume.”

“Anyway, Matthew, were you able to shake anything useful out of that Vladimir fellow?” 

“Actually, yes.” Matt takes a seat in one of the waiting room chairs, crossing his legs once he’s situated. “I can’t say that he is the killer, but I can’t say that he is not it either. However, I was able to catch another lead. Before Anatoly died, his brother saw him speaking to a woman, and for some odd reason, he lied to me about knowing her. Whether that woman is a suspect or not, I have somewhere to go from here.”

“I see. Although, Matthew, dear, we never hypothesized that Vladimir was the murderer. Don’t tell me you went in thinking such thoughts?”

Matt scratches his head awkwardly. “I may have sounded slightly accusatory, but trust me when I say I tried to keep an open mind. Vladimir’s behavior was all over the place, so I did end up going down that trail, but in retrospect, it’s too easy of an answer to be that. Besides, I didn’t hear much of a motive from the man, but again, we didn’t end up speaking for long. I may have upset him.”

“Goodness, you can be so headstrong sometimes. Did you ask about Jasper at least?”

“I did not, but that was only because I remembered from Foggy—he’s the butcher who catered the Ranskahov event—that Jasper worked under a man named Fisk. Thinking back, though, I should’ve mentioned Jasper, considering he attended aristocratic parties quite often. I doubt I would’ve gotten much out of Vladimir, regardless of whether I upset him or not since he was disgustingly drunk when I arrived.”

“Oh my, how uncouth. Perhaps that’s a sign of grief? For his brother?”

“It could also be a sign of guilt,” Matt added. 

“I suppose, but you did say you had no proof of a motive.” Karen sighs. “Forgive me, but I can’t help but feel that we are back to the drawing board once again.”

“Not yet, Ms. Page. The woman I mentioned before. Vladimir had said that he did not see his brother much that night, meaning he was not there when he died. I didn’t catch any hint of mistruth in that statement, so I believe he is in the clear. My next assumption is that, maybe, the last person with Anatoly before his end was that mystery woman. If I can find her identity, we may be one step closer to the murderer. Plus, you mentioned before that a woman could very well be the killer, did you not?”

“That I did.” 

“Furthermore, the only lie I did hear from Vladimir was that he did not know that woman. Our conversation this morning will not be the last. I’ll ensure I revisit him for more questions, preferably when he’s sober. I can ask him about Jasper, too. The finer details will be better to approach him with when he’s slightly more familiar with me.”

Karen taps a manicured nail on her desk. It’s a signal that she’s pleased; Matt grins in response. 

“Well done, Matthew. We can leave all the death behind for another conversation. For now, let’s chat about something lighter, like what kept you out for so long? And don’t tell me it was because of Vladimir! It’s obvious that that conversation was cut short.” 

Matt laughs. “It seems I cannot get anything past you, Ms. Page. If you must know, I took a detour home and ran into Foggy on the way. It appears that I’ve been passing his shop for years and we haven’t met until now. Quite a riot that we meet amid a murder case.”

“You’ve mentioned this Foggy fellow a few times now.”

“Yes, well, I believe he’ll be a valuable asset in this investigation. He does work often with aristocrats.”

“That is true.” Karen starts to hum, tapping her nail against the desk once again. 

“Is there anything you’d like to say?”

“Not at all, dear. I am simply delighted to hear that you’ve made another friend. It’s rather depressing that your only companion is me, you know.”

Matt crosses his arms. “Well,” he tuts indignantly. “How rude of you.”

“You don’t deny me, Matthew.” Karen chirps sing-songingly. She giggles a childish sound. “I’m only pulling your pant leg. This Foggy, do you trust him?”

He stops to think. Does he trust Foggy? Matt has never sensed any lies or manipulation from the man, although he can’t imagine a reason for him to do so. Foggy is a breath of fresh air, he supposes. A good man. That’s hard to come by these days. 

“I do, so far. He’s been pleasant the couple of times I’ve spoken with him.”

“Good. I expect nothing less from the people who befriend you.”

“I wouldn’t say we are friends yet,” but the argument sounds weak as he says it. At least, he’s not entirely sure Foggy would consider him a friend yet. 

“Now, now, Matthew. Who wouldn’t want to spend time with you?” It seems that Karen notices how his expression must turn stormy because she continues soon after. “Oh dear, will you stop that! Regardless of what you may believe, you are not a burden to anyone, even with your current career.”

Matt disagrees, but he doesn’t reply. His father wouldn’t have been murdered in cold blood were it not for his childish actions. Karen would never be put in danger if she was not his secretary, so he can’t help seeing a pattern here. Plenty of cases in the past have endangered her, all because of her relation to him. And with this new developing friendship with Foggy, who knows what kind of mess Matt may drag him into? Especially considering that he’s trying to catch a relentless potential murderer, of all people, Foggy could be in serious trouble for offering him information. He’s a mere butcher, for heaven's sake: Matt could never forgive himself if he were to be injured, or worse, killed. 

He doesn’t say any of that, however, and puts on a feeble grin. “Thank you, Ms. Page.” 

