ೃ────※ ·❆· ※───ೃ༺

TWO: TORTURE AND ECSTASY

━━━━━━━━━━━

Scars.

Scars are often perceived with caution. People see scars and they already have a thousand thoughts running through their mind; either about what they mean, or what they think about the way they look.

People call scars names like 'indecent', 'weird' and 'scary'. They see them and immediately form an opinion, an opinion often paired with a negative connotation.

Others see scars and feel sad. They think about what happened to the person carrying the scar, what caused the damaged skin to contort the way it did.

Scars; marks left on the skin or within body tissue where a wound, burn, or sore has not healed completely and fibrous connective tissue has developed.

Everyone carries scars, whether those scars are small and practically unnoticeable like those gained from a hockey ball to the knee, or in places where your hand accidentally touched the hot surface of a pan; or they are colossal, carrying the heavy burden of memories with them whenever someone lays their eyes on their form.

Scars can be present in physical form just as easily as they can be present mentally and emotionally. They can cause emotions, flashbacks and nightmares. Scars are the evidence of pain; they are a close to permanent reminder of the moment that formed them, that removed parts of the skin and left the organ to try and mend both sides of the wound together again.

The surface beneath him didn't feel pleasant against his back as different objects carelessly stuffed into plastic bags stabbed into his aching skin, pressing against the bruises that were rapidly forming; spreading themselves across his body. The next thing his scattered brain focused on was his inability to open his eyes – not that it would help him seeing wise. Lastly he realized it wasn't just his eyelids he couldn't move, it was his entire body.

Above him he could hear muffled frantic voices, the experience sending him back to his past, and for a split second he was back there; back on that hot road, with people screaming into his ears like cast out angels pleading for mercy. He felt hands carefully touching him before he was roughly – and with roughly he means roughly – picked up. Darkness started to infect his mind once more, and he couldn't fight the exhaustion washing over him like waves crashing into the sandy shore, trapping him into a deep inescapable sleep.

When he came to again it was with a burst of energy accompanied by a stuttering breath of air. His hand shot out to stop the person beside him from calling the hospital to get him an ambulance.

His throat felt raw and dry as he spoke, his voice coming out as a murmured rasp.

"No, no calls."

The woman, although startled herself, tried her best to keep him calm.

"It's okay. I'm just trying to help" she sighed as he muttered out a stern "No."

"We have to get you to the hospital."

Matthew groaned, his back still flat against the hard floor of the apartment.

"They'll kill everyone."

His head felt like it was killing him, bashing his rattling brain back and forth against the walls of his skull in a perpetual state of torture.

"Who?" the woman's worry increased even more than it already had, heart stuttering against her chest in quick uneven beats, not at all helping the nauseating pain plaguing the wastelands inside of his head.

"The men who did this. They'll kill everyone in the hospital to get to me." His last words were interrupted by a pained groan as Matthew turned his body over on its side.

"Okay you can't-" the woman stuttered out in objection.

Staggering, he slowly stood up; his body convulsing slightly every time a burst of pain rattled his nerves, going up from his toes all the way to his head, travelling across his spine like a snake slithering around the neck of its prey; ready to strangle its victim at any given moment.

"Don't. You've lost a lot of blood, I think you might have been stabbed." The tone of her voice was stern as she spoke.

Still trying to get back on his feet, Matthew groaned out a short response to her words. "I have to leave." His body felt heavy as he started to limp his way towards what he thought to be the exit of the apartment he was in, not minding any of the words spoken to him by the woman behind him.

"You wanna leave? Door's that way."

Realizing his mistake, Matthew went to turn himself around. As he did so, the pain and exhaustion that poisoned his mind got to a point where even he couldn't keep them at bay, causing his consciousness to collapse in a mess of hurt and shadows before he passed out, his body plummeting towards the floor like a sack of potatoes.

▬ι═ﺤ

The light of the television screen illuminated his face as Matthew sat watching his father fight – and lose – in the boxing ring. Letting a silent sigh escape past his lips, Matthew stood up and turned off the TV, leaving the living room lamp to illuminate the room on its own. As he sat down at their little kitchen table, he could hear the striking sound of screaming and fighting phasing through the walls of their apartment.

After a while the noise of dangling keys and his dad opening the apartment door caught his attention, causing him to rush towards his father, pulling him into a fierce embrace.

"Hey, hey don't- don't get blood on your shirt."

Both pulling away from the hug, the pair started to walk towards their kitchen.

"Gotta keep your gloves up."

His father huffed. "yeah well, I- I should have you in my corner."

Examining his fathers bloodied face, Matthew speaks up again; he was curious.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, voice laced with morbid curiosity; childlike but not at the same time. It was the tone of voice only a child used to the aftermath of violence could carry.

