Prologue
Matthew Murdoch groaned. His lower back and neck were burning with pain, his shoulder blades protesting to any movement. This wasn't an unusual occurrence by any means, but this morning (at least, he thought it might be morning) he wasn't waking up in silk sheets—and that certainly wasn't the norm. He focused his hearing and realized he also wasn't alone in the room. Attempting to sit up, he tried to remember what had led to this position.
Oh. Right.
He peeled open his eyes, met with a strange, obscure vision of his apartment on fire. All's right there, then. Across from him sat Foggy, still asleep on the table, papers spread out under his long dirty blonde hair. Matthew heard his steady heartbeat, thrumming against his chest where it rested on the wooden surface. He still felt groggy; maybe they'd had too much to drink last night.
Twisting to his left and right, Matt cracked his back, feeling the relief wash over him. "We should have learned our lesson on this one from law school, Foggy." The man in question jumped at the sound of Matt's voice, knocking an empty T.V. dinner tray to the floor. Foggy blinked absently, his eyes widening as they took in his surroundings.
They were situated in the middle of the living area across from the two couches. Foggy had helped Matt pick out the table and chairs once the Fisk situation had been taken care of, insisting that they fix the mess Stick's visit had left behind. ("You can't live like this, man. I know you're a ninja, but broken furniture is kind of tacky.")
After a moment, he seemed to have processed the fact that they'd fallen asleep on a table in Matt's apartment trying to find a way to save an innocent man's life. Of course, they only knew he was innocent due to Matthew's "gift"—which, of course, was not admissible in court. As a result, piles of paper and Matthew's braille equipment surrounded them, Foggy had creases on his face (courtesy of his dress shirt), and both men had aches in various places.
"Dammit…," Foggy cracked his neck. "Did we even find anything helpful?"
Matt made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan. "Not that I can remember." He yawned, arms outstretched—but his hands stopped abruptly midair.
Foggy noticed his friend's sudden alertness and opened his mouth to speak, but Matt sharply shook his head. Foggy's mouth closed slowly as Matthew stood from his wooden chair. He stepped towards the exit in his bare feet, slacks, and dress shirt, the black tie loosened around his neck. When he got to the door, he sniffed lightly. Apparently whatever he'd sensed was decidedly unpleasant; he made a choking noise and covered his mouth with his elbow. Foggy was looking at him now, twisted in his seat staring at the look of disgust on Matthew's face.
"What is it?" he whispered animatedly. His greasy hair fell forward, curtaining his hesitant facial expression.
Matthew didn't answer; he steeled himself and reached for the door handle. Foggy took this as an invitation, getting up to stand next to Matt.
Standing side by side, Matthew flung open the door, screeching lightly on its unoiled hinges.
Both men were stunned.
"Is that what I think it is?" Matthew asked lowly. Foggy shook his head disbelievingly.
"We both know you're not that blind."
On the floor sitting outside Matthew Murdoch's apartment, in the dim hallway lighting, sat the crumpled and bloodied body of man in a tailored suit.
A/N: New story, haven't abandoned the other two, don't kill me.
Nothing belongs to me except the characters I create from scratch. I hope ya'll enjoyed the prologue. Get ready for a rough ride.