Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Dude it’s true, I’m telling you!”

Foggy liked to gesture when he argued, something about emphasizing a point. Matt had always found it kind of funny when it was directed at him, since Foggy knew that Matt couldn't see, or appreciate, his flailing arms. It was even funnier in situations like this, where Foggy’s point was completely invalid and not worth emphasizing to begin with. Still. It was nice to talk to each other like that again. There had always been an element of teasing in their friendship, and both men liked to debate, so after the fallout, when every word felt like it could shatter their tentative truce and every disagreement felt like it could send them into an argument, Matt really felt the pressure to hold his tongue.

It was lonely.

Waves of coffee rolled against the confines of Foggy’s mug as he moved. Matt was mildly surprised that he’d not spilt any more than the three drops he already had. Four, perhaps, Matt thought. A droplet splashed over the lip of the cup and slid down the smooth ceramic, then fell to the surface of the desk. Four.

“It’s absolutely not, Fogs,” Matt said, his eyes crinkling with mirth. Foggy snorted disbelievingly, and Matt couldn’t help the smile that stretched his face. “Look it up, you won’t find a single medical article that agrees with you. I’m sure of it.”

Foggy scoffed again, and placed his cup back on his desk. The creaking of his desk chair resounded around the room, and Matt recognised that as his best friend leaning back in preparation for a verbal fight. Foggy was completely sure that he was right, and Matt found it hilarious. He shook his head again and huffed a laugh, continuing to run his fingertips over files that Karen dumped on his desk when she arrived that morning.

“Are you saying Mama Nelson lied to me?” Foggy asked, throwing out the first blow. “Is that what you’re telling me right now Matthew Murdock? Because if so, then I’ve gotta say that that’s absolutely heinous.”

“Not at all.”

“Oh good.”

Wiser men had been quelled in the past by even the vaguest suggestion from Franklin P. Nelson that they were shit-talking his mom. Lucky, then, that Matt was The Man Without Fear, not The Man Without Stupidity. One might even suggest that Matt enjoyed irritating people – a claim which he would have vehemently denied. He smiled.

“No, what I’m saying is that somebody lied to her.”

Matt had been half expecting some sort of gasp, a show of Foggy’s wildly exaggerated incredulity. That was just the type of person Foggy was. An overdramatic ass. But instead, he didn’t respond. His hand moved to his face and his fingertips rubbed against the softer skin of his face, scratching against his meagre stubble. Matt furrowed his brows slightly as he tried to discern his friend’s sudden ‘silence’.

“For the record, Matt, I’m scratching my chin and pretending to think about it.”

Ah. That made sense. Still dramatic, though.

“Pretending?”

“Yeah, because there is absolutely no way that anybody has the balls to lie to Mama Nelson.”

And yeah, that was understandable. Matt had met Mrs Nelson. She was a formidable and slightly terrifying woman who seemed to enjoy feeding scrawny orphans. She was exactly what anybody would expect of the matriarch of a family as ridiculously extended as Foggy’s, and Matt definitely didn’t like lying to her face.

Man With Exactly One Fear.

Outside of the office Karen was speaking to their 2 o’clock. Her heartbeat was slightly elevated. Matt pursed his lips, concerned, as he closed his file and pushed it to the edge of his desk, out of his way. He then turned to face Foggy and cocked his head slightly to the left.

“Didn’t you lie about getting your ears pierced for four months in college?” Matt asked.

The answer was ‘yes’. Foggy had possessed a rebellious streak when he was younger which lead him to growing his hair out long, getting a tattoo, smoking a lot of pot, and having a friend pierce his ears with a sewing needle and an ice cube in their dorm. The hair, he had cut shorter for the sake of professionalism, the tattoo he covered, and the weed addiction he eventually kicked, but the piercings had caused him a lot more grief. His left ear had gotten horribly infected, but Foggy had stubbornly kept his stud in for another three months until he went home for break. Matt had found the smell almost unbearable. While Foggy was home, his mother had scolded him and forced him to take out both earrings. Fogs never really stopped whining about that, and continued to swear up and down every couple of months that one day, when their firm was more established, he would re-pierce his ears and do his nose too while he was at it for good measure.

