Betsy was surprised, while walking down the hallway to her second-floor apartment, to find a brown package on the mat in front of her door. It was a pleasant surprise at first, but was quickly met with suspicion after noticing that the package had no address label. Entering her apartment, she kicked off her stiff shoes and set down her purse and a bag of Thai take-out that she'd convinced herself was healthy before turning around and staring at the simple brown box on her mat. It looked innocent enough, so she picked it up with both hands and shut the door with her hip.

She sat down at her small table with the package and gave it a slight shake. No ticking from the box, which was a good sign. Even though Wilson Fisk was securely behind bars, it was hard to shake the anxiety she was so used to feeling. The box was tied with a simple twine bow, which she undid before sliding the top off. On top of folded tissue paper was a handwritten note. Betsy picked the note up with care and read it a few times:

Betsy,

Sorry I am gone. I will be back but there are still some people looking for me. It's not safe for me yet but you will be ok. I have someone keeping out an eye for you. I wanted to give you this dress for your birthday but I couldn't wait anymore. I hope you like it I know purple is your favorite color.

-M

Betsy set the note aside and unfolded the tissue paper with tears blurring her vision. The dress was a silky, deep purple with lacy sleeves. She stood up and lifted it out the box, looking over every square inch. It was gorgeous, of course. Melvin was an incredibly gifted designer. She hadn't spoken to Melvin since before Fisk was put away, but their last session had ended on a good note. Melvin had assured her that Fisk wasn't going to be a problem anymore, that he was helping someone beat Fisk. At the time, she thought maybe he'd agreed to testify in court. It wasn't until after she'd seen the famous sketch of Daredevil in the New York Bulletin that she realized Melvin had provided the Devil of Hell's Kitchen with a new costume. A costume that was more than likely made of the same material that lined Fisk's suits.

Thinking about Melvin put a heavy weight on her chest, a feeling that she was growing quite accustomed to. She gripped the chair in front of her and buried her face in the dress, letting a couple of tears slip. After a few moments, she put the dress back in the box and secured the lid. As much as she wanted to allow herself time to curl up in bed and cry, she had work to do. There were new client files that needed reviewing and she still had to eat dinner, clean the apartment, and feed the cat. She ran a hand through her curls and glanced around her small kitchen, as if noticing it for the first time. Dishes piled in the sink, garbage overflowing with take-out boxes, papers and bills scattered around the table. She made a mental checklist and decided that the cat took precedence.

She called for the ginger cat before filling the bowl. He didn't come immediately, which was unusual. Oliver was a senior cat, a "gift" from Betsy's friend Jess. Jess had moved to Chicago for a new job four months prior and wasn't sure if the old cat would make the trip. Betsy shrugged off Oliver's lack of interest in the food, telling herself that maybe his hearing was failing. He was old, anyway.

In hindsight, the fact that Oliver didn't come barreling down the hallway upon hearing his bowl being filled should have been a red flag. The cat was predictable; he at least had that going for him. Betsy's mind was so preoccupied with thoughts of Melvin, Fisk, and Daredevil that she didn't even notice the stranger sitting on her couch until she was by her bedroom door. She heard him before she saw him; he was flipping through her new copy of TV Guide that was on the coffee table.

"You really took your time getting out here. No offense, but your magazines suck." He dropped the magazine back on the coffee table.

Betsy felt a scream building in her throat and stumbled backward, slamming into the doorframe of her bedroom. "How—"

The figure rose easily from the couch, but Betsy didn't wait to see what his next move was. She threw herself into her room and slammed the door. She cursed whoever decided against putting a lock on the door and shoved a nightstand under the knob. She knew that that wasn't going to be enough, but it would have to do. Luckily, her room was connected to a bathroom, and the bathroom had a lock.

Crouching on the floor of her tiny bathroom, Betsy had some time to think. Her cell phone was in her purse, which was in the kitchen. Shit. There was a window above her bathtub, so Betsy clambered into the tub with shaking legs and flung the small window open. The man was in her bedroom now, having easily kicked the door down. Betsy screamed for help into the black night, hoping that police, or perhaps even a certain horned vigilante, would hear her.

"Come on, I just have a few questions." The man knocked on the door a few times, causing Betsy to scream louder.

If the locked door did anything to slow the man down, Betsy couldn't tell. Before she even had time to process what was happening, he kicked in the bathroom door and was approaching her at a rapid rate. She tried to recall what she'd learned in her self-defense class as a teenager, and aimed a kick at his knee. It was an awkward kick, being in the tub and all, but Betsy did a fairly decent job. Or so she thought, the man barely flinched. Instead, he heaved a sigh and hit her hard across the face with an open palm, causing her to lose her balance and crumple on the floor of the bathtub.

