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THREE: A MAN IS DEAD

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Addiction.

Noun. the fact or condition of being addicted to a particular substance or activity.

An addiction is something that can take on many forms. Someone could be addicted to substances such as alcohol or medication, constantly going further past their limit in order to reach that short-lived exhilarating high. Others may be addicted to a person, or the feeling given to them by someone's words or presence. These people strive for something that can't be achieved on their own, and rather than striving for that certain high, they instead strive for the absence of loneliness and sadness that only that person can bring them. Others are addicted to the feeling of validation and will do anything to just hear the words "you're doing good" once more.

Then there are those addicted to negativity and physical things such as pain. They punish themselves for every bad thing that happens to them, regardless of the fact that they themselves had nothing to do with said bad thing happening to them. Their addiction feeds off of destructive thoughts and feelings and turns these internal struggles into external ones.

An addiction is a silent killer. It hides and hides, and strikes only when it knows its victim is vulnerable enough not to fight back. First, it attacks the things that can't be easily spotted by the human eye. It seeps into someone's head and meticulously plants thoughts and images into the soil of their mind without a single care of what these will eventually grow to be. It breaks down the foundation of sanity and replaces it with pillars of glass that are only being kept standing by the constant thrill of the addiction itself. And then, when there's no way of backing out, it attacks the physical being itself. It tears down muscle, feeding on energy that isn't there until all that's left is a weakened heart fighting for every beat that it produces.

Dark amber liquid stares back at him as he looks down into the glass held between his hands, scarred fingertips caressing the surface as if it was molten gold; screaming of danger yet whispering silent words of value and intrigue into the sullen atmosphere of the bar.

His rings clash against the surface of the glass he's holding, bruised knuckles curving around the smooth surface like they did around the grip of his gun not too long ago. Eyes darkened with burden stare into the glass absentmindedly, mindlessly searching for something that wasn't there. Slowly, he swirled the liquid around the glass, sighing as he did.

The bar he was in was charmingly worn down, the wooden tables carrying memories of many depressed and jovial souls alike, with amber-colored stains that seeped so deep into the wood that even the most abrasive cleaning supply wouldn't be able to get them out. The only person in the bar beside himself was the broad-shouldered bartender cleaning the surface of the bar for what seemed like the tenth time in the last five minutes. He could feel the glances the burly man gave him, curious yet hesitant as they took in his guarded form. Cautious eyes waited for his next move as if expecting him to suddenly get violent in a drunken haze. The mere thought of a fight caused Roman's tired muscles to tense in anticipation.

With a sigh, the bartender slung the cloth he'd been cleaning with over his broad shoulder and walked towards the place Roman was seated, shuffling and sorting out bottles of alcohol as he went. Probably to not seem obvious or suspicious of his intentions, Roman figured.

The burly man cleared his throat, a rough cough disrupting the silence when he did.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Slowly Roman looked up at the man, his eyes absentmindedly sizing up the male figure before him from head to toe. As he was standing before him, there was no denying that the male was huge; both in stature and height. His dark skin seemed to hug his muscles like latex, shamelessly showing off the strength the man obviously possessed. He was wearing a simple getup, consisting of jeans and a slightly loose short-sleeved t-shirt. While the male before him wasn't wearing a single ring, Roman noted that there did appear to be a slight indent on the ring finger of his left hand. Besides that, there wasn't much else to note about the man except the fact that he was bald, and appeared to have some type of goatee situation going on.

With a sigh, Roman glanced back at his glass before throwing the contents of it back in one gulp and, without much noise, slamming the glass back on the coaster it was previously standing on. Leaning back slightly, Roman swallowed the drink and looked back at the bartender before him with an empty smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

"No offense," He places a crumpled ten-dollar bill on the counter and lightly pushes it toward the bartender "But I don't think you have enough pennies to pay for the shit going through my head"

▬ι═ﺤ

FIVE HOURS EARLIER

The hollow sound of water dripping onto the floor travels around the cold, isolated space as a man with a baseball bat circles the room. In the middle of the room sat a man tied to a chair, bound at every limb with pieces of rough rope, digging into his skin. The walls around them are moldy, made of solid concrete, and messily decorated with strange and crude graffiti.