“That is besides the point,” Foggy snapped back, his heart skipping a beat. Apparently he did indeed remember that fun conversation. He had described his mom’s wrath in excruciating detail to Matt when they’d got back to their dorm and got a few beers down their throats, and he’d thrown a pillow at Matt when he wouldn’t stop laughing at him. Matt chuckled softly to himself again.

“And what exactly is the point? I seem to be forgetting.”

Foggy groaned frustratedly. He placed his elbows on the table with a thump and put his face in his hands. Karen’s heels clacked against the wood flooring as she walked to the office door.

“The point,” Foggy said, exasperated, “is that cracking you knuckles gives you arthritis, Matty, so stop doing it!”

“It doesn’t!” Matt argued back.

‘I would be able to hear if it did,’ he could have said. He didn’t really want to, though. He and Foggy were at an odd stage where neither of them acknowledged the fact that Matt had enhanced senses. Matt hated it. He wished that things between them could be like they were before. Before everything. Back in college when the secrets were smaller and not as hurtful.

The door opened, jolting Matt from his thoughts, and Karen sighed in exasperation. An unfortunate side effect of Matt’s heightened hearing was that he struggled to gauge how much other people could hear.

Apparently, Karen could hear their arguments through the door.

“I’m gonna have to side with Matt with this one. Sorry Foggy,” she said, clicking her tongue. Good old Karen, the voice of reason. One of the remarkable things about Karen was that she seemed to have heard of every common misconception, and knew the truth behind every single one.

“Thank you, Karen,” Matt smiled gratefully.

“This is betrayal,” Foggy declared. He raised his hands in defeat and turned towards Karen. “I thought I had friends, turns out I was wrong.”

“Cry about it later,” Karen told him fondly. “You two have a Mrs Lopez here to see you.”

Matt retrieved his recorder from his top desk drawer and placed it on top of the files. Then, in an instant, his demeanour changed completely as his professional mask slid into place. His back straightened and a small polite smile plastered itself onto his face, and he clasped his hands together on the desk.

Karen ushered their client into the office. She was a petite woman with a soft tread who wore a lot of jangling jewellery. Long beaded earrings and a lot of bangles and bracelets. But her heart beat as steadily as Matt’s own when she entered their office; she was not the type of person to be intimidated by professional men in suits. That was good. It always made meetings more difficult for Matt when the clients were nervous. It meant that their heartrates were fast already, which meant that Matt had to focus his hearing to catch any tiny spikes that may mean that a client was lying, all the while trying not to zone out of the conversation.

When the door clicked shut behind the client, Foggy let out a soft breath, a minute gasp that anybody else wouldn’t have heard. Matt blinked, confused, but stood calmly and held out a hand for the woman to shake.

“Mrs Lopez,” he greeted evenly, “I’m Matt Murdock, and this is my partner Foggy Nelson.”

He gestured to Foggy. Mrs Lopez clasped his hand in a gentle shake, her wrists jingling. Her palms were warm and dry, and there was some sort of scar or abnormality on the tip of her index finger. Her grip was light, as if she believed that Matt’s hand would break if she held it too tightly.

“A pleasure, Mr Murdock, Mr Nelson,” she greeted in return, “but I would prefer Ms Meiklem. That’s my maiden name.”

“Alright then, Ms Meiklem,” Matt agreed. “Why don’t you take a seat and tell us how we can help.”

The reason, Ms Meiklem revealed, why she wished to go by her maiden name was because she wanted nothing more to do with her “cheating, piece of shit husband” and was looking to get divorced. The reason she hadn’t mentioned this to Karen seemed to be because being asked about Mr Lopez apparently caused her to go on very long-winded rants. At the end of a very long story involving Mr Lopez, oysters from Walmart, and Ms Meiklem’s younger sister Sarah, Ms Meiklem’s face was radiating heat. Her breathing was uneven and thick with mucus, and the air tasted of salt. Matt opened the bottom drawer of his desk and passed her a box of tissues.

He waited for their client to compose herself, but noticed that Foggy and Karen were being oddly quiet – or at least as quiet as anybody ever truly was to Matt. He cocked his head and focused. He heard the soft swish of moving hair coming from Foggy’s direction, meaning that he probably either nodded or shook his head, but the movement was too small for Matt to be able to tell. Karen exhaled softly through her nose and shifted her weight slightly in her seat.

