The next morning, when Foggy Nelson opened the door to the law firm, she saw Matt sitting behind his desk, wearing the same wrinkled suit as yesterday, with scabs already forming on his face.
But it wasn't carefully treated; it looked like a wounded soldier who had just crawled down from the battlefield.
"Matt?" Foggy strode over, tossing his briefcase onto the sofa. "What's wrong? Where did you go yesterday? I called you dozens of times—"
"I'm sorry, there was a little accident yesterday, and I dropped my phone." Matt's voice carried a hint of apology.
Foggy looked at him, her brow furrowing.
He and Matt have known each other for many years, from law school to now, from classmates to business partners.
He had seen Matt get injured before; after all, lawyers make a lot of enemies and getting beaten up is commonplace, but he had never seen Matt look so dejected.
"What happened?" Foggy put his hand on his friend's shoulder.
Matt didn't answer. He pushed the files on the table forward. "Is this yesterday's case? The client's materials?"
Foggy paused for a moment.
He was about to say, "You'd better go to the hospital to get checked out," but Matt had already started flipping through the files.
He wasn't looking, he was touching; his fingers glided across the paper, his mind methodically processing the Braille.
"Matt-- " Foggy tried to say something, but Matt interrupted him.
"This case isn't difficult," Matt analyzed based on his experience. "The victim is innocent, the evidence is insufficient, and the prosecution's witnesses are unreliable."
"As long as you find his weaknesses during cross-examination, you can win."
Foggy opened his mouth, then closed it again. He wanted to say, "We've already decided to settle this case," but looking into Matt's unseen eyes, he swallowed the words.
"Okay, then it's up to you."
Matt nodded.
He started flipping through the documents, page by page, his fingers moving quickly across the paper. Foggy stood beside him, watching, and something felt off.
He had seen Matt handle cases before, and it was a beautiful art form; now, it felt like an ordinary blind lawyer flipping through documents.
Foggy turned and walked out of the office, closing the door behind him. He stood in the hallway, looking out at the Manhattan skyline, a strange unease settling in his heart.
In court, Matt stood at the defense table, holding the document he had read countless times. Before him stood the judge, the jury, the prosecutor, and the young man accused of robbery.
His suit was new, his facial injuries had healed, and his hair was neatly combed; he looked like a professional, well-prepared lawyer.
"Defense attorney, you may begin questioning the witnesses." The judge struck the gavel.
Matt nodded and turned to the prosecution's witness—a middle-aged woman who claimed to have witnessed the robbery.
Her voice was loud and confident, and every word she spoke was firm and resolute.
"Madam, you said you saw my client at the crime scene at the time of the incident?"
"Yes."
Are you sure?
"I'm sure I was right across the street at the time, and I saw it clearly."
Matt paused for a moment to think; previously, he could tell whether a witness was lying from their voice.
Because when they lie, their heart rate increases, their breathing becomes uneven, and a certain frequency of their voice fluctuates slightly.
Now, he can't hear anything at all.
The woman sounded like an honest, willing, and well-meaning citizen.
"Don't you have any other questions?" the prosecutor asked.
Matt opened his mouth as if to say something, but his mind went blank.
His cross-examination skills are still there, but those skills, which relied on real-time feedback from his super-sensory abilities, are no longer present.
It's like knowing where the weaknesses are, knowing when to press for answers, and knowing when to stop. Now, he has nothing.
He was just asking questions, like a blind man groping in the dark, not knowing whether there was a wall or a door in front of him.
"No problem."
As soon as he finished speaking, he heard a slight commotion coming from the jury's side.
Some people were speaking in hushed tones, some were sighing, and some were shifting their chairs. These sounds used to have meaning for him; he could tell a person's attitude from a sigh and their inclination from a whisper.
All he could feel now was the chaotic and noisy atmosphere at the scene.
The trial lasted three hours. Matt delivered his closing statement; his voice was steady, his logic clear, and his citations of legal provisions accurate.
But he knew that wasn't enough.
Because he lacked that "thing"—the ability that made him the best defense attorney in all of New York —his case-handling skills were greatly diminished.
The jury reached its verdict in just twenty minutes.
"Guilty."
When the judge delivered the verdict, Matt stood at the defense table, his hands gripping the table, his knuckles white.
He heard the victim's mother crying, the sound of bailiffs handcuffing the young man, and the sound of reporters making phone calls in the corridor. Each sound was like a knife stabbing into his chest.
He lost.
We didn't lose because of the facts, we lost because of our lack of ability.
That young man may or may not be guilty; he will never know. Because his abilities are gone, he can no longer even grasp the truth.
Foggy waited for him in the hallway. When Matt came out, Foggy looked at him but didn't say "It's okay," didn't say "You'll win next time," and said nothing at all.
He just stood there, like a pillar, supporting the collapsing ceiling of the law firm.
"Matt," Foggy finally spoke, "We need to talk."
"I know."
They walked back to the law firm, and no one spoke a word along the way.
Back at the law firm, Foggy closed the door and pulled down the blinds.
He sat opposite Matt, holding his forehead.
"I shouldn't have let you continue handling this case."
Foggy's voice rose a little, "Something's not right with you. I should have noticed it sooner. Although I don't know what happened, I know you're not the confident, top lawyer you used to be."
Matt didn't speak. He knew Foggy was right. He wasn't the person he used to be. Maybe he never would be.
"We need a break," Foggy said, looking somewhat helpless. "The firm needs a break. We just lost a case. Our reputation is damaged, which will cause us to lose clients, and the landlord might even raise the rent."
Matt sat in a chair, his face turned toward the window.
"Give me some time, I'll recover." Foggy looked at him and asked tentatively, "How long?"
"I have no idea."
Foggy sighed and picked up his briefcase.
He stopped at the door, but didn't turn around.
"Matt, you are the strongest person I have ever met. You have been blind your whole life, but you have never let anyone guide you."
You walked every street in New York by yourself, and even single-handedly supported half of this law firm.
I don't know what's wrong with you now, but I do know that the real Matt is invincible.
The door closed.
Matt sat in his empty office, listening to the hustle and bustle of Manhattan outside the window. After hesitating for a long time, he picked up the phone on his desk and dialed a number.
Things were getting worse, and he needed help.
Since he is a Mutants, perhaps only another powerful Mutants can cure him.
"Hello, this is Xavier Institute." A young girl's voice came from the other end of the phone.
"Please connect me to Professor X," Matt began. "This is Matt Murdock. I need to speak with him."
There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone. "Please wait a moment."