Another huff.

"It don't tickle. Go get the kit." Matthew hurries to grab the medical kit as his father sits down on one of the chairs accompanying the kitchen table. "You shoulda had him, Price is a bum."

It seemed his father didn't appreciate that comment as he sternly berated his son about his words "Hey, anybody who's got the guts to step into that ring deserves respect. Don't you forget that."

"Even Price?" The boy asked disbelievingly, gaining a slight nod and a heavy breath from his father.

"Even Price."

Continuing to clean up the blood from the injuries covering his fathers face, the boy grabbed the bottle of scotch always present in their apartment and gave it to his father – but not after tasting a sip of the horrible, burning liquid himself, hating the way it filled his insides with harsh, unrelenting flames.

Jack Murdock got a kick out of that.

Leaving to finish his homework, Matthew didn't see his father solemnly staring at his winnings for that evening, just as he didn't witness his father sighing in defeat as he leaned back against the backrest of the chair, wishing he could be a better father- the father he felt his son deserved.

▬ι═ﺤ

Once he regained consciousness, panic overtook his body at the sensation of his strange, unknown surroundings. Unseeing eyes darted around hurriedly in a show of vulnerability and confusion as he tried to figure out where he currently was. That is, until a voice he vaguely recognized spoke up from beside him.

"Are you going to listen to me this time?" The voice spoke.

He didn't answer, choosing instead to rapidly fire questions at the unknown woman whose heart was beating rapidly against its confines.

"Where am I?" He rasped out.

His question gained him a tired sigh "You're in my apartment." The woman was clearly tired, and frankly done with his shit, but Matt didn't relent.

"Who are you?" his voice was rough like a crumpled piece of paper, fragile yet durable at the same time.

"I'm the lucky girl who pulled you out of the garbage." The woman spoke, sarcasm dripping of the syllables like the blood dripping of off him.

This calmed Matthews racing heart down the slightest bit. That is, until the shocking, daunting realization of the absence of his mask struck him. Frantically – yet already having lost hope – his hands travelled across his uncovered face, desperately searching for the smooth black fabric that, deep down, he knew wasn't there.

"You've seen my face." His words were laced with the kind of fearful shock only unknown and unwanted consequences brought him.

A deadpan "Yeah." Was all he got in response, causing Matthew to sigh defeatedly "Great."

"Your outfit kind of sucks, by the way." The unknown woman said, stating the obvious.

Preparing himself to get up Matthew replies to her comment "Yeah, it's a work in progress-" A rough, pained groan leaves his lips as he tries to lift his back from the couch he laid on, his ribs groaning in protest to the movement. Feeling this, Matthew gave up on trying to sit up for the moment, instead letting himself slump back down against the rough, textured fabric of the couch that was already starting to flay his senses the same way the rough pavement tears up the sensitive tissue of your skin.

"Okay, I really wouldn't try to move too much." The woman made vague hand gestures while she spoke "You've got two or three broken ribs, probable concussion, some kind of puncture wound, and that's just the stuff I know about." She took a breath "And your eyes? They're nonresponsive to light, which isn't freaking you the hell out, so either you're blind or in way worse shape than I thought."

Matthew listened to her words, continuously taking in- and breathing out deep huffs of air.

"Do I have to pick one?"

"Do you mind telling me how a blind man in a mask ends up beaten half to death in my dumpster?" The woman was clearly way past fed up at this point, not amused by his attempts to lighten up the situation.

"The less you know about me, the better."

Putting her hands in the air in a show of unseen exasperation the woman clapped her hands together and sighed deeply.

"The wound on your side- knife?" She says as she starts to pull up his shirt to take a better look at the bandaged wound.

"Probably-" His words got interrupted by a pained gasp as her hands slightly grazed his wound while rolling up his shirt.

"I think I got the bleeding stopped, but I can't tell how bad it is internally without a full series of X-rays so.." The woman was clearly hinting at him to go to a hospital, deep down already knowing that the man on her couch wouldn't budge on his decision not to involve any proper medical care. As expected the answer she got was a hard no.

"No. No hospitals"

"This is my night off. I'm really not looking for some guy to die on my couch."

Something she said must've caught his attention as he turned his head slightly in her direction.

"Are you a doctor?"

Once again his question got answered with a sigh. "Something like that."

"Most people, they find a bleeding masked man in the garbage... they call the police." His rough voice traveled throughout the apartment as he spoke.

Another heavy sigh. "You got a lot of experience in this area?"

"Why are you helping me?"

