The projected explosion trajectory kept rotating.
Outside the Baxter Building, the white light of memorial events lit up the New York night.
On the other side of Manhattan, Matt Murdock sat in his apartment.
The television volume was very low.
His fingers rested on a Braille document. He had stopped reading.
Voices discussing the news drifted up from the street below.
Someone said all masks should be banned.
Someone said Daredevil at least beat up drug dealers.
Someone said today it was Iron Man; tomorrow it would be that crowd in Hell's Kitchen.
Matt listened to those voices.
Foggy Nelson paced beside him.
"Did you hear that? They're talking about masked vigilantes now. Who does that include? You."
"I heard," Matt said quietly.
"What are you going to do?"
Matt didn't answer.
On television, the host said, "The public has a right to know who every person using violence on the streets is, who trained them, who oversees them, and who pays for their mistakes."
Matt raised his head.
He heard the host's heartbeat.
Very steady.
Very excited.
This man wasn't grieving.
He had found tonight's topic.
In Avengers Tower, Bruce Banner stood in front of the television in the lounge.
He was on Earth. He hadn't left.
For many people, that was a comfort. For others, it was a source of fear.
On television, someone brought up footage of the Hulk on the battlefield in New York and asked, "Should we still entrust our city's safety to a monster who can lose control?"
Bruce turned down the volume.
His fingers trembled slightly.
Steve stood beside him.
"You can turn it off."
Bruce gave a small smile.
"Turning off the TV won't stop them talking."
Steve watched the screen.
"You saved a lot of people that day."
"I know."