Matt doesn't know who this man is, but he knows he's unlike anyone else he's ever encountered. Or, hopefully, ever will encounter, if the chill down his spine is anything to go by. The man isn't saying anything, and while it's a tad unusual for someone to sit themselves down to share his café table without so much as a "May I?" it probably shouldn't make him feel this… not threatened, exactly. It's as though every fiber in his body is prepared to spring into action at any moment.
He can feel the man considering him over a porcelain (and they don't use porcelain here, but Matt could hear the difference in the clink of the - silver, also odd - spoon as it stirred in a honey that Matt's never smelled before) teacup. Nothing is familiar. He doesn't recognize the scents or the rustle of fabric, and even the - my G-d, even the heartbeat is wrong. It's fast - too fast - but not in a way that signifies weakness, excitement, or illness. Matt can't help but tense with dread that this is normal for this - is he even - is he human?
He focuses on what is familiar. The shape is human, if tall and lean and exuding quietly lethal power. The posture is somehow perfectly erect without being stiff, and Matt feels practically slumped in comparison. The eyes are definitely on him, watching and evaluating. It's like Stick all over again, and the thought is far from comforting.
"Hello?" Matt tries for a nervous smile as he says it, but he can tell it's a failure before he's even finished nudging the facial muscles into place. His new companion, on the other hand, positively beams. It gives Matt the impression of a sunny day in the Arctic.
"I hope you do not think me rude," the man replies, in a way which manages perfect sincerity despite Matt detecting that his tablemate is profoundly unconcerned with Matt's preferences on the subject. "The seat was available and you intrigue me."
Murdock has the thought that this is not someone it would be healthy to intrigue too deeply. He holds still and tries to chase down why he thinks that. There's no threat here. No hint of a weapon. But he can't shake the feeling he's caught the attention of an uncaged jaguar. "Well," Matt sallies, "I really doubt I'm all that interesting."
The stranger hums. "I disagree."
"Free country."
An odd smile, and Matt doesn't know why. It would set his teeth on edge if he weren't being so careful not to respond. "Yes. Isn't it."
Not a question. Not a statement. Matt tilts his head, decides to go on offense, just a little. "Where are you from? I don't recognize the accent."
The smile widens into something like… satisfied? Strange. "No, you wouldn't. Not many of my people visit here."
The barista calls Matt's name, then, and he excuses himself to retrieve the cappuccinos and latte he's taking to the office.
That night, as he clotheslines an attempted rapist, Daredevil is momentarily distracted by an odd earthy scent he's only encountered once before - that morning, in the coffee shop. His senses are on alert as he subdues the criminal and readies him for police pick-up, but the smell fades without a sound to accompany its departure.