The harrowing sound of metal against metal echoes around the room as the man repeatedly tosses and catches the bat in his hand. Never once does he look the tied-up man in his eyes as he does so.

"You see Mr. Volkov, I don't want to do this, truly I don't, believe me, there are at least ten things I'd rather be doing right now than be stuck in this piece of shit room with you" The figure keeps pacing around the room, fingers of his unoccupied hand toying with the rings on his fingers as he does. "However, my superiors happen to want something from you, and it so happens that I'm the lucky soul in charge of getting it,"

Slowly his pacing stops and he finds himself standing in front of the chair. He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he nudges the tip of his baseball bat under his victim's chin, and slowly lifts his head up to meet his dark eyes.

"-and since I can't the deny the fact that you, sir, are an asshole, well, let's say I am more than willing to comply with their wishes" As he speaks, he slowly trails the bat over the man's shoulders and chest, making sure to put pressure onto the bruises he knows are already present on his victim's body as he does so, the bat eventually ending up aimed between the man's legs.

The man's bruised eyes widen as he stares up at the figure in front of him. There weren't many distinguishable features visible to him, in fact, the only parts of his assailant not covered were the top half of his face and the lower parts of his arms which seemed to have chain-like tattoos coiling around them, everything else was covered with a durable looking padded fabric.

"I- I don't know anything I s-swear"

The masked figure throws his head back in silent exasperation as the man speaks, muttering under his breath as he does. "It's always the same shit"

Tired eyes look down at the tied-up male as he twirls around his bat. "Please, save us both the yammering. There's no use trying to convince me that you don't know anything when we both know that you do, okay?" As he speaks, he drops the tip of the bat down on the floor, causing a loud bang to echo around the space, making the already scared tied-up man flinch. "So, you have two options here, Dimitri," he takes in a breath before continuing to speak "- you can either tell me what I want to know and die a, well I wouldn't call it peaceful, but a rather quick death,"

Dimitri starts to sob as desperate pleas leave his lips, shaking his head in fear. However his pleas land on deaf ears as the man in front of him doesn't even spare him a glance, eyes focused on the turning of his rings as he spins them around his fingers.

"- or you can keep denying that you know anything of value and keep both of us here for hours to come. And trust me, that death will be anything but quick" The figure crouches down so that he's face to face with Dimitri "And trust me when I say, I will get it out of you" He tilts his head slightly, a dangerous glint shining in his eyes as he regards the scared male in front of him, and even though his mouth is covered by a mask, his eyes make it clear that there's a smirk hiding underneath. "So, what will it be приятель?"

However, it seems that the reality of his predicament hadn't quite reached Dimitri just yet as he keeps pleading for a life that was doomed the second he woke up in that room "No! please! I have a family, they'll find you! Just let me go, I don't know anything! I swear, please please plea-" The man's pleading gets interrupted by his own screaming as the metal bat makes harsh contact with his knee, undoubtedly shattering his kneecap.

"Well, don't say I didn't give you options"

The man starts trashing against the ropes holding him back as a black, thick substance starts to coil across his limbs, and around his neck and mouth, constricting tightly as it does so. With fear, he looks around the room to see all the black graffiti that was once painted on the dirty walls slowly drip downwards, slowly making its way toward the male in front of him. When looking back at his attacker, his terror only grows as he sees the man's chain-like tattoos no longer there on his right arm, instead, he sees the man sinking his fingers into those on his left, and seemingly slowly pulling something out of it, brows furrowed in concentration. Slowly but surely, the figure pulls out a chain-like object and starts wrapping it around his fist and knuckles, not once looking back at Dimitri as he does.

When he's done, he stalks towards the tied-up man, whose muffled screams only increase in volume with every step taken towards him. Without any warning, the chain-wrapped fist lands a rough hit against his victim's cheekbone.

At first, it's as if nothing happened, the only thing on his mind being the ringing of his ears as Dimitri topples over, the chair going with him as he lands roughly on the cold concrete floor of the chamber. Then, when the ringing in his ears lessens, the pain he feels suddenly flares up as if being set on fire. The strange substance coiled around his body starts to dig into his skin, and he is blinded by the feeling of a thousand invisible blades ripping through his skin. Whimpers and muffled groans escape through his bound mouth as he lays there, constricted and unmoving. He sees feet walking towards him and then he's roughly being pulled up straight again, his figure slumping over towards his attacker as he tries his best to catch his breath.

