I used to be normal. Like you. I had typical dreams and aspirations. The weirdest thing about me was my violet-colored eyes. I was practically boring.

To be honest, I miss that immensely. I never asked to be special, not really. I was perfectly content to be the girl next door in Hell's Kitchen. I wasn't even in New York during "the incident", as people liked to call it. I was on a business trip with my boss in Seattle. I worked as a secretary, and I was good at my job. God knows I'd never met another secretary who was paid as much as I was without actually sleeping with her boss.

Don't get me wrong. I wasn't unattractive. I was tall and thin, with pale ivory skin and a mass of wild, blood-red curls. I had some modest curves, too. But my life was quiet, just the way I liked it. I predictably turned down all the office guys who wanted to take me out to dinner, until they stopped asking. My therapist said I had issues letting others into my life because of deep-seated abandonment issues, blah, blah, blah. I had grown up in orphanages and foster homes because no one even knew who my parents were, and she always brought our discussions back to that. She didn't think I had achieved closure or something. I suppose she was at least partly right; after all, I didn't even have any friends.

I spent my free time outside of work having my kind of fun. I had a secret weakness for activities involving adrenaline, like skydiving, or whitewater rafting. I took every kind of martial arts class I could think of, hiked, did yoga, studied archery and marksmanship, and went on tons of rollercoasters. They were my little indulgences.

After the incident, things changed. In all of New York, but particularly in Hell's Kitchen. Everything felt harsher, more dangerous. During the following showdown between Wilson Fisk and the vigilante everyone started calling Daredevil, I was constantly looking over my shoulder, worried for my safety.

I should have realized where the true danger was. That danger lay in my own nature.

I could never walk away from someone in trouble, especially a kid. When I was little, I got in trouble in school all the time for fighting, because I always took on the bullies. I lost almost as often as I won, but it made me tough, and no one at the homes ever gave enough of a shit to bother me about it much.

I was 25 years old when I made a decision that cost me dearly.

It was late, and normally I would have been home already, but my boss, Albert, had given me a lot of extra work that day. I was walking home since I didn't really have money for cab fare when I heard something odd. It sounded like muffled screams, something hard hitting flesh—I wasn't clear on it exactly, but I turned toward the noise and started walking down the alley to my right, like every dumb-blonde character in every clichéd horror movie.

As I moved closer, I made out five silhouettes. Two of them were cowering on the ground, while the other three appeared to be kicking them. Closer still, and I saw that three rough-looking men were kicking two young girls who were gagged and had their hands bound. The girls looked to be about high school age, and the men smelled like a Jack Daniels distillery.

I slipped a hand into my purse and pulled out my small yet powerful Taser. The men had their backs to me, so I took care to tread softly as I approached. I was able to get the first man before they noticed me, holding it to his side until one of his friends clocked me in the side of the head. I stumbled back as the first man dropped heavily to the ground, and his friends advanced on me. I ducked under one punch as a kick caught me in the ribs, winding me. One of the guys pinned me to the wall by my throat, and I broke his hold while I kneed him in the balls as hard as I could. The last guy took that opportunity to bodily ram me into the wall, which caused the last bit of air to leave my lungs. I gasped as two of them started to roughly grab at my clothing.

Before they could do anything more effective, however, a blur of red and black was there. It appeared the individual popularly known as Daredevil had taken an interest in my well-being. No longer pinned to the wall by my attackers, I slid to the ground in a breathless heap, surrounded by sounds of fighting and pain.

I'm not sure how much time passed before I felt a hand on my shoulder. I jumped a little, but then I heard his voice: "Are you alright?" I looked up to see Daredevil above me, extending a hand. I nodded shakily and took it, allowing myself to be pulled gently to my feet.

"Can you untie these girls and help them make a run for it?" he asked. "I… have to go take care of something else." I nodded again, and he was gone.

It took me about five minutes to peel the duct tape off the girls' wrists and mouths and get them to run to the nearest police station, but I managed it. Rather satisfied with myself, I turned to go, when a meaty hand clamped around my mouth and dragged me back against a broad chest. I suspected it was the guy I had had Tased into unconsciousness, and I started to struggle until I felt something sharp against my throat.

"You self-righteous bitch," he sneered. "Those street rats were worth $1,500 apiece. I'm gonna take it out of your hide!" Something hard hit the back of my head, and everything went black.