This story is told from the point of view of Claire, the initially nurse friend of Matthew Murdock. All characters and rights remain with Marvel, this is just a fantasy story created for entertainment.

Perched on the corner of my bed, I leaned over, rubbing the palms of my hands into my eyes in hope to erase the images that flash every time I closed them. Like a permanent projector replaying the previous night's event. I can hear Matt's scream of agony that no man should even be capable of making. The colors blur, flashes of white and yellow light streaming past from when I ran as fast as I could to find him before it was too late. The red, infecting everything it touched; his body, the ground, my hands as they attempted to stop the gush out of his chest, my clothes from sitting in the pool that had started to form underneath us, a final life raft ready to take off whether or not we had made it aboard.

I shake my head and lifted it, scanning the room for the hundredth time for any sign of refuge from these nightmares that are sure to haunt me for a very long time to come. The peeling, ash-colored walls of my room shroud the room in a damp mood, reflecting the reality of life as I have come to know here in Hell's Kitchen. I used to have decorations in my flat, like a painting of Central Park that hung above my bed, and a fern in the corner, but that was when I still believed that life in a place like this was possible. That was before I had realized nothing but the crude truth of life can exist in this place, in my life. It truly had become a literal Hell.

The air is stale as I take a rattled breath. I can smell mildew and mold in the floor boards and just realize I am cold as I feel each hair on my arm start to stand on end, one after the other, but I make no attempt to move yet. Not yet. If only I can have one moment of peace, of silence. My head is buzzing now, the gurgling noise, I start to recall again, of Matt on the floor as I had leaned over his spazing body watching as he struggled to breath. My sobs interrupting my demands as I screamed at him to stick with me, sirens wailing in the background like an unsatisfiable baby.

My breath hitches for a second as I snapped my eyes open once more, not realizing they had closed. I haven't slept properly for a week now because of everything going on lately. I know that I had promised Matt that I would always be there to patch him up, but I never thought that it would take more out of me than just my skill and time. It had taken ever availability within my. My emotional, physical and mental real-estate had all been checked out, like a book from a library, used again and again until my spine is being held together by mere threads after going through so much wear and tear.

My heart aches, for Matt, for myself, for my life before all the madness started. Dropping my arms by my sides I stand up slowly and turn towards the door. Every extremity feeling like a cooked noodle, weak and uncontrollable. I'm surprised enough already at my ability to stand, but I don't really believe there is any way to recover from this. Sure I've nursed people through trauma before, but I have never had the hands on experience myself. This was something new.

Next thing I know I'm in my kitchen with a near empty bottle of vodka in one hand, and a glass half full in the other. I shake my head. Glancing to the side, I can see the couch in my living room where I had first met Matt. I had had to patch him up after finding him in a dumpster half dead. That bleeding stranger, all that time ago, is even someone I knew better that the man I know today.

I chuckle to myself. It seems as if that was a lifetime ago, chasing drug cartels and the high and mighty Fisk. Back when a man with a lot of money to pay people to do his bidding was our biggest problem. Ours? No his. He dragged me into this. But I had let him.

Circling the couch now, I dragged one hand along the backrest remembering the day vividly. The day when one secret reveled started the whole domino effect of unanswerable questions. No, again, not my fault. He chose to cut me out. To drag me into this whole mess but leave me uninformed.

I collapsed onto the seat and took a large sip from my cup almost emptying it. It burns my throat like acid, but it's a great distraction. A distraction from the lies and secrets, and the real pain that he doesn't trust me, or believe in me enough, which is the whole reason he lost me, despite the fact that this was the last result I was hoping for.

A crashing noise outside my window wakes me from my stupor. Probably just some animal rummaging for scraps, but the image of trash brings me to my senses as I take a quick inventory of myself. My black hair is tangled and unruly from days of tossing around in bed but never taking the time to comb it. My over sized sweatshirt covers all the way to mid-thigh where I can see the stain on my jeans, peeking out slightly, from where I had spilled a beer and never bothered to change. I pinch the front of the pullover to take a sniff and recoil. Had I been living in this filth for that long? It seems like an eternity, but it had only been one night, one very, very long night. When I arrived home after doing as much as I could for him for the night, I had run home to try to escape it all. I had just stood in the shower for nearly an hour, scrubbing furiously at my skin, way past the time when I had removed all the blood that had caked there.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I remembered that, despite all this unusual self-pitying, I still had a job to go do. He was not the only one that needed my help. What made him so different from all the other people that I tended to? What made him so special that at his beckoning call I always would drop anything, lie to anyone, and do anything just to help? Everything. Despite our previous mutual consent about how I should avoid falling for him, it was just too late. This was a wound that I did not know how to heal.

Shuffling up and over to the bathroom, I slowly stripped each layer and dragged myself into the shower. Time to start fresh.

Stepping out, with my towel still wrapped around me, I walked to my room and picked up my phone. 3 missed calls. My first thoughts run towards Matthew as I feel my heart flutter ever so slightly. God dammit, why on earth did I have to fall for the one devil in my world? I unlock the screen to see Foggy had called twice followed by Karen. His work buddies from the normal side of his life. Is there a normal side to his life? I wonder if they know him any better than I do and if so, how do they deal with it?