"You ready to tell me what you know?"

Dimitri doesn't answer.

Before his mind can comprehend what's happening, the black substance travels over his face and covers his eyes, a burning feeling spreading through them as it does so. Now unable to see, Dimitri has no choice but to focus on the feeling of his bones breaking as the metal bat from before gets put to use once more. The solid metal slams against his shin repeatedly before moving on towards his shoulders not once giving the crumpled man a chance to catch up. The chains around his head are pulled tight and dig into his skin deep enough to make him bleed every time his mouth opens to let out a plea or a grunt.

For a moment, everything stops, and Dimitri could hear something rustling, followed by the sound of metal clashing against metal. He can hear something spinning rapidly before clicking into place, that alone being enough to let him know what he can't see, and before he can say- or do anything to stop what's about to happen, a loud bang fills the room and all he feels is the agonizing pain of something ripping through his kneecap, the one that wasn't already broken by the bat.

"How about now?"

The question is answered only in ragged breaths and pained grunts as Dimitri keeps his head down, cursing crudely in Russian. The chains around his eyes disappear, causing him to blink rapidly, clearing his eyes of the fog that seems to cover them in a thin layer. And then his head roughly gets pulled up by his hair, and he's staring into the cold, yet strangely amused eyes of his torturer.

"This is going to be fun"

▬ι═ﺤ

In another part of the city, in a dark and messy office, the tired, hunched-over figure of a reporter sits at his desk. Desperately clutching his office phone against his ear as if his life depends on it.

"I understand the policy has an allotment of days, but last time we spoke, I was told I could request an extension"

The man tiredly rubs his face in frustration as he listens to the words being spoken on the other side of the line.

"-This was last month, yes"

As he's calling, he's interrupted by the opening of his office door. Gesturing with his hand for his boss to come in, he returns to his phone call, hastily grabbing a pen and paper as the person on the other side of the line tells him something important.

"What's the new form called?" he quickly glances at his boss as he paces around his office "-From the website. Of course-" he makes a frustrated gesture with his hand and halfheartedly thanks the person on the other side of the line before hanging up with a sigh, hands rubbing his temples as he does.

His boss, an older gentleman with balding hair and greying facial hair, glances at him silently before looking at the paper-covered walls of the office "Insurance talk?" he looks back at the dark-skinned man sitting behind his desk "It's the worst. I remember, uh, with my kids and the dentist-"

"Yeah," The reporter sighs.

"Yeah. Got a minute to talk about next week's spread?" the balding man takes a seat on one of the chairs facing the desk as he glances towards his employee in question, concerned yet impatient eyes staring at him through his squared-off glasses.

"Already working on it"

The bearded man looks towards the reporter, a slightly exasperated look on his face. "Another organized crime thing?"

The dark-skinned reporter visibly perks up at his words, making excited hand gestures as he explains his story. "All of Hell's kitchen," He spreads his hands out in front of him to form the shape of the headline, not paying any attention to the exasperated sigh his boss lets out as he drops his head to look down at his knees for a quick second before looking back up at him. "There are new players on the scene. No one knows who they are, or what they want" He makes more hand gestures as he speaks, making sure to accentuate every word. "Everybody's scrambling"

Tiredly his boss looks up at him, words laced with agitation as he speaks up. "Your assignment's the city desk, Ben"

The reporter, Ben, desperately scrambles for words to get his point across "This is the city! No one else is on this yet" Rising from his dingy desk chair, Ben frantically paces around his desk towards his boss "-I'm the only one who sees it"

His boss stares at him with this deadpan look on his face that warns him that there's no way he's going to be convinced by whatever Ben is about to spew at him. "It's not sexy Ben"

"We're a newspaper, Ellison, not a girlie mag"

"You know that's not what I meant," Ellison's getting annoyed now "- and nobody calls them that anymore"

Ignoring his boss, and the warning signs telling him to just back off, Ben looks at Ellison with an excited smile as he carries on talking about his theories. "It's not just the Russians" he paces in front of his boss as he talks "-I think maybe the Union Allied scandal might tie into this. All parties are scrambling, and I think the Russians are especially hiring people to kill now, instead of just doing it themselves"

Tiredly, Ellison looks down at his feet, before looking back at Ben in tired annoyance. "Right, and you remember what that exposé did for circulation?" He doesn't wait for a response as he quickly opens his mouth again "Dick. With a side of Who gives a shit?"