In response the female looked away from his, sparing a quick glance over her shoulder before turning her attention back onto him when he let out a chuckle that quickly turned into a exclamation of pain.

"You got a name at least?"

It was silent for a few moments before she spoke up. "Claire." The silence returned after she spoke. Both parties not knowing what to say to fill the quiet atmosphere. "Don't suppose I get to know yours?" she got her answer when he shook his head lightly, lips parting in words they both knew he wouldn't speak. "All right, I'll call you Mike."

"Mike?"

"Yeah, a guy I used to date. Turns out he was very good at keeping secrets too." The woman- Claire huffed out.

She silently started to clean up the space around them a bit, throwing her dirty gloves into a bin behind her, halting her movements when his hand blindly reached out to take a hold of hers.

"Thank you, Claire."

She sighed and got up from her position beside him "Rest. Make sure you're stabilized. We'll figure the other stuff out later."

As Claire walked away and he laid there, Matthew Murdock was reminded of his childhood. He remembers laying in a hospital bed, bandaged and tired; the confused panic that filled his body the moment he realized his eyes allowed him to see nothing but darkness still vivid in the otherwise hazy sea filled to the brim with his evasive memories. He remembers how his father was there by his side immediately, how he held him while he screamed out panicked cries about how he couldn't see. It's in these moments that he misses his father the most, wishing it was him patching up his wounds instead of Claire – not that he's not thankful, because he is – and telling him it was all going to be alright; to chin up and get back on his feet to find the bastards who did this to him in the first place, and make them pay.

Losing his sight was jarring. It's like a thief breaks into your house and steals the one thing you afterwards realize you relied on daily. In a way it felt like losing a limb; one day he could do everything as an individual normally would, and the next he was stumbling around a world he never got to explore; a world he didn't know.

"I can't see."

Smothering.

"I can't see."

Crushing.

"I can't see."

Suffocating.

"I can't breathe."

Rushed footsteps neared his location as his lungs felt like they were filled up with liquid cement, travelling up, and up, until not even the slightest bit of oxygen was able to break through the now solidified wall blocking his airways.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Claire asked, frantically trying to find out what exactly it was that caused him to go from laying silently on her couch, to audibly gasping for air that wouldn't reach his lungs.

Gasping in a futile attempt to inhale, Matthew tried his best to communicate with his distraught caretaker. Strangled words were the only thing able to escape past his lips as he laid there, chest heaving up and down in a frenzied panic.

"Can't- Can't breathe-"

He barely felt the metal of the stethoscope as it was pressed against his chest, and his mind struggled to comprehend the words spoken to him as Claire told him that there was air stuck in his chest collapsing his lung. He vaguely heard her tell him to hold still before a needle punctured his chest, allowing the trapped air to release itself into the atmosphere and out of his body.

"Good. Just breathe normal, All right." Claire spoke, trying to calm her own frantic heartbeat once again. "Look, let's just say for the sake of discussion I buy this whole "We can't go to the hospital because whatever" story you've got going on. But we need to talk about what happens if you give up the ghost here in my living room."

Claire sighed as he released an amused breath at what she said, not finding anything funny about the situation they were in.

"Because I'm listening to myself explain to the police how I let this happen, and every version ends with me in handcuffs, so convince me it's worth it."

Not able to argue with her logic, Matthew sighed. "They kidnapped a boy."

"Who did?"

"The Russians." He huffed, still trying to catch his breath. "They've been running a human trafficking ring out of Hell's Kitchen. Took over when the Italians folded up." Claire remained silent as she desperately tried to take in what she was being told. "Two days ago, they pulled a kid out of the back of a van. Beat his father while he watched."

"Jesus"

"I knew the kid would still be alive, at least until they took him out of the city. I tracked the Russians to a warehouse not far from here, thought I was being smart, how fast I found them. Turns out I wasn't."

The man looked and sounded defeated as he laid there on her couch, visibly disappointed in his failed efforts to better his poisoned city.

"They were waiting for you." It wasn't a question.

"And I walked right into it."

Words couldn't describe how stupid Matthew felt; how he felt like the biggest failure in the goddamned universe. Every step he took was a worthless one as all it did was lead him into a trap he wasn't smart enough to avoid. One mistake erased two days' worth of work and investigation, and risked the life of an innocent boy he failed to save.

God, how could he have been so stupid.

"So, they took this kid just to get to you?" Claire spoke up, her voice breaking him out of his self-deprecating stupor.

"Yeah I've been making their lives," A pause. "Difficult lately."

Unable to wrap her head around the information provided to her, the nurse stared at him incredulously "But you're blind." He smiled a humorless smile "There are other ways to see."

"So this is what you do? You make life difficult for bad men?"

"That's one way of putting it."

