AN I love Claire. I also love her relationship with Santino! We don't see him more than a couple of times, but I get the strong impression that they're close.

Claire buttoned up her coat, doling out orders to her younger cousins.

"Alejandra, please make sure the dishes get done before school. And Emilio, you walk with her all the way there, don't run off to play with the Martinez boys. Alfonso," she said, catching the boy by the shoulders, "make sure your siblings stay in line, okay?"

"Sure thing," he said, giving her a sweet smile. He was fourteen and already asking to be called 'Alfie' to sound more American than Latino. His parent were less than thrilled.

"I'm not sure who their mother is, you or Maribel," Reynaldo, her brother-in-law, said. Claire made a face at him as he did up his vest.

"I take the morning shift," she told him. Her sister normally stayed up late washing laundry so her eldest, Carmen, could return it the following morning. Maribel and Claire's mother, Soledad, stayed up to help, but it wasn't uncommon for all the lights in their little apartment to go out early in the morning.

Reynaldo scoffed and shook his head. He kissed his children good-bye, promising to see them after school. In a few moments, Claire and Reynaldo were walking down the small halls of their tenement building. They joined the small stream of people in the hall, a seamstress and a waiter mingling with the crowd trudging to work.

Claire's family was lucky in that they all found jobs in shops or the safety of their home, away from the hustle and grind of the factories or docks. She doubted that would last, though. It was looking more and more likely that Carmen would have to apply to a tobacco factory, despite Reynaldo's efforts of finding her a position with him at his café.

The streets were already buzzing when they stepped out, unaffected by the still cool April weather. Newsboys called out headlines, the occasional car or truck trundled down the road, children played games before heading to school, and always, always, people marched to work.

"Will you be home early tonight?" Reynaldo asked.

"I don't think so. Santino said he'd head back to the ring."

"Why do you indulge him?" he asked, giving Claire a serious look. "He could get himself killed out there. The man who organize those matches, Sweeney, I've seen his dog fights. I wouldn't be surprised if he treats his fighters the same way."

"Santino knows what he's doing," Claire said. "He's not going to get in the ring with anyone serious."

"Everything feels serious when you've got men called things like 'Iron Fist' or 'Punisher' going a few rounds."

"He's not doing it for fun," Claire pointed out, deciding it was best to not mention that 'Iron Fist' and 'Punisher' were hardly the worst men in the boxing hall. "You know his mama's not been working since she got sick. He's just picking up a little extra when he's not at the factory."

"How he even has energy for that, the hours he works…" Reynaldo muttered, shaking his head.

"We all get by the way we know how," Claire said.

"So, on that topic, why don't you stay home and help Maribel make a wage?" Reynaldo asked.

Claire resisted the urge to heave a sigh aloud. Reynaldo had an uncanny ability to connect any two points he wanted flawlessly. Then again, she should have seen this round of offense. He'd only been bringing it up every few days the last couple of weeks.

"You're getting nothing for wrapping bandages around those men, and it's honestly a miracle no one's tried to hurt you, yet."

"They wouldn't let me get hurt," Claire dismissed.

Granted, a couple of men had tried harassing her a few weeks back. Santino had been there instantly, bristling with rage and ready to break their teeth. Several of the Irish boxers had also stepped in, her consistent compassion having earned their respect. The thing that had made her stomach flip, though, was that Matt had been key among them. The daredevil of the ring might have been brutal and animalistic in a fight, but he was nothing short of a gentleman when it came to her defense.

She liked to think it wasn't just because he seemed to need her help every time she came, but it was ridiculous to assume that. It wasn't like she had proof. A few soft smiles and the barest of touches didn't count as anything, not really.

(But oh, if they could.)

"How do you know that?" Reynaldo demanded, stepping around a dog investigating a pile of trash.

"I'm the only one that's actually bothering to wrap those bandages around them," she pointed out.

"You're a tailor's assistant, Claire. Stitching cloth is not like stitching skin."

"I know. But a little human kindness is always nice."

"Absolutely. And don't get me wrong, I'm glad you care. Just remember that taking care of yourself and your family is more important than strangers."

Claire huffed out a breath and stopped to face him. "I told Santino I'd go. We'll deal with tomorrow later."

"Sounds like a policy for nothing getting done."

"It'll be fine, Reynaldo," Claire insisted. "I know when I get in over my head."

He grimaced and let out some sort of grunt that said he did not believe her. He worked his jaw and looked across the street, then shook his head. "Just…promise me you'll actually ask for help when that happens," he grumbled, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"I promise," she said.

They were quiet the rest of the way to the tailor's, their differing opinions smothering conversation. When they stopped outside of the tailor's shop, Claire made sure to kiss him on the cheek and wish him a good day to show things were fine between them. He shook his head and smiled, offering her one last wave before he melded into the crowd.

"Good morning," Claire called as she stepped inside. She slipped off her hat and coat as she went, draping them over her arm until she reached the coat stand in the back. "Mr. Solano?"