Angry that his boss doesn't seem to get the importance of this, Ben tries once more to convince the man in front of him. "This is a real story"

Frustrated, Ellison stands up from his chair and stands face to face with Ben as he tries to get his point across. "Yeah, and it's gonna end the same as it always does, right?" He adjusts his footing "A bunch of fat old guys in some white-collar prison, with more fat old guys"

The conversation is starting to get heated now, up to the level that the people outside of the office start to notice.

"The cops aren't even on this yet! We could be the ones to connect the dots!"

"It doesn't sell papers, Ben!" Ellison is the one raising his voice now as he looks at Ben with aggravation. "Not anymore"

The two stare at each other in silence for a bit before Ellison hands over a folder to Ben, his voice stern when he speaks again. "I want you on the subway line piece"

Accepting the file, Ben disappointedly walks back over to his desk as he reads the words of his next article assignment out loud, mockingly speaking in the same tone of voice as an announcer on the news would. "Will Hell's Kitchen finally get a subway line?" He smacks the folder down on his desk in exasperation as he looks back at Ellison. "Come on, we tell that every year"

"And every year it kills," Ellison says as if it's obvious.

Ben scoffs at this, the rough sound leaving his lips in frustration. "Yeah, for a fluff piece"

Seeing the disappointment on the face of his friend, Ellison fruitlessly tries to make it sound better for Ben. "You know, you like to be on the ground, right?" He points towards Ben with an open palm "You like to talk to people, take a poll!" He spreads out his arms, as Ben wordlessly stares at him.

"What color do they like? You know, we got a blue line, we got a yellow line. We're running out of colors"

Benn rubs his face, the cold metal of his wedding ring bringing a cooling sensation to the heated skin of his face as he does. "Like M&M's?"

With a smile, Ellison gestures to Ben in a show of relieved appreciation, mistaking Ben's words as an idea rather than a mocking comment. "Yeah, see? You'll write the hell out of it"

Angrily and determined, Ben stalks toward Ellison. "There used to be a time when the people in this building wrote the hell out of the news" At his words, Ellison tiredly rubs his face before looking back at the reporter. "Everybody we know is making twice what we are writing for blogs, working from home in their underwear" he shakes his head "We're hanging on by our fingertips, Ben. You really want to be greasing that ledge?"

It was true. As it was, the New York Bulletin was fighting to keep standing in a world rapidly evolving into the modern age. As people grew more connected to their phones and the internet, newspapers, no matter physical or digital, were things started to get left in the dust. After all, who wants to read a long article of text, when they can read a short, free blog post about the exact same thing instead?

After a bout of silence, Ben tiredly nodded his head and walked back towards his desk. "Make it visual, all right? I'll uh, call downs to Graphics, see if I can drum up a chart" As he opens the door to the office, Ellison turns to look at Ben one last time. "Oh, and, um... I'll put in a call to the insurance drones. See what I can do, okay?" with a nod, Ellison leaves the office, closing the door behind him as he goes, leaving a tired and frustrated Ben to lean over his desk in contemplation.

▬ι═ﺤ

With his breath lightly smelling of alcohol, Roman slowly stalks down the hallway toward his apartment. As he reaches the door, his fingers sort through the contents of his pockets in search of his keys. With some struggle, he unlocks the heavily worn door and shuffles inside.

As he entered, he immediately tossed his jacket and bag on the floor. He'd clean those up later

His apartment wasn't much, it wasn't anything really. From it's worn-down walls covered in peeling wallpaper, to the moldy tiles of his bathroom, the apartment left much to be desired. That being said, his did have working gas and water, which was more than could be said about some other apartments in the shitty complex.

Just as he was about to slump down on the dingy couch in his 'living room' and enjoy the feeling of the oh-so-pleasant springs digging into his back, the sound of weak, fragile knocking echoed through the air, halting Roman in his movements.