"Well no offense, but you don't seem to be very good at it." This made him laugh, muttering out an exclamation of pain when his wound didn't agree with his actions. "Yeah, well, you're catching me on an off night." his laughter quickly died down once she questioned if he at least found the child he'd been searching for. "No, he wasn't there. I barely made it out myself. I was careless. Stupid."

Claire sighed for what seemed like the thousandth time that night. "So these men that took the boy, they're out there right now, looking for you?" She got no answer as the blind man tilted his head back slightly as if listening to something in the distance, unseeing eyes zoning in on a far away spot on the ceiling. "Mike?"

"Someone's coming."

That gained her attention quicker than any of the answers to her previous questions could. "Wait what?"

"There's someone in the building, a man, going from door to door" Claire was starting to get panicked now, her heart once again starting up its fast pace from before. "How do you know that?"

Silencing the woman with a quick Shht, Matthew carefully listened to the sounds of movements made below him. "He's on the third floor already. Smells like Prima cigarettes and discount cologne."

Slowly and painfully Matthew struggled to get up from the couch he'd been laying on for what felt like hours already, pained groans seeping through his lips like blood. "You can smell a man on the third floor?"

"You'll smell him soon enough. He really likes that cologne." chest heaving, he sat up further on the couch, his wounds screaming at him to stay down and ignore whatever is going on around him. "You're looking at me like I'm crazy, right?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

At her confirmation he started talking again. "There are some things I haven't told you about me, Claire."

"You haven't told me anything about you. All I know is you're very good at taking a beating."

With his head leant back against the couch, the vigilante struggled to fill his lungs with the oxygen his lungs ached for and his body so desperately desired. "That part I got from my dad."

Stumbling up from the couch, Matthew limped his way over to the kitchen of the apartment, roughly pulling open a drawer full of utensils and grabbing the first knife he could find. "This all you got?"

It was clear Claire wasn't impressed by his actions. "Yeah, it's for vegetables, not a knife fight"

With his mask halfway back on, Matt made his way to the entrance of the apartment, stumbling as he went. "He's at your neighbors door." Claire rushed In front of him, blocking his path while grabbing his arms in an attempt to put a stop to whatever he was planning. "Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey. You can barely stand up"

"That's what the knife's for" He grunted out.

Claire wasn't having any of it.

"Wait! Don't do this. Not in my home. Okay, nobody has to get hurt, just stand over there on the side and be quiet and I'll get rid of him."

A knock reverberated throughout the room as the unknown male reached the door of her apartment. Hearing this, Matthew didn't hesitate to walk to the door, pushing against the arms attempting to withhold him from doing so. "Please." Claire hissed out, barely audible.

The man knocked again, causing Claire to yell out "Who is it?"

"NYPD, ma'am. Please open the door."

"I'll be right there!"

Looking back at the vigilante, Claire heard him whisper out an "Okay, go" as she led him to a wall where he wouldn't be seen when the door opened. Checking if she looked presentable, Claire gave Matt a small shove in order to hide him completely before going to open the door.

"Move over." She whispered.

Looking through the peephole of her door, Claire could see the man Mike had talked about pull out a badge to prove his authenticity. With a sigh she unlocked the locks of her door and opened it to reveal a dark haired man dressed in a suit standing before her.

"Sorry to bother you so late, ma'am. My name is Detective Foster, with the 65th Precinct. We had a bit of a disturbance a few blocks from here, we're asking everyone if they've seen or heard anything unusual in the past few hours."

Doing her best not to look- or sound suspicious, Claire tried to get the man to leave as fast as possible without giving the male anything to doubt her over.

"What kind of disturbance?"

"Armed robbery. Some dickhead in a black mask shot up a bodega on 38th. Owner put up a fight. Perp fled on foot, leaving a trail of blood in this direction."

Act shocked. Act shocked. Act shocked.

"Oh, my God."

"Probably long gone by now, but just in case, you know. You see anything, hear anything tonight?"

Shaking her head, Claire told him that she hadn't, hoping that the male would believe her answer and leave. Thankfully for her, he did.

"Just being thorough. You have a good night, ma'am." The man nodded at her and left, walking down the hallway towards the stairs that led to the exit.

Muttering out a quiet "Thanks, you too" Claire followed his figure with her eyes before shutting the door.

"See? No reason to get all stabby. Boy were you right about that cologne. What, does he dip himself in that crap?"

Not listening to her rambles, Matthew swiftly pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning on, rushing towards the door as fast as he was able to. "He didn't believe you."

The masked man hurriedly made his way down the hallway of her apartment and grabbed the fire extinguisher that hung on the wall close to the staircase, heavily limping while doing so.