“Ms Meiklem,” Karen gently addressed their client, “I know that this might be a,” she paused, seeming to search for an appropriate word, “a delicate matter. But we really need you to tell us if your husband is responsible for that bruise on your face.” And oh, that made sense. Matt hadn’t noticed it until Karen mentioned it, but the smell of bruises hung in the air of the room, like burnt hair and battery acid. For once, the smell wasn’t only his.

Ms Meiklem’s heartbeat sped up slightly, and she raised a hand to her eye. The gentle musical sound of her jewellery did not match the acrid smell of injury.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, no. No, Nick, he’s not like that,” she denied quickly. Her heartbeat, while still raised, was steady. Her husband had not injured her, but she was nervous. Okay. Curiosity piqued. Matt leaned forwards in his seat.

“Are you absolutely sure,” Karen gently prodded, “It’s just that if he did have something to do with this then we can help you.” She spoke softly, like she was dealing with a spooked rabbit. Ms Meiklem didn’t seem to need soothing, though. She shook her head lightly (or possibly nodded? It didn’t really matter, in that situation, both options meant the same thing) and sighed.

“I’m certain, Ms Page.” Karen leaned back in her chair, although Matt doubted that she was really satisfied. Her curiosity must have showed on her face, because Ms Meiklem continued. “Look, I was involved in a mugging a few nights ago.”

Karen gasped, and Foggy breathed a soft, ‘oh’.

Matt felt very guilty, all of a sudden.

“Are you alright?” Karen asked, her voice full of genuine concern.

“Yeah,” Ms Meiklem assured her, “it’s only this bruise.” She seemed to hesitate, and her heartbeat sped up again. She wasn’t sure whether or not to tell them something. Was nervous to. Ms Meiklem fiddled with one of her beaded bracelets, the charms clinking against one another as she pushed them up and down the strap. “Someone saved me.”

Foggy’s heart skipped a beat for a second, and Matt could tell that he was wondering if Matt had anything to do with it. Matt felt stung by that, though it was difficult to place why. Did Foggy think that he’d hurt an innocent woman, accidentally or not? Did he think that Matt was the one who made Ms Meiklem afraid of coming forwards? Matt tried to brush it off, his mouth setting in a tight line. He told himself that he wasn’t particularly interested in Foggy’s concerns, more interested in the person who had apparently saved this woman’s life, yet still scared her into silence.

“Who was it?” Matt asked, and then, as an afterthought for the benefit of his friends, “What did he look like?”

“Well I don’t know,” Ms Meiklem answered. “He wore a mask, you know?”

Well that was frustrating. Smart, understandable even, but frustrating.

“Tell us what happened.” Matt had been aiming for ‘gentle and professional’, but he missed the mark somewhat, sounding demanding instead. It wasn't like him to lose his cool around a client.

“He, uh, well, it was kinda scary, actually,” Ms Meiklem stammered. She took a breath to calm herself, and then continued. “He just dropped down out of nowhere and grabbed the guy, started absolutely whaling on him.”

“Oh my God,” Karen muttered in shock. It seemed entirely possible that somebody was trying to imitate the Daredevil. But would that mean that Matt was responsible for some untrained guy running around the city beating up petty criminals? A sick feeling rolled in Matt’s gut at the thought. This guy could get himself killed. Or he could kill someone else. Or he could get some innocent civilian seriously hurt. Matt needed to do some serious damage control. He had to find this guy and make him stop.

Ms Meiklem’s bangled rattled as she quickly raised her hands, shaking them like she was trying to backtrack.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she said quickly, “I’m glad he came, but it’s just the way he went at him. He beat him black and blue, then grabbed his wrist, pulled up his sleeve, and pushed him away again.”

That… wasn’t what Matt had expected. That didn’t sound like a copycat, that sounded like an M.O., and Matt didn’t know if that was better or worse.

“Then,” Ms Meiklem went on, apparently having more to say, “he shot this stuff at him, from his wrists, and it was like – you know silly string?”

What.

“Yeah?” Foggy answered. Like a saint.

“Yeah well it was like that, but sticky as hell, and strong, too. He used it to tie the dude up.”

“That’s… weird.”

You don’t say, Foggy.

 “I know, but it’s true, I promise you!” She sounded desperate. The more Matt thought about it, the more he came to realise that this woman had already told somebody about her encounter, and they had thought she was lying.

Her heart never wavered.

“I believe you, Ms Meiklem,” he said earnestly, softly, leaning forwards in his chair.