If this is another one of Vladimir's little lackeys I'll-

Roman's thoughts come to an immediate stop as he looked through the peephole of his door to find the hunched figure of an old lady standing in front of his door. With a sigh, Roman undid the heavy deadbolts of his door and opened the door. Staring at the lady in front of him with an eyebrow raised in question.

"Come to use the stove again?"

The lady jumped at his words, seeming to be broken out of her thoughts as she stares up at him with a hopeful smile. "¡Hola, señor Hall! ¿Perdone que le moleste, pero me preguntaba si podría volver a utilizar su estufa? Verá, la mía no volvió a funcionar y seguía apagándose"

"Hello Mister Hall! Sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if I could use your stove again. You see, mine wouldn't work again and kept dying out"

With a sigh, Roman opens his door further to let the woman in, shutting it once she made it past the entryway and into the small, broken-down kitchen area. Waving off the many words of gratitude escaping the woman, he walks over to help as she shuffles to unload her bag of ingredients on his countertop. In reality, Roman had no reason to not let the woman in. Despite her disapproval of his tattoos and occasional piercings, and her rushed way of speaking in a broken mix of Spanish and English, she was a kind soul that he couldn't help but feel protected over. That, and she also always refused to leave his apartment without feeding him too.

Who was he to decline a home-cooked meal?

▬ι═ﺤ

The stern, tired voice of the judge echoes throughout the courtroom as she speaks.

"the court grants the motion to excuse juror eight from service due to extenuating personal circumstances. The first alternate juror will replace her"

An officer walks through the room to escort the excused juror out of the building as Matthew takes a sip of the once-cold water in his glass. After putting his glass down, his hands return to their previous position, folded over one another while nervously awaiting the judge's next words.

"Would the defense care to make a closing argument?"

Matthew's head snaps over to the direction the judge is sitting, and he takes a deep breath before speaking up. "Yes, Your Honor. Thank you"

Feeling around the bench and table he was sitting on, his hand quickly finds his cane and he slowly stands up to face the jury. The hollow noise of his cane hitting the ground echoes around the room as he does so. Time seems to stand still as he stands in front of the jury in silence. The tense atmosphere coils around everyone in the room as they await the closing argument with bated breath. The silence seems to drag on forever and people are starting to take notice. Like the others take notice, so does John Healy, as he turns towards the lawyer sitting next to him in question. His lawyer, however, signals him to calm down and wait.

The world seems to fade away as Matt focuses intently on the different heartbeats of the jury. Most, if not all seem fine and calm, however, he hasn't gotten to listen to each one as the voice of the judge interrupts his examination. "Mr. Murdock, we're waiting"

A faux bashful smile spreads across his lips as he briefly turns to the judge before facing the jury once again. "Sorry, Your Honor"

He sighs a deep sigh before he starts speaking, thinking over his words quietly and rapidly before opening his mouth.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, forgive me if I seem distracted" he takes a deep breath "I've been preoccupied of late with, uh, questions of morality.. of right and wrong, good and evil"

He spins the top part of his cane around in circles as he speaks, the bottom of it planted firmly on the ground as he speaks. Like an anchor.

"Sometimes the delineation between the two is a sharp line. Sometimes it's a blur... and often it's like pornography; you just know when you see it." His last line causes people to look around at their surroundings in exasperation and a type of embarrassment. Until the next, calm, words of the lawyer ring through the air like a scream in a silent building.

A metal baseball bat makes contact with the tied-up man's jaw

"A man is dead. I don't mean to make light of that, but these questions" he takes a break from speaking before repeating the same words with more urgency than before

"These questions.. are vital ones, because they tether us to each other, to humanity. Not everyone feels this way, not everyone sees the sharp liner, only the blur"

Metal chains wrapped around bruised knuckles make his nose bleed as he is roughly punched in the face

He looks around briefly.

"A man is dead" he lets the words resonate and he's silent for a while before speaking again, his words catching on his breath before he continues "A man is dead. And my client, John Healy, took his life. This is not in dispute, it is a matter of record, of fact, and facts have no moral judgment; they merely state what is, not what we think of them, not what we feel. They just are" His voice is louder now, less thoughtful, and more factual as he continues his speech.