"Oh, good morning, Claire," the owner of the tailor shop, Mr. Solano, called. He poked his head out of the back room as she came closer, smiling at her. "I almost didn't hear you, I was just finishing up on the phone."

Mr. Solano was a portly man with a meticulous eye for detail. He was kind, if a bit fussy, and always let Claire go a little early if she had to take care of her family.

"Were they ordering something new?" Claire asked. She edged around him to hang up her hat and coat, then faced him.

Mr. Solano shook his head, smoothing down the kerchief in his vest pocket. "No, no, it was simply one of our private customers. He was setting up an appointment this afternoon."

"Will you need help?"

"No, it's just a single suit fitting, nothing more," he said, shaking his head for emphasis.

Solano Tailoring mainly catered to the working class of their neighborhood. However, Mr. Solano did occasionally make house calls for wealthier clients that couldn't be bothered with going to the shop. Claire had gone with him a couple of times to fit women for dresses, but normally she was left behind to tend the shop. She liked escaping to the upscale neighborhoods, liked seeing all of the space between homes. The only empty space she normally saw were the empty lots after a building had burned down, and even then laundry was strung across the gap, the homeless congregated to beg for money, and children played there after school let out. Very little was empty for the sake of aesthetic.

"Alright. When is the appointment?"

"A little after noon. I shouldn't be gone too long."

Claire smiled and nodded, then went to redress some of the mannequins.

Claire's day went from well enough to frustrating in the span of a couple of hours. A woman stormed in and shouted about their shoddy workmanship. Claire tried calming her down, but her accusations went from being about the establishment in general to Claire in particular. She handled the insults until the women made the obvious leap of accusing Claire of negligence to insinuating her working in a shop meant she was incapable of taking care of a family. Mr. Solano intervened at that point, finally herding the woman out with a mountain of apologies and explanations and promises it would never happen again.

"I didn't ruin her dress," Claire said, torn between yelling at the sky and throwing something. But, as usual, Claire took the safe route and kept herself in check. "I swear, her dress was fine when I finished it. I don't know how the side seam ripped like that, but—"

"I don't want to hear it," he said, jerking up a hand like he could dam her words in her throat. "Just…finish restocking the shelves, please."

"Mr. Solano, you know I'd never be so careless," she insisted, panic starting to set in. People had been fired for less.

"Claire. Not now. I need to see our private customer," he said, disappearing into the back. Claire followed him, sidestepping the out of use mannequin to reach his office.

"But she was—"

"Claire, I said leave it alone!" he snapped.

She froze, making herself bite back further protests. Mr. Solano sighed and pulled on his coat. Claire waited as he adjusted his sleeves. She couldn't remember the last time he had raised his voice, much less toward her.

"I'm sorry. Please, take care of the shop. I…I'm late to see our customer."

"Yes, sir," she said. Hopefully a polite, demure response would help her case later.

Claire restocked the shelves with the new bolts of cloth after Mr. Solano left, then swept the floor. She had wanted to slap the woman the moment she started pointing her finger in Claire's face and accused her of failing her job. The dress had been beautiful, smoothing out the woman's figure to make it look more boyish as the latest trends demanded, but not eliminating her curves completely. More importantly, it had been the first outfit Claire had made on her own. She had been so careful, determined to make the dress exceptional.

But Claire hadn't slapped the woman. She had forced out a smile and tried to politely explain and correct and not pull her own hair out of her skull. She had done the proper thing and probably kept her job because of it.

She sighed and rested the broom against the counter.

Claire was tired of biting everything back. Newspapers, magazines, and advertisements were always talking about the new independent woman that was sweeping the nation, but the thought made Claire laugh. Women shearing off their hair, partying all night, and parading around in shockingly short skirts couldn't exist, not when her own life was such a staunch haven of conservativism.

At the same time, she found herself craving the freedoms of these imaginary women. She wasn't interested in the scandalous behavior of flappers, like drinking or smoking or going to a necking party. Claire only wanted to do and say what she wanted when she wanted. She wanted to pin her hair up into a bob without her mother sucking her teeth and casually condemning 'those disgraceful girls' that actually cut off their hair. She wanted to be able to tell off a customer without worrying about losing her job. She wanted her family to accept that she wanted to help people, even if the only ones available were boxers that broke the law. She wanted to tell Matt Murdock very openly that her heart leaped with excitement every time he walked over.

Claire propped her elbows on the counter and put her head in her hands. That especially was unlikely to happen. It was kind of funny, though. Everyone was screaming about change now that the Great War had finished, but some things were going to always stay the way they were. Like what color skin was acceptable for a person to be seen with.

Hell, any difference between people was grounds for trouble. The marriage between her Hispanic Puerto Rican mother and Afro Cuban father had been cause enough for strife from their friends and family, and that was with most of the world thinking they looked the exact same.

No, Claire's life now was more static than ever. News of her fathers' death overseas had been the last big change she'd seen, and that had been almost five years ago. Since then, things had simply settled. Claire wanted that sense of freedom more than she could say, but it also came with the terrifying thought of disrupting the calm that had developed. She couldn't justify unsettling everyone's lives just so she could speak her mind.