"Mike!"

Leaning against the railing of the building's staircase, Matt held the cannister in the air, aimed downwards. He listened as 'agent Foster' hurried down the stairs, frantically talking into to his phone, Russian words spewing from his mouth.

"What are you doing?"

Listening carefully, Matthew readied himself. Claire watching in shock as the man she patched up not even an hour before released the cannister in his hand, letting it drop down the staircase until it made contact with the head of its unsuspecting victim.

"What do we do now?"

Matthew tilts his head up slightly.

"There's someone else one floor up watching us. Oh no. He's young. He's scared"

He leans his head against the wall as Claire goes to check who it is that's watching them, paling once discovering that she knows the kid.

"Santino?" The boy quickly scurries off, hurried footsteps forming the only evidence of him ever being there. "He's the one who found you in the alley."

"He's seen my face too?" At Claire's confirmation the masked man looks down at the floor in clear frustration.

"Claire, go upstairs and get him. We're gonna need help carrying Detective Foster to the roof" He orders, making sure to put emphasis on his words when talking about the fake police agent. With that, Matthew limps away to the stairs, roughly walking down the steps towards the unconscious Foster.

"What the hell are we going to the roof for?"

"Less chance of someone in the building hearing him scream"

▬ι═ﺤ

Roman Hall was not having good day.

First, he woke up feeling like shit. His head felt like it had been smashed into every wall of his apartment, and his mental state wasn't doing much better.

Secondly, he gets a call saying that his skills were needed somewhere, which in extension meant that he had to go through the effort of not only gearing up, but also getting up from his comfortable position on his rough bed. His muscles groaning in protest with every movement he made.

The job wasn't a difficult one; find a rooftop with a good view, set up his rifle, and wait the next three to six hours for a good opportunity to take the shot and successfully wipe out another poison spreading through Hell's Kitchen. Easy as that. Except it wasn't, seeing as, halfway through his stakeout Roman received a call saying the kill order had been revoked, leaving him with wasted hours and a killer headache.

Then, when he got home, he was greeted by a multitude of envelopes containing letters that all said the same thing one way or another; that he forgot to pay his bills once again and, as a result, won't be receiving any form of heating until he does.

Cursing under his breath, Roman ignored the envelopes and headed towards his bathroom to shower in the hopes of washing all of his bad thoughts away, at least for the next few hours.

His body shivered involuntarily when the cold liquid made contact with his back, leaving a trail of goosebumps everywhere it travelled. His jaw tensed as he leant his head back against the cold hard tiles of his bathroom wall, trying his best to relax the coiled muscles of his back.

It worked for a while. Thoughts drifting away from his crowded head, making room for a blissful silence to fill up his mind instead. Flushed skin got used to the freezing temperatures and, for once, Roman felt calm.

That was when the water shut off.

Closing his eyes in aggravation, Roman grabbed a towel hanging over the shower door and used it to messily dry his hair and body, being careful not to graze any stitched wounds or bruises as he did so.

Walking out of the bathroom, Roman made his way back to his bed and fell down, a pounding ache taking over what was once a blissful silence in his head.

God he needed a distraction.

▬ι═ﺤ

The moment they managed to drag the Russian to the roof of the building, Matthew makes quick work of tying the man up by his hands and suspending him in the air using a metal structure that was situated on the rooftop of the building. While he does this, Claire stand behind him, a smashed phone in hand as she watches his actions carefully.

"Find anything?"

Claire scoffs lightly, gesturing around with the damaged phone in hand. "You smashed the hell out of it with that extinguisher. Y'know he had a badge. What if you're wrong?"

The masked figure starts to pace across the rooftop. "I'm not."

Claire sighs and shakes her head, taking a few steps in the opposite direction of Matthew.

"This is way past what I signed up for."

At this Matthew turns to look at the nurse, his voice rough when speaking to her.

"What exactly did you think that was?"

As if the answer to his question was obvious, Claire turns to look at him with an almost incredulous look upon her face, gesturing with her hand as she speaks. "I found a man who needed help, so I helped him."

Matthew scoffs, not believing her.

"Oh yeah? That simple?"

Annoyed, Claire walks up to him. "Do you really want to get into this in front of him?"

A tilt of the head is all she gets before his attention is back on her "He's out." He plainly states.

"Maybe he's faking." Claire watches as the man in front of her looks down in concentration before shaking his head. "He's not."

Filled with frustrated anger, Claire walks up to him, finger pointed accusingly.

"Okay, that right there, that's what I'm talking about! Okay, I find a guy in a dumpster who turns out to be some kind of bad vigilante who can do all of this really weird shit like smell cologne through walls and sense whether someone's unconscious or faking it."

