In the basement of 45th Street, there's a bar whose sign is reduced to half; it's called " Blind Pig."
There are no fancy neon lights here, only dim, old-fashioned light bulbs.
In the corner, an old-fashioned jukebox played jazz music from decades ago on and off.
Matthew Murdock sat in the far corner of the bar.
He changed into a gray sweatshirt with a badly worn collar, the hood pulled down low, covering most of his face except for a section of his chin covered in bluish stubble.
In front of him was a glass of cheap whiskey, its sides covered in water droplets.
"That's the fourth one, buddy."
The bartender was a bald, fat man wiping glasses. He glanced at Matthew with a look of wariness and indifference typical of Hell's Kitchen.
"I don't mind making money, but if you throw up, the cleaning fee will double. You know, these days cleaners are harder to find than hitmen."
Matthew did not speak.
In his world, the clinking of coins between two drug dealers at the next table as they divided their loot was clearly audible, and even the hissing of two Wildcat fighting over a piece of rotting flesh in the back alley seemed to explode in his ears.
It's noisy.
Even though alcohol numbed his senses, the world was still so noisy it made him want to vomit.
Whenever he closes his eyes, all he can see is the image of the young man who was blown to pieces and the Joker's mocking words.
"Another one, please."
"Okay, there are many ways to commit suicide, and you chose the slowest one." The bartender shrugged and turned to get the bottle.
Just then, the bar's wooden door was pushed open.
The wind chimes tinkled softly.
A strange smell entered Matthew's nostrils.
It wasn't that pungent perfume smell, nor the tobacco smell typical of Hell's Kitchen.
It was a very faint, very cool scent, like gardenias blooming after the rain, carrying a crispness that didn't belong to this dirty world.
The sound of high heels clicking on the ground.
The voice stopped beside Matthew.
Is this seat taken?
Matthew didn't look up. "The bar is half empty."
But I like corners.
The woman sat down.
Matthew could feel the heat emanating from that figure.
Even from a distance, his Radar Sense still managed to outline the other party's silhouette.
Tall, with stunning curves and toned muscles, she didn't seem like the kind of woman who frequented places like this to drown her sorrows.
Is there something you're trying to escape from?
The woman ordered a gin and tonic and turned to look at Matthew.
Matthew's fingers tightened around the glass. "I just want to drink myself to death."
"What a coincidence."
The woman chuckled softly, a laugh devoid of cheap flattery, but instead carrying a sense of shared sorrow and melancholy.
"I'm a surgeon. I've saved many lives, but a few days ago my patient died on the operating table. It wasn't my mistake; that madman cut the power."
"The backup power didn't start, and the ventilator stopped. I can only watch that straight line... it keeps beeping and beeping."
Matthew tightened his grip on the wine glass.
St. Mary's Hospital.
That night the Joker cut off the power.
I'm sorry.
Matthew said in a low voice.
"There's nothing to apologize for." The woman swirled her wine glass, the ice clinking against the glass. "This world is sick, and doctors can't cure it. Sometimes I think, only by cutting away the rotten flesh can new flesh grow?"
"If that's the case..." Matthew looked up, his face framed by sunglasses, but he was "looking" at the woman, "What would be left in the end?"
"Who knows?" The woman reached out and gently placed her fingertips on the back of Matthew's hand.
Her hands were cold, but the moment he touched them, he felt a jolt of electricity run through him. "Perhaps what remains is the truth."
One glass of wine after another.
Matthew Murdock doesn't remember how much he drank.
The despair and self-doubt that had been suppressed in his heart for so long, under the guidance of this stranger, transformed into an urgent desire to vent.
He needs to be brought down from that pedestal known as " Daredevil ".
He was too tired.
He didn't want to be the martyr carrying the cross.
He needs to go back to being an ordinary person, even if it's a fallen ordinary person.
The rain has started again.
Matthew's apartment is only three blocks away.
They didn't speak a word the whole way.
The woman linked arms with him, their bodies very close.
The scent of gardenias became my only solace.
Enter.
close the door.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Without any foreplay, it's a scene of two drowning people tearing at each other.
The woman's passion exceeded Matthew's expectations.
Her strength was immense, even abnormally so.
When her fingernails scratched the scars on Matthew's back, the pain actually gave Matthew a sense of real life.
My fingertips traced every old wound, every muscle's texture.
Look at me...
The woman whispered in the darkness.
She cupped Matthew's face in her hands, her thumb stroking his lips.
Daredevil was completely lost in this unfamiliar embrace.
His senses were screaming, and his brain, which was always calmly analyzing and always restraining its desires, finally shut down.
That night, Hell's Kitchen was still burning, and gunshots were still ringing out.
But in this small apartment, Matthew Murdock had the most restful sleep he'd had in a long time.
early morning.
Matthew opened his eyes.
He instinctively reached out and touched the side; the sheets were warm, but the person was gone.
"Woke up?"
The sound came from the window.
Matthew sat up, the sheet slipped down, revealing his upper body covered in wounds.
The woman was standing by the window, wrapped in a thin blanket, with her back to him, looking out at the city riddled with holes.
"I still have a bit of a headache." Matthew rubbed his temples. "Last night..."
You were great last night.
With a languid smile of satisfaction on her face, she walked to the bedside, bent down, picked up the crumpled suit from the floor, and tossed it to Matthew.
"Go to work, lawyer."
"The law may be a joke, but if even you give up, then the Joker has truly won."
Matthew remained silent for a long time.
He pretended to fumble around to put on his shirt, buttoned it up, and then picked up the guide cane leaning against the corner of the wall.
"Thanks."
Matthew said in a low voice.
He didn't know the woman's name, but he felt himself recharged.
It wasn't the kind of righteous electricity, but a more murky, yet more tenacious, fuel.
"I will come back."
Matthew walked to the door and placed his hand on the doorknob.
"Of course, this is your home."
The door closed.
The footsteps faded away down the stairs, gradually disappearing from sight.
Only the woman remained in the room.
She remained standing by the window, watching the figure in a suit, leaning on a guide cane, gradually walk away into the distance.
That gentle, intellectual, and even compassionate quality quickly faded from her.
She loosened the blanket wrapped around her and went into the bathroom.
In the mirror, her face was beautiful, but her pupils suddenly transformed into insect-like compound eye structures.
"Target identity confirmed."
" Matthew Murdock, Daredevil."