Soo...for one, scratch that thing I said about the chapters being shorter, because this one is huge. Secondly, it's a fight scene (apologies for violence and gore) which may seem a bit pointless at first but believe me, it's essential to the plot so stay sharp. Thirdly - thanks for the reviews and encouragement, people! I love you for it.

Chapter Four

There's something strange in the air tonight.

Matt can sense it now, hadn't been able to before with everything that had been on his mind, but now, when he's standing on a rooftop, senses open and face out to the city – his city – there's a distinct something. Something is off.

He'd gone home early today, throwing in the towel after spending hours trying to work, trying to talk to Foggy and act normal while hearing that constant sound in the background – Karen, keeping a secret and hiding fear. He couldn't do it. Even in his apartment, he couldn't bring himself to do anything productive. He ended up simply throwing himself onto the couch, thinking his way into a stupor as he tried to figure out exactly what it was …

Eventually Matt realized that his hands were clenched in his lap, tightly enough that his nails were digging into his palms. Suppressing a sigh, he'd forced himself to get up, and after wandering around for a good amount of time, he'd gone to the closet in his living room and unlocked it methodically, the same way he did most nights. The worn, splintered old wooden case sitting by itself in the middle of the small space was a comfort, a familiar piece of life that he could count on. (In retrospect, he did realize how messed up that probably – definitely – was.)

Not long after, Matt finds himself falling into his usual nightly routine – up on a rooftop several blocks away, he manages to let himself relax – finally, the memory of Karen's heartbeat can fade away and leave him alone for a while.

Of course, another worry is always eager to take up an old one's place.

The night is strangely abuzz – strangely, because the hum of energy is hushed, stifled and held back like nervous anticipation. It's hard to pin down, because of course the regular sounds of the night are still present, the background music of his life's soundtrack. But on top of that is that buzz. Just so present, hovering over everything and leaving its mark on nothing.

He has to get closer. From here, all he can sense is the buzz, like a cloud of bees – make that vultures – circling.

Matt leaves the rooftop, not just Matt anymore but now Daredevil, more than just him. It's a feeling he may never get used to, not completely, but he wouldn't want to anyway – the rush and uncertainty is what's familiar and comforting.

He slinks through the night, feeling more at home in the darkness than anywhere else, and he doesn't care. Maybe he is crazy – but if so, then that's what his city needs, and that's exactly what he's willing to be.

At least out here, he can help people who need it. Unlike back at home, with his friends who apparently trusted him just about as much as the criminals who he hunts now.

Stop, Matt tells himself, cutting off his thoughts tersely. Thinking about the situation with Karen won't help him one bit out here.

Besides, he thinks – the last word in his conversation with his unruly thoughts, which definitely proves that he's far from being completely sane – it's not as if you've never kept anything from her.

Sighing impatiently, Matt rolls his shoulders back and lets the train of thought go, reverting his mind back into a pool of calm, a mirror wide open and ready to catch the world's every move.

The night welcomes him, hiding nothing – the whole city surrounds him, pulsing and spinning with its natural beat that is never too much for him to keep up with. The entire world is open to him – or at least, the only part of the world that he cares about tonight. It's home.

It takes a while, but eventually Matt finds his way to the center of tonight's action, the origin of the buzz. The trail of information was a long and winding one – resulting in more than a few unconscious bodies being left in his wake – but in the end, he finds out what he needs. There's going to be a big drop tonight, supplying one of the most prominent dealers of the city.

A drop big enough that the dealer might just show up in person, rather than sending his dogs to do the work for him.

It's not at all guaranteed, but there's absolutely no harm in Matt showing up as well. After all, he's gone farther for less. And if the dealer does show up, then Matt will have the chance to take out one of the biggest problems that Hell's Kitchen had. If not, then he'd stop the exchange at the very least, and maybe even get a lead on the dealer for another night.

Either way, a few faces are definitely going to get rearranged.

His last and most useful resource had – however reluctantly – directed him towards the wharf. That's where it will take place, and soon too – he's losing time with every second that he wastes, and so he doesn't. Matt takes off with light feet, despite everything, because this is something that he can actually do to help. Something not out of his reach. Besides…whenever he does this, whenever he pulls on his mask (or rather, puts on his suit – it takes considerably longer now), that's when he's the most he can be. The most in touch with his senses – they completely take over, at times like this – and the most useful. The most productive. Not just in the way, as so many couldn't help but see a blind man as (not that he'd ever really considered himself to be one).

