AN: I'm back! Months and months later than I'd thought, but I'm back! Blame the book, I burnt myself out and couldn't write so much as a grocery list for like two months.

Things are too busy for me to do my usual daily updates, at least at first, but at worst you'll get one a week. I'll aim for three.

This sequel only exists because of how sweet and encouraging you wonderful readers were on Devil's Hell. It was the best writing experience I've had and did my writer confidence wonders. This one's for you. Also I found a little comic on Tumblr that sums that up nicely: post/177322814613/mekitoji-swatato-the-trick-this

Happy reading friends! Hope you enjoy :)

The metal of the bars was almost soothing. Blessedly cool and gently rounded to fit the curve of his palm. Just thick enough for his fingers to encircle. He could almost pretend they weren't shaking if he held on tightly enough. The tiny vibrations zinging through the frame of the cage were almost pleasant, almost melodical in their rhythm. It was just about quiet enough for him to hear his breath mist against the welded steel. It was comforting.

Almost.

Matt leant his forehead between two of the bars, letting their inescapable strength harbour his attention to the cool pressure against his matted hair and the almost unheard ring of the steel as his breath ghosted past.

The paltry peace shattered with the electrifying zing of fresh, close vibrations singing discordantly through the bars. Matt jerked backwards, his hand shocking to his broken ribs, his useless eyes wide as he tried to focus.

Footsteps. Heavy. Arhythmic. Two sets. One with a telltale squeak from the right shoe that plunged his empty stomach into icy dread.

The vibrations intensified, the cage screaming at him from all sides as his chest heaved fruitlessly, mocking him, hemming him in even tighter in the already cramped space. They were coming. And he could barely see.

Please let it not be me, was his first, appalling thought.

I can take it, came the defiant second as Hugo whimpered in the cage beside his. Take me. I can take it.

As the footsteps stopped outside his cage, what little courage he had left wavered. The cage door buzzed opened and a childish, shameful part of him quailed away from the promised pain, making his arms come up not in defence, but in a desperate, pitiful plea.

Not me.

He couldn't see them. The cage was too loud and their breathing kept buffeting him from different directions so there seemed to be seven of them. They were talking about something but the words made no sense to his foggy mind. Rough, uncompromising hands wrapped resolutely around his wrists and dragged him into the open. More as a reflex than anything Matt lashed out, aiming for a shin he couldn't see. He glanced a solidish something but the blow was as weak as his will. Their laughter rained down on him like physical blows as they manhandled him onto the gurney.

Velcro ripped free with thunderous force and Matt couldn't breathe, the air sucked away with the silence. Callused hands manipulated his pathetic living corpse into the straps, fastened them too tightly over the barely healed scars from last time. By the time they'd pressed the last strap firmly over his forehead, Matt was shaking hard enough to reopen the wounds and feel fresh, hot blood ooze like a balm over his wrists and ankles.

Their voices were all wrong. Too big. Too close. He felt tiny between them. Helpless. He tried to speak, to challenge them, to beg them, but he could barely form the thoughts, nevermind the words. And even if he could, they would never listen. They would never care.

He was focusing too intently on the voices to notice the syringe. If he'd been paying proper attention he might have had a moment to prepare himself for the acidic burn that would slowly, inchingly, consume him. But by the time he felt the jolt of the needle jammed into the catheter on his hand, it was too late to brace himself. He didn't even feel them attach the monitors. He didn't feel the gurney move as they took him to the next level of hell. All he felt, all he knew, was a fire so intense it erased all the world and he was left floating in agony with the vague memory of people laughing at his screams.

This was only the beginning.

Matt jolted awake more violently than if he'd been electrocuted. He gasped desperately for air and it came willingly, but he did not trust it. He wasn't tied down but there was something over him, something that didn't hurt but it was tangled around his legs and he fumbled with it, kicking wildly and gulping down breaths as though he could store them for the next suffocating drought.

His hand found the edge of the thing on which he lay and he propelled himself off, one foot still trapped in the thing that was cloth. Something exploded a second before he thudded into hard ground and he kept moving, his knee barking a complaint. He scrambled until he was free, safe on his feet, and his searching hands found a familiar door. Sliding it aside, Matt stumbled into his living room, forcing himself to breathe through his nose.

He could see.

The tang of blood hung like an avoided thought over the couch, the metallic taste of his suit lending it depth. He staggered forward and tripped, the floorboards biting into his bare knees, but the couch caught him and his fingers landed on the helmet.

He took it in his hands and tried to breathe normally, running his fingers over the subtly textured surface. He'd been dreaming. Just another nightmare, nothing to get so worked up about. IGH was over now. It was over. He wasn't there anymore. He was home.

The horns were like frozen waves about to crest. They fit the curves of his thumbs perfectly.

Jessica had found him. Claire had healed him. Foggy and Karen had forgiven him.

Everything was okay.

Matt slumped against the side of the couch and huffed an exhausted breath, holding the helmet firmly against his bare stomach. Closing his eyes he let his senses roam out, exploring the familiar space that still felt alien to him. Or perhaps he felt alien to it.

He could still smell the ghost of Foggy's last visit. Over a day ago. And Karen had only called in the last two days. Matt nodded to no one and tried to smile. He was doing better. Really, he must be. They wouldn't be giving him so much alone time if they didn't think he was doing better. And that was good.

So why was his heart still pounding harder than Fisk's fists?

Matt opened his eyes and sighed. He could feel the tangled mess of sheets he'd left in his bed. He'd knocked over the glass of water he should've finished earlier. He'd have to clean that up.

That thought was so heavy it seemed to press Matt down into the floor. He let his head flop onto his shoulder, facing the window through which the billboard hummed in just the same way it had before Midland Circle. He centred his attention on it, letting its shifting warmth paint abstract patterns through the cool night behind his eyes. He had no idea what it was advertising but the tiny buzzing of the hundreds of tiny lights was like a hive of synchronised bees all flying in formation like an air show. It was pretty calming, really.

For a moment, he felt okay. Maybe not safe, but his heartrate was certainly slowing. And he wasn't thinking about her. Wasn't even wondering if Jessica had almost found her yet. If she was the only one to elude Jess for two months.

A shout jolted him back into reality. He sat up straighter, listening, trying to pick out the pocket of unease from the murmuring thrum of the city's nocturnal melody.

There. Only about two blocks away. He couldn't make out the details – the bees were throwing him off a little. But it was definitely a struggle.

Pretending he didn't feel the wave of relief and actively ignoring the answering swell of fear, Matt jumped to his feet and pulled the suit back on, grimacing as his knee twinged grumpily beneath him. There was no point going back to bed. He wouldn't sleep even if he tried.

Alert and determined, Matt Murdock pushed the helmet over his head and raced up the stairs to the roof, two at a time, already planning his route into the fray.

Into Hell. Where he belonged.