A man's pleas fill the moldy basement air as his sight gets taken away once again

"What was in my client's heart when he took Mr. Prohoszka's life, whether he is a good man or something else entirely, is irrelevant" He ends his sentence with a shrug.

"These questions... of good and evil, as important as they are, have no place in a court of law. Only the facts matter. My client," He half-heartedly gestures to his client sitting somewhere behind him "claims he acted in self-defense. Mr. Prohaszka's associates have refused to make a statement regarding the incident, the only other witness, a frightened young woman, has stated that my client was pleasant and friendly and that she only saw the struggle with Mr. Prohaszka after it had started"

Gunshots echo through the room as the tied-up man gets used as target practice; every bullet missing him by just an inch.

He looks at the jury, unseeing eyes meeting the gaze of every juror before he continues.

"Those are the facts. Based on these, and these alone, the prosecution has failed to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that my client was not acting solely in self-defense. And those, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, are the facts"

He backs away from his position in front of the jury and takes a few steps toward the people behind him, gesturing to them as he does.

"My client, based purely on the sanctity of the law, which we've all sworn an oath to uphold, must be acquitted of these charges" Matthew lets the silence spread again before he continues with what will be the last few sentences of his statement. "Now, beyond that, beyond these walls... he may well face a judgment of his own making. But here, in this courtroom, the judgment is yours, and yours alone" With that he backs away from the jury and heads back towards his seat in silence, letting his words settle into the minds of everyone present in the courtroom at that time.

A hunched-over man held back by chains, crying out in pain and panic as he confesses his sins

▬ι═ﺤ

The jury had been compromised.

That's all Matt knew as he listened to the second raging heartbeat coming from the seating area of the jury on his left.

It's a great idea. A jury. It makes sure that the decision leading to the outcome of a case is thought through thoroughly and evenly. The role of the jury is to provide unbiased views or resolutions to evidence presented in a case in a court of law. Jury service helps to support fairness in trials; jury service is able to give impartial viewpoints on cases that are presented in court.

At least that's what he was taught.

The flaw of the jury system, however, is that it relies on humans to make decisions. And humans are easily manipulated into doing something unjust if it means that they, their loved ones, and themselves, come out okay.

Until he heard the second fluttering heartbeat, Matt was sure that he had solved the issue of this particular jury when he got rid of the blackmail held over the head of the previously unbiased female juror.

"They're hung," he says more to himself than to Foggy sitting beside him as the judge speaks up, addressing one of the jurors.

"Madam Foreperson, It's my understanding from this note that you have been unable to reach a verdict" An old woman, one that has been hunched over with a conflicted look in her eyes from the moment Matthew had ended his speech, quickly stands up. "We have not, Your Honor"

Foggy's voice rings through Matt's ears as he leans over towards their client "Allen charge. She's sending them back in. Still split, DA will retry" The hope in Foggy's voice sounds naïve when knowing the truth behind the jury "No, they won't. Will they Mr. Healy?"

Their client looks at him with a faux innocent expression. "That was a hell of a speech you gave, Murdock. A hell of a speech"

The voice of the judge seems to fade into the background as his thoughts race around in his head like bullets; chaotic and messy while offering no solution to his current dilemma. In an act of hopelessness, he takes off his glasses and places them on the table in front of him, looking down in defeated realization.

▬ι═ﺤ

It's already dark outside when John Healy steps out of a building using the back entrance, duffle bag in his hands as he walks to the car parked behind the building. With a sigh, he bends over to open the trunk, ready to relieve his shoulders of the strain that the heavy duffle bag in his hand causes his muscles. The moment he closes the trunk though, he sees a man in a black mask leaping at him in the dark reflection of his car's back window.

From the moment the man in black crashes into the back window of the car, it's a flurry of punches and dodges as they tumble on the ground. Healy manages to get his assailant on the ground with his foot on their chest for a moment before roughly getting thrown off again while they continue their fight. After getting kicked repeatedly, Healy roughly lands in a pile of discarded cardboard after his attacker gave him two in-the-air round-house-like kicks in the chest. He doesn't stay down for long though as in the next moment, the sounds of clanging metal fills Matthew's ears and he's getting hit by a thick metal pipe repeatedly with John Healy swinging at him like an awful baseball player that keeps missing their mark.