“Thank you. Really.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes with a tissue, then blew her nose. “I didn’t think anyone would.”

“No problem,” he responded with an easy smile. “Did you get a name?”

“Yeah,” she answered eagerly. She was pleased to be able to talk to somebody about the incident who would take her seriously. “He said his name was Spider-Man. With a hyphen, not like a surname. He was, like, weirdly specific about that.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Well then, Ms Meiklem,” Foggy broke in, “Should we get back to the matter at hand?”

“Certainly, Mr Nelson, I apolo– Oh!” She cut herself off suddenly with an exited exclamation.

“Ms Meiklem?” Foggy asked

“Sorry, it’s just–  Sorry.” She spoke quickly, tripping over her words in a way which she had scarcely done before that point in their meeting. “Mr Murdock,” she addressed him, “This may be nothing, but he was wearing this red and blue costume, so…” She ended unsurely, seeming not to understand what her blind lawyer might want with that knowledge, but wanting to help out anyway.

“Thank you, Ms Meiklem,” he said genuinely. Now he had an identifiable trait. “Shall we get back to business?”

Karen escorted Ms Meiklem out of their office with an air of professionalism about her, but the second the office door was closed she rushed back to Foggy and Matt, her heels clack-clacking on the wooden floors. She dropped herself down onto Foggy’s desk, hushing when he protested, and released a pleased breath.

“Do you think he could be affiliated with Daredevil?” she asked. Her voice was fast with excitement at the possibility and Matt forced a grin. He wasn’t pleased with the notion of another man in a mask running around any part of New York, especially not one with a personal vendetta. Foggy didn’t seemed thrilled at the topic choice either.

“Mr Lopez?” Foggy asked sardonically, “Doubt it.”

Karen turned whipped around to face him, and Matt could only imagine that she did ‘the dreaded eyebrow raise’ which Foggy kept telling him about, because Foggy released a short, irritated sigh. He hadn’t liked talking about ‘The Man in the Mask’ even back when he’d just been some abstract idea. An urban myth of a man. But since learning who the man behind the mask was he downright despised any mention of him.  Matt tried his best not to let that hurt, but it was hard some days.

“I don’t think he is either, Karen,” Matt said. She turned back to him and hopped off of the desk.

“No?” she asked, clack-clacking towards him. “I think it would make sense, personally. Branch out a little bit.” She paused for a second, seeming to consider something. “Besides, beating criminals bloody is kind of a niche past time.”

Matt had to restrain himself from cringing at that. That was absolutely not what he did. Not to petty thieves, at least. He wouldn’t beat a relatively harmless mugger black and blue and leave them tied up in an alleyway.

“Look,” Foggy cut in sharply. “Who actually cares?! Can we please just get on with our jobs?”

Foggy rarely got tense in his anger. Foggy’s anger was fluid; loose and all encompassing. Loud. He rarely got sharp, sniping at his friend, speaking lowly.

“Uh. Yeah. Sure,” Karen muttered. “Sorry.”

Her heels clack-clacked out of the room, and she opened a filing cabinet in the next one. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to her searching as she flicked through files. She wasn’t searching for anything. She just wanted to seem busy.

Matt turned his face in Foggy’s direction.

Foggy sighed tiredly and ran a palm over his face.

“Sorry,” he muttered far too quietly for Karen to hear. He hesitated, probably wondering whether or not to get up and actually apologize, then picked up a pen.

It seemed like Matt had a rogue vigilante to hunt down after work. Joy of joys. Matt sighed. He pulled a file back towards himself.

Chapter Text

The new masked man didn’t return to Hell’s Kitchen for a little over a week, and by that point the Devil was getting restless.

Matt had heard nothing about the vigilante, but suspected that he was 'patrolling' other parts of NYC. Guys like that, vengeful men, they never stopped until either they get what they wanted, or somebody else stopped them. Letting the man do what he wanted wasn't an option, because nobody knew what he'd do when he found who he was looking for. Nobody knew what he was capable of.

It was down to Matt.

Daredevil had just spooked a mugger and confiscated his gun, a pretty standard thing. The firearms were becoming an issue, admittedly, since he wasn't sure what to do with them. He had contemplated throwing them in the river, and perhaps he would, because they were taking up space he didn't have in the bottom of his closet.

