"I'm fine," Foggy told himself silently as he opened his eyes and blinked, looking around. "I'm fine. I'm alive. I'm fine." A too familiar mantra lately.

A moment ago, he'd been staring down the determined gaze of a man about to murder him in cold blood, but he didn't see that man in front of him now. His memory of it happening was clear, even if he had no clue how he'd suddenly gone from that situation to this one, waking up on the floor of Fogwell's gym. Maybe Daredevil had flipped into the room and saved him, and he'd hit his head in the process and been knocked unconscious.

As that thought occurred to him, the "thwap, thwap, thwap" of a punching bag behind him entered his consciousness, and he realized that he must have been right.

"Thanks for the save, buddy, but can I get a little help here?" he asked, checking his head for lumps or bruises and finding none. "What the hell happened?"

The steady beat continued. He turned around. Sure enough, there was Matt hitting the bag with that determined look on his face that always meant trouble.

"Matt!" Foggy yelled. He didn't turn around, didn't stop. Foggy watched him move, watched the bag sway slightly with each focused and powerful hit it took. As he watched, a feeling of wrongness started to creep up his spine. What was he doing there?

"Matt!" he yelled a second time.

"He can't hear you," someone said from beside him, and Foggy startled. Somehow he hadn't noticed the other man in the room with them, standing half-hidden in the shadows. "He can't see you either," the man said. "I'm not sure how he's able to hit the bag every time, but he is. I think that's my fault."

Foggy examined the stranger carefully, his confusion only growing as he took in his sturdy build and slumped over posture leaning against the doorway observing Matt. He was wearing a flowing robe, and his hands were in its pockets.

"Matt?" Foggy asked, quieter this time, turning his body back to face his friend again. Still no response. "What's wrong with him?" He awkwardly pushed himself up to his feet.

"I told you," replied the stranger, sadly.

Foggy suddenly felt as though maybe he had, and he'd forgotten. Why did the man in the shadows seem so familiar?

"Who are you?" Foggy asked.

"Nobody," came the reply. "Not to you. And not to him. Not anymore."

"But you were someone, once? Weren't you?" Foggy asked, understanding dawning on him even as it also made him suddenly afraid. "Battlin' Jack Murdock," he said, awe creeping into his voice. He pointed to the flyer on the wall near them, peeling and yellowed, advertising "THE FIGHT OF THE YEAR".

He stepped closer to the man and suddenly the light hit him at the right angle and Foggy knew he was right. He wasn't sure how he knew it, but he did. The strong jaw. The angle of his nose. Matt had described his father once. It was the first time Foggy ever heard Matt sound like he genuinely missed being able to see. "You look like him," Foggy couldn't keep himself from saying. "Or... he looks like you, I mean."

Jack smiled slightly at that. "Does he?"

"Well, yeah," Foggy replied, still unsure what was happening but finding himself strangely compelled to go along with it. "You can see for yourself. He's right there."

"It's not him, though," Jack said, shaking his head. "It can't really be. It's just my imagination."

Foggy's brow furrowed at that. Was that was this was? "No," he said. "It's not. It has to be my imagination. I'm the one who has to be dreaming. And I know him. Better than I know my own reflection." Did he though? He turned around to look behind him and suddenly he wasn't sure. In fact, suddenly the figure in front of the punching bag didn't look like anyone in particular. There was only an undulating shadow, vague and unreal. Foggy stepped back in terror. "What's happening to him?"

"It's you," Jack said. "I thought this was me, but you brought me here. You're doing this." Foggy felt two strong hands on his shoulder and was yanked around to face the ghost again. "Who are you?"

"Foggy Nelson," Foggy told him. "I'm Foggy Nelson." The second time was to remind himself.

"No," Jack asked, urgency in his voice. "Who are you to him?"

Foggy didn't want to turn around again, to face the shadow, but Jack forced him to. Only it wasn't a shadow. Instead, this time it was a boy. He couldn't have been more than ten. He was wearing sweats and had hair that nearly fell to his shoulders and bangs that looked like they'd been cut using a bowl. But the look in his eyes. That was the same. Matt.

"I don't know," Foggy told Jack. "I don't know." The only thing he did know, the horrifying realization continuing to creep from his spine to his stomach, was that he was likely as dead as the man who'd asked him the question.

Suddenly, there was a large banging from the other end of the room, like an assault on the door. And scratching. Desperate scratching like fingernails against wood. Something was coming.

"We need to leave," Jack told him.

"But Matt..." Foggy whispered, panicked.

"He'll be okay," Jack told him as he stared at the child still keeping his rhythm with the bag, swift and furious. "He'll have to be."

Jack forced him through a door that Foggy was certain shouldn't have been there. As they ran they heard the splintering of wood and a piercing whine behind them, a churning, sorrowful sound like nothing he had ever heard before. But when he turned around, there was only an empty alley. The door was gone. And he was alone.