There’s a silence from her that tells Matt she’s not convinced with his attempt at sincerity, but she doesn’t push the matter either. 

“I think I’ll do some investigating myself, considering you seem to be having some trouble.”

Matt’s head shoots up in alarm. “Ms. Page…” 

“Oh, buzz off, I’ll be fine. Besides, I don’t plan on inviting danger like you so often do! All I want to do is look into who Jasper was and what connections he had. You said he worked under Fisk, right? Perhaps I can find something through his occupation. Meanwhile, you look more into Anatoly. Then we can compare notes; how does that sound?”

He grumbles and clutches his cane. “I’m not so sure about this. I can’t let you get hurt. You’re just as stubborn as I am. What if you run into someone dangerous?”

“I can take care of myself, Matthew.”

“I fully believe that, but this is a murderer we’re searching for. I refuse to put you in harm’s way.” 

Karen sighs and makes her way over to him. He feels her hand hover over his shoulder, the warmth radiating off her palms, even through the fabric of his suit jacket. Eventually, she pulls her arm away, deciding not to touch him. Matt thinks that was the better choice. It’s dangerous if people get too close. 

“Can you trust me this time? Just this once? I promise I’ll come back in one piece. Besides, you know I’m my own person. If I do happen to be injured, or worse—god forbid—then that’s not on you.”

Matt’s mouth twists with displeasure. If he has the power to prevent a crime from happening, then isn’t he responsible?

“Just this once. For Jasper, only. We’ll go out tomorrow, and I’ll investigate more into Anatoly.”

Karen hops slightly, her heels clicking against the wood. “Wonderful! Finally, I can put my skills to use.”

“For now, answer me this: which do you prefer? Beef or pork?”

Matt bids Karen a farewell in the morning after having a quick breakfast together—a simple plate of bread, jam, and eggs. He listens to her footsteps against stone and gravel until she’s too far away to hear anymore. He prays that she’ll be careful. 

Matt trusts her, he does, but the problem is that he doesn’t trust the world. Perhaps he should follow her—damn the Anatoly investigation to hell—to ensure that she stays safe. He almost makes up his mind before he hears Foggy call him from behind. He turns the voice, surprised. 

“Mr. Murdock! How lucky I must be to run into you like this so often.”

He chuckles, nodding. “I have to wonder if you’re stalking me now, Foggy.”

Foggy gasps dramatically. His shirt crinkles under his clenched hand, lain over his beating heart. “Why, I never!” His voice goes shrill as if he’s imitating an obnoxious noble lady. “I should call the guards on you! Disrespecting someone as refined as me!”

That jerks a sharp laugh out of Matt. He slaps a hand over his mouth, shocked by the undignified noise that suddenly burst through. He coughs, adjusting his tinted glasses in an attempt to school himself. 

Foggy snickers, most likely at his awkward state. “Is this your house behind you? A mighty fine place, mister.”

“Why, thank you. I live on the second floor; the first floor serves as my office.” 

“An office, you say? I realize I’ve never asked you what you do for a living. Are you a lawyer or some fancy job like that?”

“No,” Matt says, shaking his head, bemused. He worries whether he should tell Foggy the truth, but all the man has done is be honest that a part of him is utterly compelled to do the same. “I did contemplate pursuing law in my youth, but in the end, I’ve chosen to be a private investigator.”

“Wow! That means you solve mysteries and such, right? I bet that’s a whole lot more exciting than working with meat all day.” Foggy huffs. 

“The title earns more gravitas than it deserves. It’s not as exciting as some may believe.”

“Well, regardless, you sure must be good at what you do to be able to afford a nice place like this.”

“I suppose.” Matt assents, sheepishly. “I regret leaving you again so soon, but I have a case right now that I’m working on, so I must go.”

“Off to do more snooping around, I see! Wait, is that why you were at the Ranskahov estate the night we met?” When Matt doesn’t answer as he scrambles for another excuse, Foggy becomes more excited. “Oh, I’m right, aren’t I? You even work with aristocrats as clients?” He whistles. “You must be rolling in it, huh? Anyway, can I join?”

“Uh, what?” 

“Oh, please, Mr. Murdock? I’m off the clock for now until tonight, and I rarely ever get to do anything fun these days. May I join you? I may not sound like it, but I have a pretty sharp mind myself. I bet I could be of assistance!”

“Oh, Foggy, I’m sorry, but I can’t bring civilians into this. This case is particularly risky, and I don’t want you getting hurt or have your business deals endangered since you work with aristocrats often.”

“Hah! As if those snobby socialites could even remember my face. Don’t worry; there’s no risk there. I admit I’m fairly squishy, but I can kick up a sprint if the situation ever warranted it. I’ll be fine. May I accompany you, just this once? I’ll even give you a few slabs of meat, no charge!” 

Matt deflates. Foggy’s words are too reminiscent of his conversation with Karen from last night. Maybe his resolve is weakening; he should really get a grip on himself. 

“Fine, you may join me, but only this once and never again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, yes, I do. Now, let’s get a move on, shall we?”