He had been about to leave when the man’s would-be victim turned to him, shaking, his teeth chattering, and asked,

“Is the new guy with you?”

Matt turned his face towards the man – kid, really. Whose voice cracked when he spoke, not just wavering in fear, and who smelled of gonadotrophins and grease mingled with adrenaline. Coppery blood was pooling behind his lips, dribbling down his chin, dropping to the ground. He was a scared kid.

“Nah,” Matt replied, trying to keep some gravel out of his voice  trying to seem kinder. The Devil wasn't nice. People knew that. It was an understood thing. But they had recently been coming to understand that that didn't mean he wasn't good. Everyone was still wary. A good thing, as far as Matt was concerned. He held no desire to be approachable, but he couldn't find any point in scaring kids needlessly. “You seen ‘im?”

“Uh, yeah, about fifteen minutes ago,” the kid replied, his voice shaking. He was standing his ground, and Matt could give credit to a person like that. Who was scared, but stood in the face of the thing that was scaring them, even if they would never pluck up the courage to stare it down. Matt cocked his head to the left, questioning. The boy swipes his tongue over his damp lips. “At 9^th and 49^th, he was sitting on a roof," the kid hurried to say.

Smart boy.

“Thanks." Matt walked away from the boy and launched himself up a fire escape. Pausing with his feet six feet above the ground, he called down to him, "Go home, kid, and stay out of trouble.”

“Yessir,” the boy responded dutifully. His heart fluttered. He backed away slowly for a few steps, then turned on his heels and sprinted down the alley. As he retreated, Matt grinned, sharp and predatory. Foggy had once likened it to a shark.

He hummed to himself, pleased. 9^th and 49^th was only a few streets away.

It seemed to Matt that the night would be a good one. Or interesting, at the very least.

True to the kid’s word, Matt found his new masked friend skulking along a roof on 49^th street, halfway between 9^th and 10^th.

Matt immediately didn’t like him.

He couldn’t find this person on the rooftops by body heat, because this person, this Spider-Man, ran just as cold as the biting February wind blew. It wasn't normal. Matt hated it. But he hadn’t been hiding deliberately, and Matt wasn't sure if that made it better or worse. Matt could easily hear multiple layers of thick fabrics scratching against one another. And the man's heartbeat was too strong, too steady for somebody who’d been running around rooftops all night, though his lungs were straining, probably not used to doing such strenuous exercise in a thick mask.

Matt didn’t bother to hide his footsteps as he approached.

The new vigilante paused mid step and stopped in place. He had been expecting Daredevil to show up at some point. Adrenaline filled Matt’s nose, but the man made no move to flee.

Matt stopped approaching when he was less than two meters away. They faced off. He didn’t say anything.

He could smell grease and adrenaline, and hear that creak unique to bones that weren’t done growing.

Shit.

The longer Matt stayed silent, the more uncomfortable the kid seemed. His hands clenched and unclenched, adrenaline wafted Matt’s way in waves. The kid didn’t seem to sweat.

Which. Huh. 

“Go home, Kid.” Matt’s harsh tone brooked no room for argument, and the kid let out a small pitiful noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper. He may not sweat, but Matt considered for a moment whether or not he would piss himself if Matt pushed him too far. He likely would, and it would probably make him think twice before pulling on the mask again. But, no, that would be cruel, especially to a child.

Matt sighed.

“Look, Kid,” he started, slightly more gentle this time. Matt didn't want to be the bad guy here, not really. He just wanted the Kid to be safe, the streets to be safe. That meant that the Kid had to go. He was coaxing. “I know that you probably think you’re helping, but you’re not.” Was it harsh? Yes. The kid flinched back slightly. Matt didn't feel even the slightest but remorseful. “You’re too young for this shit. How old are you, sixteen?”

For a moment the kid said nothing. His heartbeat sped up. He wanted to lie. Then,

“Fourteen.” His voice wall small and high, and in that moment Matt found it hard to believe him. He didn’t seem like he was fourteen, but then, scared kids always seem younger. He was about 5’7”, or maybe 5’8" if Matt were being generous, and his voice was soft. It hadn’t even dropped yet.

His heartbeat remained steady.

“Wow," Matt breathed, "Okay, alright.” Matt let out a gusty sigh and allowed himself to fall out of his Daredevil Pose. He didn't know how to deal with teenagers with martyr complexes. He scratched the nape of his neck and sighed. “Go home, Kid. Just, just fucking go.”

