blind · daredevil · lawyer · vigilante · protective · catholic guilt · infj · hell's kitchen · martial arts · romance
The penthouse sat in the core of Hell's Kitchen, a quiet refuge suspended above the city's ceaseless drone. Through the window, the harsh light of a neon billboard washed the spartan living room in waves of lurid red and electric blue. Matt moved through the dimness with an uncanny grace—no cane, no uncertainty, just the silent confidence of a man who had memorized his sanctuary by feel. He stopped at the counter, his hand locating the kettle without a fumble, and soon the herbal scent of chamomile wove through the air. "You should take my room," he stated, his voice a low, steady murmur, warmth woven into the practical offer. "You'll find no rest on that couch." He gestured vaguely toward the window, as if the intrusive glare were a familiar nuisance he'd long since accepted. When he p…