It feels right.

Matt arrives at the building in particular – an old and decrepit warehouse, as unsurprising as that is – with the night on his side. Slipping in from the roof, it doesn't take long for the sounds of voices and motion to reach his ears – down below, on the ground floor. There aren't any guards on the upper levels – why would there be? – so it's easy, almost disappointingly so, for him to make his way to a convenient walkway hanging over the wide warehouse space, where he can observe the activities below, invisible. From there, he can see it, and not just through his usual, blighted view. He holds in breath, and looks.

An array of thundering heartbeats and pulsing blood, the sound of clothes rustling loudly against itself, a storm of coarse breaths through nostrils and lips alike – the second that Matt stops and lets his senses go, an overwhelming onslaught of sensory feedback rushes back like the high tide, the way it always does and he's used to it. It takes a second to reel it in, to narrow his focus and block out the details, widening his 'sights' to see the big picture.

Half a dozen heartbeats. Only one party is here so far, and they're getting impatient; a few are pacing, a few sweating and taking more than one unnecessary sigh. Two vans; the drivers remain in their seats. The trunks of the cars are filled with boxes, and beneath the smell of rotting cardboard lurks the muffled scent of potent drugs, wrapped tight in layers of plastic. It's this, of course, that the men are hovering around, hefting oily firearms for. Nine guns; the scent of gunpowder and grease is fresh and thick, swirling about like a disease. Their boss isn't here, but the man in charge is standing by one of the vans, shifting on his feet and clenching a cell phone tightly in hand. Young, probably new at this; heart rate is faster than the others – waiting for a call, yet dreading it at the same time.

Overall, it means that Matt's early – but not by much. Even as he finishes assessing the information, resolved to wait – from a few streets away, the full-throated groan of a pair of SUVs grows louder, their tires ripping away at the pavement with no hesitation. Matt knows immediately that it's them – it only takes a few more seconds before one of the men below, this one stationed at the open hanger door, notices and shouts out. The man in charge jumps – ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum – snapping last-minute orders to his men.

"Hey – spread out; watch the perimeter of the area. Keep your guns ready – we aren't going to have any mess ups tonight. Stay on your toes in case this goes south."

Matt barely has time to frown, listening to the man speak, before the other cars pull into the building – just barely, but he has to because the man is just too young, too inexperienced and something is strange here – but then the humming cars are turning slowly into the space below, the ripping sound of tires on damp pavement dwindling to a halt.

Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump. A few seconds of loud silence, before – snick – a car door opens, swinging open on smooth hinges, and claps shut again, emitting more heartbeats and more warm bodies. One in particular walks with slow, confident steps up to the nervous man, himself relaxed and calm.

"We had a set time," says the first man – his voice is smooth, perhaps calm-sounding to everyone else, but Matt can hear how it wants to shake, how his heart is racing. "You're late."

The other man takes a slow breath, releasing it in an unbothered sigh. "We were delayed," he finally replies, sounding completely unconcerned with the other. His voice is something far, far different from the other – his emanates control, composure, and power, somehow. "We're here now."

The nervous man is clenching his jaw, taking a tight breath through his nose. "Well, do you have it all?" One-sided tension, because the other man is still ignoring the younger one's discomfort…Matt pulls his attention away, shaking the conversation and the nervous man out of his head. Enough waiting.

Whatever is going on here – drug dealing and who knows what else – it's going to stop.

A middle-aged man – lives alone, chain-smoker, too much musky cologne, well broken-in to the business – carelessly walking the edge of the building is the first to go down, barely having time to breathe before he's pulled sharply into the shadows and knocked out cold with a quick blow. One. He leaves him lying in the dark, prowling onwards towards the next man. So effortless – it should be harder. Sometimes he wishes it were – not tonight, though.

There's a scuff of shoe on concrete, a surprised intake of breath – but, all that air is forced right back out with a fist to the stomach, and as the man is doubled over, groaning, Matt strikes him over the head and drags him deeper into the shadows. Two. Still, the chorus of heartbeats emanating from the center of the building is steady, so no one has noticed yet. Good. The more he can take out quietly, the better.

Three, four. He's running out of men on border patrol. Doesn't matter – the clock is ticking. Soon enough he'll have to stop hiding, get out there and end this.

There's no time for him to worry about it before he's advancing on the next man, and this time things don't go quietly - and just like that, the whole world is screaming, echoing with shouts, shots, pointless noise mixed in with what he needs to hear.