“What?” the Kid asked, as if Matt hadn’t made himself perfectly fucking clear. He sounded incredulous, like he thought that there would be some instant comradery between vigilantes. As if he had expected the Daredevil to allow a kid to throw himself in harm’s way.

“Kid,” he said warningly. He absolutely did not want to deal with this stupid fucking infant. The infant made an indignant sound in the back of his throat and backed up.

“No, no way, man, nuh-uh.” The Kid spoke quickly. He was nervous, yes, but he was also angry. He was furious that Matt could’ve even suggested that he leave. “I’m not going anywhere,” he asserted. He sounded confident, even if only in that one thing. Matt scoffed.

“You’re a child,” he stated. “A literal child.” He was getting frustrated by then, and the kid kept moving from foot to foot. Not a nervous shuffle, he realised, but a restless dance of agitation. “Now I’m sure it’s past your bedtime,” Matt said condescendingly, “so how about you go back home and have your mommy and daddy tuck you in before they start to worry, yeah?”

The kid inhaled sharply. He smelled of norepinephrine.

Anger.

“Fuck off,” he growled, the words not fitting his young voice. But Matt remembered being that young and that angry. He remembered the feeling of fury washing through his veins when somebody said something that touched a nerve. He remembered that feeling of his anger overwhelming him, bursting inside him and flooding him. Drowning him. He remembered how he felt those few times he had it in him at fourteen to scream obscenities and grown men who scared him. Matt felt a twinge of guilt, knowing that he had caused this anger in the kid, he’d touched that nerve.

“Look – ” He tried to apologize, but the kid cut him off. Matt felt a spark of irritation. He was trying to protect this child, but he just didn't seem to get it. One thing that Matt couldn't remember from his youth was thinking that he was invincible. People often associated the trait with teenagers, but Matt Murdock at fourteen had been made intimately aware of how easily life could be snuffed, and how frail and breakable his own body was. Matt Murdock at fourteen had yet to have a growth spurt, and ran away from all the foster homes they put him in, and dragged fingers over the scars he hid from everybody, and climbed on rooftops knowing fully well that any slip could send him tumbling to his death.

“I don’t get it!” the Kid exclaimed bitterly, echoing Matt's own thoughts. “I’m helping! I’m doing the same thing that you’re doing!” He gestured with his hands when he was angry the same way that Foggy did. He was animated in his rage. He was so hard to hate, yet he managed so well.

"Why don’t you want me here?” the Kid asked quietly. His tiny voice was pitiful. His hands fell to his sides. He sounded… almost hurt. If anything, it just reaffirmed in Matt’s mind that the kid was immature and not ready for the life he was throwing himself into. Not in the slightest. He told him so.

“I am too!” the kid argued back. Matt didn’t know what to say to this Kid, this stupid stubborn Kid who was all too much like himself, to make him stop. The silence was tense. The kid’s shoulders rose and fell as he heaved heavy breaths.

Without a word of warning, Matt lunged forwards. He grabbed high the Kid’s arm hard enough to bruise and flipped him over his shoulder. The Kid landed on his back with solid thud, and all of the air was violently forced out of his lungs.

Matt stood above him as he struggled to regain his breath. Victorious and righteous and angry.

“You’re not,” he said firmly. After that display, he didn’t have to explain why. “Kid, you’re too young. And you’re no hero.” Matt felt his own fury mounting once again thinking about the kid’s need for vengeance all prettily dressed up as caring. “You have no rhyme or reason; you’re just getting into fights on your own personal regime,” he spat, and then, in case he hadn’t got the point across, “You’re no hero. Go. Home.”

He walked away to the sound of the kid’s panicked gasps. He had seen the Devil, and Matt couldn’t find it in himself to give a shit.

The Kid was cold.

He shivered under too-many layers, and scared women he pretended to save, and profiled and sent to hospital petty criminals.

And he cried when he couldn’t draw breath.

His heart beat erratically when he was scared, trying to burst free from the claustrophobic cage of his ribs.

He smelled of sage, salt, and motor oil.

And of adrenaline and grease.

And, most recently, of burnt hair and battery acid which Daredevil put there.

The Kid didn’t venture into Hell’s Kitchen again for eighteen months.