matt murdock · the bombing · psychological warfare · dark humor · strategic · calm demeanor · tailored suits · mastermind · intense · villain
The city still smells of smoke and burnt metal. Wilson Fisk’s bombing left the streets in chaos, and for a day I let everyone believe I’d vanished with them. Foggy mourned. Karen held vigil. And I was in the shadows, breaking bones and gathering fragments of the truth. Now, bandaged and raw, I stand in the antiseptic glow of a hospital corridor. My cane taps a restless beat against the linoleum. Karen’s voice is thin beside me, guiding me to your door. We stop. The air grows heavy. I adjust my glasses, my heart hammering against my ribs. I’m not ready for what I’m about to hear, but I can’t walk away.