The first gunshot is from the man Matt had been aiming for - it misses, the man steps back to try and gain some time, but Matt's already on him and slamming him into the ground, not having to bother about muffling the sound since there's nothing but voices now. What the hell - you son of a bitch – Shoot him! More shots - he rolls, trying to focus on the movement around him even though everything is still echoing, still being registered by his overwhelmed senses.

Left. He dodges a full-body attack, knocking the other man to the concrete instead with a swipe of his leg as he spins and lands back on his feet. Footsteps – panicked breathing, the click of a car door opening. One, or more, of the men that he specifically came here to talk to, trying to get away. Not gonna happen.

Shaking off the onslaught of footmen trying to swarm him, Matt steadies himself and pulls out one of his batons, pausing only a second to aim – the car door slams shut, frantic heartbeat trembling behind the glass – before letting his wrist flick forward. Smash – the sharp sound of glass breaking, a grunt and the flat sound of a blunt object striking flesh tell him that his target has been hit. The heartbeat is still there, weakened and slowing but present – he listens for the sound of his weapon clinking back to the ground, but first there's a yell from behind, pounding footsteps – only time to gasp in a breath, teeth bared, before he whips around to face the next attack.

It's a flurry of blows and movement, ducking and spinning as he outmaneuvers the four men trying to take him down all at once. Swing, miss – a few hits glance off his shoulder, his side, but he ignores it, whirling faster. It's not hard at all, too easy – these men aren't even very good fighters, and his suit makes it all the more easy to brush off a punch or two. Even while throwing out his leg, tripping one man and flipping himself back into the air by tearing down another, Matt reaches out with his senses, trying to focus on the rest of the building and determine what was happening.

Badumpbadumpbadumpbadump – still a good amount of heartbeats, but he doesn't bother to count; sweaty hands gripping guns, pointing but not shooting – worried about hitting one of their own? they want to do it – but there's one heartbeat, calmer than the rest, slower and somehow still in control; he's watching, calculating, waiting – suddenly –

Numbing pain – there's a split-second of nothingness, then Matt's head burns like it was split open, and he realizes that his face is pressed to the concrete, hands bent underneath his weight. Oh. The blows start to come – heavy and hard, raining down, with the overwhelming scent of sweat and sharp cologne threatening to gag him, but he's moving before they can press him any further down, flipping his body around and sweeping their legs out from under them; he claws his way back up, onto his feet, suddenly gasping for breath and struggling to raise leaden limbs. Too close – that's what you get for not paying attention.

Speaking of – the click of a trigger about to be pulled, the sharp intake of breath before the shot is fired – Matt just barely throws himself out of the way, slamming into the concrete as the shot rings out rather than rolling gracefully like he might have normally done. He makes the most of it, turning it into a side roll and swinging himself back on his feet, turning towards the shooter.

From his right, a sharp squeal of tires protesting, unnecessary acceleration – a car, barreling towards him – he's moving, barely thinking as he leaps, tucking in on himself, one arm reaching back to grasp a baton and hurl it back towards the huffing breath in the driver's seat; glass shatters, shards of it sprinkling his back as he hits the ground. Again. This time, there's no roll – instead he picks himself up off the ground on shaky arms, huffing heavily as he tries to catch his breath, and behind him, there are shouts of fear and frantic movement before the car crashes into a stationary one – the impact emanates with finality, the heat of sparks flying out into the air, but the people inside are still alive, just unconscious, and now definitely trapped within the twisted shells, surrounded by shrill alarms and the smell of burning.

Matt lets it all go, sealing out the rush of noise and motion behind him, and focuses his energy on the men still standing before him. The steady rhythm of the calm man's heart; the nervous one, fluttering and wringing his sweaty hands; a few more, over six in total, some aiming guns, all of them panting for breath like they'd just ran a mile. Except the calm man. He's standing his hands at his sides, head tilted back as he watches Matt. Even as Matt shifts his stance, facing them and straightening, the nervous man takes a gasp of breath and stumbles back, shaking his head as he turns and runs. His footsteps pound away, adding to the noise swirling around – a few of the remaining men look around, not sure if they should follow or not, but they stay, and so does Matt.

The calm man takes a slow, deep breath, his heartbeat slowing even more. No fancy suit; he's wearing simple clothes, thick and durable and practically armor in of itself; his breath is clean, no alcohol or drugs, and there's a few knives tucked away on him, but no gun – Matt listens hard, reaching out with all he has to try and understand, but there's something strange that he can't catch. His head tilts practically on its own accord, breath stuttering, but suddenly there's a change – the other man is opening his mouth, taking in a quick breath before he speaks.