"Why couldn't we just make this quick and easy?" He grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled her out of the tub and into the bedroom.

Betsy held on to the fist in her hair with both hands, struggling to stay on her feet. He finally let go near the foot of the bed, pushing her shoulders against the footboard and crouching in front of her.

"Where is Melvin Potter?" His face was too close to hers. He had a crooked nose, days-old bruises, and a scabbed cut on his lip.

"I—why?" Betsy pressed her back against the footboard as much as she could, anything to put some distance between them.

"Wrong answer." The man gripped Betsy's narrow shoulders and hoisted her up to her feet before knocking her against the wall by the dresser. He held her there at arms length. "You seem like a nice girl, but I've had a pretty shitty night. Just tell me where he is and you'll never see me again."

Betsy's eyes frantically scanned the dresser to her right, searching for anything that could be used as a weapon. She settled on the pewter handheld mirror that she'd bought at an antique store with her mother. Not allowing herself much time to think, she drove her knee into her attacker's groin while simultaneously wrapping her palm around the sturdy handle of the mirror. The man was able to block most of Betsy's knee, but the distraction enabled her to pull the mirror off the dresser and strike the man's head with the hard edge.

The hit made him stumble and release Betsy's shoulders, allowing her to rush out of the room. She made it about halfway down the hallway before he caught up and wrapped his thick arm around her throat from behind, yanking her into his chest.

"I'm really tired of chasing you around this shitty apartment," he hissed into her ear, squeezing her neck with his forearm. "Where is Melvin?"

"I don't know—I swear to God—" Betsy gasped, the tears spilling freely now.

She clawed at his arm and kicked her heels into his shins, but he remained unmoving. She tried reaching her hand up to gouge his eyes, but she couldn't find his head and ended up grabbing at the air. This went on for what felt like an eternity, until Betsy heard a loud thud coming from somewhere in her living room. She wondered wildly if Oliver had come out of his hiding spot to save her life.

"She's telling the truth, Frank," she heard a new voice yell.

Betsy was sure she heard the man behind her say something in reply, or at least she felt his baritone voice vibrate through his chest. She tried to focus on the words, but she didn't care anymore. Black dots were swimming in her vision, and her legs were suddenly unable to hold her weight.

Betsy woke up moments later to a full-blown fight in her living room. Daredevil versus the man she now knew was named Frank. She couldn't tell who was winning, but she was irritated that they were breaking her things. She sat up slowly, rubbing her neck. Shit, that was going to hurt later.

Daredevil seemed to have the upper hand. He was faster, and he navigated the small space with ease. Frank was holding his own, of course, and had a gun drawn. Before he had a chance to shoot, though, Daredevil kicked it out of his hand. The gun slid to a stop near Betsy's bedroom door. It was a little closer to the fight than Betsy would have liked, but she was worried that one of them was going to break her TV. That thing took weeks of saving, and she was not going to let a costumed vigilante or a black-clad psychopath break it.

She crawled to the gun; careful to avoid the shattered glass from a vase her mother had given her as a housewarming present. The gun turned out to be a simple semi-automatic pistol. She made a mental note to thank her uncle for taking her to a shooting range as a teenager. She checked the magazine; it was full.

Betsy stood up slowly on shaky legs with the pistol in her hands. Her neck was sore, her head was throbbing, and her fingertips even hurt from scratching.

"Stop," Betsy said, her voice coming out in a mangled whisper.

She cleared her throat and tried again.

"Stop, or I'll fucking shoot the both of you." She put as much authority into her voice as she could manage, and it must have worked because they both stopped and looked in her direction.

"Princess, put the pistol down before you shoot your foot." Frank had his hands up and was walking towards her.

If there was one thing that Betsy hated, it was being called a princess by condescending assholes. She aimed the gun at the floor in front of Frank and fired. She winced at both the loud noise and the new hole in her hardwood floor, but at least Frank had backed off a good five feet.

Daredevil, on the other hand, was crouched by the bookcase in the corner, one hand over an ear and the other hand on the wall. Frank made a move toward him.

"Stop!" Betsy raised her gun again. She knew she didn't have the guts to actually shoot him, and she could feel that she was losing her hold on the situation.

Frank looked from the gun, to Betsy, to Daredevil, and backed towards the open window.

"I'll be seeing you later," he said before escaping down the fire escape.

Betsy let the gun drop at her side and looked to the man in the corner, who was now leaning against the bookshelf.

"He was talking to you, right?"