Matthew continues to wrap his hands in silence.

"Slap on top of that, he can take an unbelievable amount of punishment without one damn complaint"

Finding humor in her statement, Matthew allows a sweet smile to cross his face, almost in an attempt to make the nurse feel more at ease and calm her rambling.

"So, what? I'm supposed to take it on faith I'm on the right side of this?"

Leaning back against the edge of the building Matthew finally speaks up again.

"You don't carry a masked man bleeding to death into your apartment on faith. You knew which side you were on the moment you found me."

He stays silent as he senses Claire turn away from him to look at the unconscious, strung up individual behind her.

"Why'd you help me Claire?"

She looks at him.

"I'm a nurse. Work the ER at Metro-General. A few weeks ago, cops bring in three men. Said they were robbing tourists, beating them up pretty bad. Apparently, a man in a black mask took issue with their activities and decided to step in. I counted nine broken bones between them" the last part was spoken in a manner that was more assertive than the words before.

"A few days after that, EMTs bring in a 19-your old waitress, said- said some guy she knew waited for her after work in the parking lot, attacked, tried to drag her into the alley. She said she screamed and screamed, and a man in a black mask heard her, and he saved her life"

Matthew didn't look at her as she spoke, instead turning his head to the side.

"So, yeah, word's getting around. And I want to believe in what you're doing. I really do," For a split second she looks reluctant to say her next words. "But this?"

She points towards agent foster and scoffs.

"I know you're afraid" He grunts as he stands up from where he was leaning against the building and walk towards her. "You can't give into the fear. If you do, men like this win"

A sharp inhale from behind them alerted the two that agent foster had woken up. The Russian male looks at his captors, one being the man in the mask, and the other being a figure dressed in a white hoodie, face covered as well. His breath hitched as the one in the mask approached him menacingly slow until he's standing right in front of where he's hanging.

"Here's how this is gonna work. I'm gonna ask you some questions. You're gonna answer them. If you're lying to me, trust that I will know, and I will be unhappy"

Foster doesn't say anything.

"Where's the boy"

"He's dead." Thinking he could outsmart the devil, foster confidently spouts out a lie, earning himself a harsh punch to the head, causing him to sputter out breaths and blood as a response.

"This is what unhappy looks like. Where's the boy?"

Foster looks up at him again. "Why do you care? If he's not dead yet, he will be."

"why did you take him?"

As if its obvious foster responds. "Figured you'd come running"

"And after I was dead?"

"Sell the kid, like all the others"

Unable to keep his calm, stoic demeanor any longer, Matthew angrily lands a hard punch against the side of Fosters head, no doubt rattling his brain into next Tuesday.

Affronted and scared the Russian is left sputtering once again, unable to recover from the harsh blow. "I was telling the truth on that one."

"I know."

The Russian takes note of the vigilantes uneven breaths and unstable footing, huffing out a small, cocky laugh. "We got you good didn't we"

Not finding the humor in the mans words, Matthew continues his questioning, ignoring the Russian completely.

"Who do you sell the children to?"

"I don't know," he tries to shrug "whoever has the money."

"Where's the boy?"

"So you find him. So what?" The man taunts, a smile on his face. "We'll take another. Kill me, somebody takes my place. Long as people are buying, we'll be selling" Another huffed out laugh. "But go ahead. Keep hitting me. Let's see who drops first."

Having enough of standing by and watching, Claire's patience with the disgusting Russian has reached its limit, causing her to approach Matt from behind.

"Try stabbing him in his trigeminal nerve."

He moves his head towards where she is standing in acknowledgement. "Where is it?" He mutters out between heavy breaths.

Figuring the only way she'll be able to explain it is by physically showing him, Claire touches her finger to his face as she maps out where said nerve is located.

"Go in through here, right above the eye. That's the supraorbital foramen. You want to go in right under there"

Using his hand to hold up the man's head, Matthew brings the knife closer to the face of the struggling man, angling it towards the area near the eye. "Hold still, I might do some serious damage if you squirm." He lowly says, not sounding sorry at all. Before moving the knife the masked man looks at Claire again.

"How will I know if I find it?"

Claire makes brief eye contact with the struggling man. With her head still spinning from the words he had said, she can't find it in herself to feel any remorse for what's about to take place. "Oh, he'll tell you."

Without any hesitation, Matthew lowers the knife towards the face of the Russian and starts carving, something deep inside of him relishing in the agonizing screams his actions gain him. Eventually pulling the knife away from the whimpering man.

"You're right, what you said before. I kill you, somebody takes your place, but they'll end up back here just like you, and sooner or later one of you is gonna tell me what I need to know."