I maneuvered myself to my closet and into my blue nurse's outfit, so clean in stark comparison to just a few minutes ago. Tossing my messenger bag over my shoulder, I grabbed my phone and keys from my bedside table and headed out the door. I'll call them back on the way to work.

As I started to lock my door, I hear large uneven steps behind me. The hair on the back of my neck raised as I tensed up. Counting down from three, I whirled around sharply. About mid-way down the hallway I spotted my neighbor, Mr. Jenson, heavily leaning on his door way, hands shaking as he was attempting to put his key in the lock on his door.

I never inquire, never give a second thought to anyone's business that doesn't involve me, but I couldn't help but notice a bruise starting to bloom underneath his right eye and a large gash on his bottom lip, matching the one on top of his cheekbone opposite of the bruise. The few strands of grey in his dark hair seem more pronounced as ever as if announcing to the world that he was an old, tired man, despite the fact that he was still in his forties. As I walk past, I can smell how he reeks of liquor, just as I had less than an hour ago. Now, a few feet from the elevator, I paused and took a slow breath. What's the point of being a nurse if you can't help those who need it?

Turning on my heel I called out, "Mr. Jenson, do you need any help?"

"Mrgh, ergh" is all that I got in response. Resigning any protest I started back towards him.

"I said" he mumbled louder, his words slurring heavily, "I don't need anything from you" shouting the last bit as he swung around. In the flickering corridor lights, the shadows encasing his body had seemed to cover most of the damage. Now getting a better look I could see that his coat is torn near the shoulder and his left leg seems to have an odd angle to it as he leaned his weight on the other. I saw his chest rising and falling as he breathed hard, his eyes swirling over my face, trying to focus.

"Mr. Jenson," I said again, more tentatively this time as I eased closer, walking a step every two seconds, "you are badly hurt, let me take a look. Were you in a bar fight…"

My words trailed off as I spotted a sliver of silver flash underneath his coat where his right hand was placed. I had assumed he had hurt his side and was clutching at it because of the pain, but the gun was now obvious. This had been no ordinary fight.

I faltered backwards, feeling for the elevator door, trying to get away without taking my eyes off the gun.

"Now" Mr. Jenson slurred, turning his shoulders towards me to show that I had his full attention, but still remained slumped against the door frame. "I couldn't possibly," he coughed suddenly and spit blood onto the floor. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand he grinned a sickly grin. "You see now that I can't let you go. I've heard the rumors about you and your nosy little friend."

I gasped slightly. Did he mean Matt? Did he know that she had been aiding the Daredevil of Hell's Kitchen? His voice still thick, he continued, seeing the slight look of astonishment on my face that I had tried to hide but was not successful, "Yes, I know about your little friend in black, or is it red these days? I can never remember. Though the horns were a nice touch." He laughed softly to himself, seeming to find his wit amusing, probably due to the excessive amount of alcohol in his body.

I could see now that he had the gun pointed at me, but still half hidden in case an intruder just happened upon the scene. I raised my hands slowly, still trying to ease my way backwards towards the elevator, where I knew would be a stairway to the right that I could try to dash into and make a break for it. I would have a split second, but seeing as he was almost incapacitated it would be all I need.

"Please" I begged, trying to earn myself those last few precious seconds, "I don't want any trouble, I was just trying to help."

"Sorry, Claire" he almost sang, dragging out the last part of her name, "it's nothing personal, its just…"

At that moment we both heard the sound of shattering glass and a crash from, what appeared to be, inside his room. His head jerked slightly to the side, distracted for a moment, but that was all I needed. I whipped around and made the last two steps to the stairwell door. I had just started to barrel through it when I heard a bang, and an intense pain in my abdomen caused me to collapse just on the other side.

I drew in a sharp breath, my legs struggling to push me to the wall across from the door right above the first step. "Lousy shot" I muttered to myself, panting as I looked down to see a scarlet flower bloom right beneath the fresh hole in my jacket. I could hear crashing noises accompanied by shouts and curses.

I attempted to drag myself upright, but just hissed from the pain and slumped. "Come on Claire" I chided myself, "you know what to do to a gunshot patient." Closing my eyes to concentrate, the pain threatened to tow me under. I felt around my back for what I thought would be an exit wound but to my dismay discovered none. Shit. The idiot couldn't even shoot someone right, I thought to myself. Tilting my body back slightly to extend the wounded area, I leaned over to brace my hand and arm so that I could add pressure to the wound without needing much effort, which was a good thing seeing as my vision was already going hazy and I could feel my arms going limp. Guess I wasn't going to be able to do all the procedures necessary after all. I could only hope that someone in this building wanted to exercise and decides to take the stairs, instead of the elevator, and finds me before it's too late.

A second later, the door to the hallway flew open, my arm instinctively raised to protect my head. The last thing I heard was someone shouting my name, but it was too late, I slipped into unconsciousness as I felt strong arms fold beneath my limbs, lifting me off the ground.