Claire managed to slog through the rest of the day, apologizing to Mr. Solano for her outburst when he returned. He nodded and waved his hand at her, though Claire couldn't tell if it was to dismiss her worries or the apology. He mumbled something incoherent, then disappeared into the back. She worked her jaw, then put on a bright face for a customer walking in.

Claire was relieved to escape the tailor's shop for the day. She buttoned up her coat against the breeze, steeling herself before marching into Hell's Kitchen.

She had only been partly truthful with Reynaldo that morning. She did go to the boxing hall to make sure Santino didn't get pulverized in the ring, but the boxing hall was also the only place she could be the person she wanted. There was some unspoken rule that the expectations of the outside world didn't apply between those four walls. Anyone inside could fight and drink and gamble and speak their mind and not take nonsense. It was stupid and reckless and undeniably dangerous, but it was all Claire had. She could help people and be honest, just like she wanted.

The city changed around her, the flavor shifting bit by bit. English replaced Spanish as the dominant language, gruff orders and conversations were overwhelmed by jazz music and screams of laughter. She ignored the men and women slinking into the hidden speakeasies for the beginning of a fun night. She sometimes wondered what it would be like to spend hours dancing the Charleston and drinking some ambiguous liquor (even in her idle fantasies she wasn't rich enough for the fine whiskey from Canada), instead of wiping away blood and applying cool packs. And what would it be like if she was always at home, preparing dinner and helping the kids with homework?

Claire slipped from the now quiet, grimy streets of the Kitchen and into Sweeney's boxing hall. There were more men gathered than usual, which was surprising so early in the night. Fights normally didn't begin until later.

She took off her hat. There were fewer rings than normal, a few scattered around a large central one. A decent crowd had already gathered around the fight, blocking her view of the boxers.

Santino was throwing a few warm up punches near an outer ring. He broke into a smile when he saw her and jogged over.

"Hey," he said. Hearing him speak Spanish always felt a little jarring when surrounded by the cacophony of men yelling in English, the normal sound of home even as it reminded her that they did not actually belong.

"Hey. What's going on?"

"Sweeney's trying to start a new type of fight. He's got two of the best bare-knuckle boxers to fight each other like it's a normal match."

"So he's having one big match that draws money away from the boxers fighting," Claire surmised. She cast a critical eye over the sparse crowds around the other rings.

"And he still takes a cut of everyone's winnings," he agreed glumly.

Claire sucked her teeth. She had met Sweeney all of once, and his oily manners had left a bad taste in her mouth for days. She was hardly surprised he would come up with some scheme to short the fighters that came to his hall, but it still riled her.

"Are you going to fight, then? If tonight is going to have such a bad turnout wouldn't it be better to wait?"

"Well, I'm already here, and I'm pretty sure I'll win…" he mused. The prize for winning a match was a percentage of the amount bet on the outcome. With so many betting on the big match in the middle, it would be unlikely that Santino would win even five dollars. Which was admittedly enough to get a week's worth of groceries, but was also its own form of gut punch when he had been expecting a reward closer to ten dollars.

"Alright. Be extra careful, though. It looks like the safe fighters aren't the ones ready to fight."

"Murdock's not watching," Santino pointed out, gaze settling on something over her shoulder. Claire looked around, skin prickling at the mention of his name. She couldn't see him, though she wasn't sure if that was a relief or not.

"I…don't think it's a good idea to fight him, Santino," she said. "He's a good man, but he doesn't exactly pull his punches. You'd have to take him down fast, and he's tough."

"Yeah, I know. But if it's a choice between getting knocked out in the first round and getting knocked out in the fifth, then getting torn apart while I'm unconscious…"

Claire hissed out a sigh through her teeth. Reynaldo's lecture seemed a little less pious, now that she was faced with the risks of being there.

"Hey, Spanish!" someone shouted at them. "Stop being sweet on your girlfriend and start the fight already!"

Santino waved in acknowledgement, but gave Claire a grimace in exasperation at Claire.

"Go ahead," she told him. "But don't take any wooden nickels!"

He gave her a brave smile and nodded. "Right, I know. Money's not worth it if I can't do anything after."

Claire patted him on the shoulder, then retreated to her usual position on the edge of the hall.

AN Living conditions for immigrants were a serious issue at this time. Tenement buildings were crammed in together (typically there was a gap of six feet between buildings) and made tall to accommodate as many people as possible. Clean running water and proper garbage disposal was an issue all the way up to the 1930s, despite laws passed to improve conditions (such as the Tenement House Act, which demanded there be one bathroom per twenty people, and every apartment having windows). Things were compounded as many immigrants lived in multi-generational homes. Claire's family of about ten people living in a small apartment (composed of two rooms; a bedroom and an open living space) wasn't unusual at the time.

Ethnic enclaves really took hold around this time, as a new wave of immigrants came to New York. Spanish Harlem wasn't technically labeled such until the 1930s (at this point, it was Italian Harlem), but I'm using the term here for convenience sake.