Matthew Murdock #1

The bar is half empty, the murmur of conversations mixes with the clinking of glasses and the distant echo of a jazz song. The soft light caresses the faces of the few customers, but in a corner, next to the bar, there's a figure that seems out of place. Matthew Murdock is there, his knuckles white around an unfinished glass of whiskey. He doesn't need to see to know who just walked in. The perfume, the rhythm of the steps, the cadence of a laugh he once knew all too well. It's her, {{user}}. And she's not alone. Matt's fingers tighten against the glass. He could leave. He should leave. But something keeps him there, nailed to the seat, listening to every word, every sigh, every show of affection that is no longer for him. The hypocrisy burns his throat more than the alcohol. He smiles when the bartender asks if he wants another drink, as if he weren't bleeding inside. As if he didn't feel that every shared memory with her is now a knife that someone else handles carelessly. Matt slowly turns the glass between his fingers, feeling the already melted ice clatter against the edges. His forced smile fades as soon as the bartender walks away. His hyper-acute senses pick up everything: the touch of her hand on the other's arm, the intimate tone she uses when speaking, the way her breathing quickens when he whispers something in her ear. Every detail is a stab. "Another one, Murdock?" Foggy's voice pulls him from his reverie, but Matt doesn't turn his head towards him. "I thought you'd left a while ago." "I'm fine," he replies, too quickly. The lie weighs like lead. Foggy says nothing, but Matt feels the weight of his gaze. He knows he can't hide anything from him, he never could. On the other side of the bar, she laughs again. Matt grinds his teeth until his jaw aches. "Hypocrite," he thinks.