Their bruising fight doesn't come to an end as punches and kicks keep getting thrown until it eventually comes to a stuttering halt as Matt holds down John on the ground, a piece of discarded glass pointed at his jugular. Both are panting heavily as they're face to face with the enemy.

"The man that hired your lawyers, who does he work for?"

John looks at him stubbornly with faux confidence as he shakes from exhaustion. "You think I'm afraid of you?" The façade doesn't last long however, as the glass that was once held against his throat is now stabbed deep inside his shoulder, and Healy is left writhing in pain beneath his assailant, screaming in pain. Then the glass is pulled out of his shoulder roughly and once again held against his neck, the bloodied sharp edge now lightly cutting into the skin there.

"Tell me"

When John keeps silent, Matthew presses the blade more roughly into his neck and presses onto the wound that's now beneath his shoulder. raising his voice as he asks- or more so demands, an answer.

"Who does he work for?"

The man beneath him is shivering now, in pain or fear he doesn't know, nor does he care to find out at the moment. All that matters now is getting the info he needs in order to finally put an end to the darkness plaguing his city. "I-I can't!"

"I want a name!" Matthew is screaming now, making no effort to hide his anger or disgruntlement as he holds the man down beneath him. Healy screams out in pain as the glass at his neck is roughly pushed in inch by inch as he lies there helplessly. "Oh, God! Fisk! Wilson Fisk!"

His whole body lurches as the glass at his throat is suddenly yanked back and the man in black gets off of him, the glass that was once used to torture him, is now just smashed pieces next to his head.

"You get in your car. If I ever see you in Hell's Kitchen again-"

"No" John Healy grunts as he struggles to get up, gasping for air as he does so.

"You do not want to test me"

John's voice has a tinge of insanity and hysteria to it as he regards the man in front of him with disbelieving eyes. "You think this is still about you? I gave up his name. You don't do that, not to him" he's breathing even more heavily now "He'll find me, and make an example. And then he'll find everyone I've ever cared about, and do the same to them" His eyes are panicked as they dart around him as if expecting to get shot any second now "so that no one ever does what I just did"

He stands up to face the masked man as he speaks his last words, spitting them at Matt like poison. "You should have just killed me. You coward" With that he turns around and, before Matt realizes what is happening or can even make a move to stop him, he throws his forward and impales himself on the sharp metal spikes of the gate next to them, the metal cutting through his eye and brain like a hot knife through butter.

As the realization of what just happened sunk in, Matt is left gasping in disbelieving horror as the silence rings around his ears like church bells, piercing and echoing in his head and never seeming to stop. The only noise to be heard besides his own panting and his raging heartbeat is the dripping noise John Healy's blood makes as it trickles over his face and hits the stonecold ground beneath him.

A man is dead. And he drove that man to his death. He killed someone. He- he caused the one thing he had always been so careful to avoid happening. With shaking hands and racing thoughts, Matthew slowly stumbles away from the crime scene.

A man is dead.

𝗘 𝗦𝗣𝗘𝗔𝗞𝗦 !

I'm very insecure about this chapter so please be kind <3

THIS ISN'T REALLY CHECKED FOR GRAMMAR MISTAKES. So if there's really messed up bits please tell me (I've had sentences that just got deleted halfway randomly so I expect those to be in this as well)

Also I've used a translator to give me the spanish and russian words so if anything isn't correct that's why. I would love to know the correct spelling though, so please tell me if you know something is incorrect!

I've become aware of the fact that I keep switching tenses. I'm sorry pls just ignore it for my sake.

I know it has taken me a LONG time to update. This is partly because I am lazy and haven't had any motivation to write, but also because I have no thought-out plot plan for this story so I was scared to write again because I just didn't know where to go with writing. And to be honest, I still don't. but it's fine, we're dealing with it.

The Court speech was such a pain to write istg, and so was the John Healy fight. I suck at that kind of stuff so I skipped big parts because it was happening so fast and I didn't want to describe the fight incorrectly.

Instagram: xemmal_art

word count: 6289