Not giving the man any time to recover from his ferocious encounter with a blade, Matthew frees the man from his hanging positions, and instead roughly throws him over his shoulder, carrying him to the edge of the rooftop, ignoring the scared pleas of the once ever so cocky Russian.

With his lower-back slamming against stone, the Russian is forced to look up into the masked face of his assailant as half of his body hangs over the edge of the building, the only thing stopping him from splattering against the pavement below being the worn tie the masked man is gripping tightly inside his closed fist.

"This is important."

When the Russian doesn't stop his whimpering, he gets pulled up roughly, now face to face with the vigilante who's holding his life in the palm of his wrapped hand. Street lights from below succeeding in their task to make the vigilante look even more menacing, face covered in threatening shadows.

"Shh! Listen, I need you to know why I'm hurting you. It's not just the boy. I'm doing this cause I enjoy it."

Roughly pulling the Russian up, Matt places him on the edge of the rooftop in a way that It's now his entire body hanging off the edge.

"NO, NO, NO!"

With both sides of the mans blazer gripped tightly in his hands, the masked vigilante leans down slightly in a show of intimidating power; in a show of control. This time he doesn't speak in a calm, stoic tone, no, Matthew is screaming now.

"Where is he?"

"Please! Please! I can't tell you! He'll get me!"

Intrigued frustration causes the vigilante to pull the man up just a bit, close enough to intimidate the man, but not enough to relieve the man of his position suspended over the air.

"Who will?"

The man's voice is laced with fear as he screams out a response "The one they send to get rid of people that talk when they're not supposed to!"

Lowering the man further over the edge Matthew spoke again.

"If you don't answer me, it'll be me who gets you. So I'll ask again, Where is he?"

"Underneath Troika restaurant! Eleventh and 44th!"

"And who will they send after you? Huh? Who?" Matthew yells, his patience diminishing with every ragged breath that rattled through his body.

"Please, no, no, please!" The man's screaming only worsens as the vigilante lowers his body even more. "A-Abaddon! Abaddon!"

With a grunt the Russian is pulled up and away from the edge. Bending over with his hands placed on his upper thighs, the man starts laughing hysterically.

"They'll be waiting for you. If you're lucky, they'll kill you before they start in on the boy. It would be a shame for you to watch what they do to him-"

Matt doesn't let him finish his sentence as he, in one swift movement, grabs Foster and pushes his body over the edge, sending him flying off the building with a crash, face stoic as Clair screams out.

"It's all right. He landed in the dumpster you pulled me out of."

"Is he dead?"

Tilting his head, Matthew focusses on the man in the dumpster beneath them, picking up the rhythmic sound of a faint heartbeat.

"He'll live" He starts limping away from her. "You need to get your things and leave. Don't tell anyone where you're going."

Confused, Claire follows after him. "What?"

"He wakes up, he'll be back, and he won't be alone next time" Matthew grunts out, pulling away from her, and bending down to grab the long piece of rope that they used to tie up the Russian before.

"But he didn't see my face." Claire protests, not seeing the point of her leaving.

"That was just for effect, to scare him." He uses the knife to cut the rope in two pieces, beginning to wrap it around his lower arms and fists. "He knew you were lying when you answered your door."

Suddenly one of his wounds flares up, causing him to bend over with a pained grunt.

"Mike!"

Ignoring his pain, Matthew returns his focus on Claire. "Do you have anywhere you can go?"

"I'm uh- Cat sitting for a woman I work with. Her brother is sick, she's in Oklahoma."

"What's the address?" He's still trying to catch his breath.

She looks at him apprehensively. "Why?"

"I'm thinking if I make it through the night, I may need some help getting patched up"

Claire seems to think it through before answering. The silence of the nights being disturbed only by their frantic breathing.

"Tenth and 54th, Apartment 412, um, in the building above the liquor store."

Reaching forward, Matthew places a tired hand on Claire's shoulder in a show of tired appreciation. "Hey, Thank you Claire"

His feet drag against the stone floor as he limps away from her, breaking into a gasped grunt every few seconds before regaining his footing with stuttered breaths.

"I don't believe you" She calls out after him, causing him to slow down his already slow movements. "What you said. I don't believe you enjoy this"

He doesn't say a word as he walks away again, mind riddled with questions and scrambled thoughts. Questions of morality race through his head like a car on the highway, leaving him breathless and frustrated. Angered guilt takes over every inch of his body, and as he regains composure, rapid questions turn into one as he is left wondering.

Doesn't he?

