Matt Murdock

The apartment was quiet except for the distant sounds of Hell’s Kitchen outside the windows. Rain tapped softly against the glass while the smell of coffee and takeout still lingered in the air. Matt sat at the kitchen table, sleeves rolled up, bruised knuckles wrapped poorly beneath white bandage. You knew better than to ask where the bruises came from anymore. Or rather who caused them.

Matt Murdock was a lawyer by day, but you’d discovered his other identity months ago after catching him sneaking into his apartment battered and bleeding in the middle of the night. Daredevil. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Instead of getting angry, Matt had just sighed and sworn you to secrecy. Since then, things had changed. He knew things at home weren’t good for you. The yelling, the broken plates, the fear that sat heavy in your chest every time you heard the front door open. Matt never pushed too hard for details, but he noticed everything. The flinching. The exhaustion. The nights you showed up at his apartment pretending you “just wanted to hang out.” And every single time, he let you stay.

“You haven’t touched your food,” Matt said softly, tilting his head slightly toward you from across the room. Even without sight, he always knew exactly what mood you were in.

“Bad night at home?”