▬ι═ﺤ

The heavy feeling of a body on top of his was all that was on Roman's mind as he aggressively thrusted his hips up and down repeatedly, his stomach and body connecting to the legs that wrapped around his waist and shoulder repetitively, the only thing holding the other up being the wall and one of his scarred arms. Moans and grunts graced his ears with every sacrilegious movement he made, filling his body with a strange type of satisfaction that travelled up and down his entire body.

The person with him wasn't someone he knew well, or at all for that matter. To be frank, neither male knew the name belonging to the other, but Roman had a rough day, frustration and anger filled him up to the brim and when it came to letting out said pent up frustration, he chose the less violent option for once in his life; the one that didn't involve painfully stitching up bloody wounds until two in the morning.

Roughly biting the skin belonging to the panting individual against him, Roman reveled in the sounds his actions gained him, distracting him from the violent and self-deprecating thoughts that filled his mind earlier that night. Both parties knew this wasn't anything more than a simple fling; a brief escape from both their troubles before they would get up and carry on with their lives, never seeing one another again.

Nails scraped against his scarred back as Roman aggressively sped up his movements, low grunts being the only sound coming from him as he drove his partner for the night to a sporadic state of bliss, repeatedly getting him close before leaving him unsatisfied and begging for a release he wouldn't be granted anytime soon; not if Roman had any say in it at least, after all, his frustration was still very prominent and showed no signs of disappearing anytime soon.

With every broken gasp and stuttered out pet name, his movements got faster in hopes of the next. In vulnerable moments like these, words of affection, no matter how superficial they may be, filled roman with a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction; they made him feel loved or cared for, even in situations he knew he wasn't. Every affirmation and compliment spurred him on as he chased the opportunity of gaining another like a man starved.

Without a warning Roman moved the body of his partner from the wall to the soft surface of the bed that resided in the room they were in, the feeling of it a stark difference from his own rough mattress back at his apartment.

Muscles tensing and contracting with each ravenous movement, Roman was unrelenting, not listening to any of the pleads or sounds made by the person beneath him, only using their muffled symphony to fuel his actions. Roman felt content knowing that he was doing another person a favor; that he was making another person feel good for once, instead of bad. And so, without ever stopping, the Russian male left lustful marks and ecstasy filled bruises on every inch of skin that he could reach, not caring if anyone heard the result of his actions; and for once not caring about whatever was happening in the city just outside his window, even if it could come back and bite him in the ass later.

For once Roman Hall isn't bothered by the criminal wasteland that is Hell's Kitchen. He doesn't think about the Russians, doesn't think about killing; and most of all, he doesn't think about a certain masked vigilante who's currently carrying a child out of a wrecked building filled with unconscious Russians.

𝗘 𝗦𝗣𝗘𝗔𝗞𝗦 !

Abaddon:

The Hebrew term Abaddon (: אֲבַדּוֹן 'Ăḇadōn, meaning "destruction", "doom"), and its Greek equivalent Apollyon (: Ἀπολλύων, Apollúōn meaning "Destroyer") appear in the as both a place of destruction and an of the abyss. In the , abaddon is used with reference to a bottomless pit, often appearing alongside the place (שְׁאוֹל Šəʾōl), meaning the realm of the dead.

In the of the , an angel called Abaddon is described as the king of an army of ; his name is first transcribed in Koine Greek (Revelation 9:11—"whose name in Hebrew is Abaddon,") as Ἀβαδδών, and then translated Ἀπολλύων, Apollyon. The and the have additional notes not present in the Greek text, "in Latin Exterminans", exterminans being the Latin word for "destroyer".

So........ uh

Yeah I know it was early to get into intimate stuff like the ending here, but I felt like this was the easiest way to show how Roman copes with thing. I feel like he's the type of guy that doesn't really know how to cope with emotions and frustration very well, and to get rid of it either hurts himself in some way (boxing until his knuckles are split and bleeding, getting into fights, etc.) or uses intimate connections like sex to distract himself. Roman is more of a physical guy than a very outspoken person, yes, he makes quips and stuff but when it comes down to really having deep conversations about his feelings and anything of the sort he kinda shuts down.

I'm SORRY for the amount of boring episode dialogue in this chapter! It's just hard to fit in Roman sometimes, especially since I still haven't figured out his plot and reasonings quite yet. Daredevil is so complex and episodes are so dialogue driven (some more than others) that I struggle.

I didn't thoroughly check this chapter for grammatical errors, so if you see any, KINDLY point them out to me so I can correct them as soon as possible.

Please don't forget to vote, comment (and share)! It means a lot to me and it'll hopefully kickstart my motivation to start writing chapter 3! I won't- and can't promise speedy updates to you all, as im lacking motivation to do anything atm.

Instagram: xemmal_art

word count: 7490