"I thought I might be seeing you here tonight." Completely calm, nearly unconcerned, his words slow and unbothered.

Matt can't help but frown, lifting his head and opening his mouth to speak – though what he'd say, he had no idea, because this man made him feel like he was somehow out of his depth, or at least unaware of exactly how deep the water was getting. It doesn't matter, anyway, because it turns out he doesn't need to say anything.

In the seconds that follow, there's a distant crash – Matt is slow to react, belatedly extending his awareness just in time to jump along with all the rest of them as another boom sounds, announcing the fact that they've got company. Cars, voices, quick footfalls, radio static – the building suddenly seems much bigger as warning shouts echo through it, surrounding them.

"Freeze – get your hands in the air! This is the police! The first one to move gets a bullet in the head!"

Police officers are darting in from two points, crouched low with their guns out – Matt instinctively ducks to the ground, senses racing as they re-case the building, searching frantically for a way out. Walkway overhead, two doorways behind, one goes up to the roof and one leads to the alley. It takes a second to organize his thoughts, but still – every second could be one closer to him getting caught.

In that second, he really only registers three things. One – the police won't shoot him if he moves. They're beginning to get used to the fact that he's helping, bringing in more criminals than they do, so even if they do want to take him in, they wouldn't kill him to do it. Anyway, there are only a few cops here – two, three, five heartbeats – so they'll want all the help they can get to subdue the armed criminals. Two – the dealers here have had it. Most of them are already injured, now surrounded, so Matt's mission of coming here and stopping the drop is accomplished. For the most part, anyway. Because, three – a couple of men have already snuck to the back of the building somehow, slinking into the shadows before the police saw. They're getting away, and Matt's probably the only one who'll be able to do anything about it.

Well, he might as well make himself useful, then.

Matt spins away from the group still standing in shock, torn between putting up a fight and simply surrendering; a shot rings out, the bullet passing by with a warm breeze and barely an inch to spare. Well, maybe they will shoot, then. Still, he's already moving back into the dark, too fast to catch, and before one of them can tag him he's slamming through the doorway out of the warehouse, pounding after the runaways.

It's not hard to catch up with them. The two men have only made it out into the alley, gasping for breath and trying to calm their racing hearts when Matt steps out into the cold night, his breath steaming into the air before him – the cool air makes his suit seem even more constricting than usual, trapping the heat of his body and stiffening his limbs.

The men stumble away, one lifting a handgun and the other raising his hands in a peace gesture. "Come on, man, j-just let us go. You've got what you wanted in there, whatever you're trying to do – we just wanna go home." His words are slurring in fear, heart stuttering – not enough, though. Matt doesn't stop, just takes slow, stiff steps forward.

"If you really wanted that," growls Matt, panting for breath, speaking slowly to let his words sink in. "Then maybe you should have stayed there."

The cornered man's breathing hitches, and Matt knows before it happens that he is lunging forward, letting loose a spurt of rage like a wild animal. An unchecked fist swings towards Matt's face, but he just reaches out and grabs it in his own gloved hand - it only takes a simple twist and the splintering sound of bones breaking to send the man sprawling, crying out in agony. Matt barely has the time to turn, twisting his body to avoid the bullet let loose from the other man's gun - and even then, his heavy limbs can't move fast enough, and the bullet finds him, leaving a burning trail across his right bicep. It takes all his strength not to make a sound - instead he clenches his teeth, curling in on his shoulder and allowing his weight to drag him into a roll, aimed for the man still pointing a gun at him – gasping, uncertain breath, thundering heart; the gun slips in his sweat-soaked palms, finger half-way on, half-way off the trigger as his heel scuffs the ground, body wanting desperately to flee –

Matt rolls into a crouch less than a yard away from the man, already moving to the sound of his shoes scraping furiously against the pavement, scrambling to get away; it's only a second before Matt's on him again, swiping his legs out from under him with a swing of his uninjured arm. The pain of the bullet wound is beginning to weigh on his senses, filling every sound and smell with that hot, inescapable burning, but Matt still ignores it – he lets go of the pain through movement, using his still-capable left arm to pound on what he knows is the fallen man's face – again and again, he strikes, feeling skin break and smelling fresh blood well up and finally, the man goes limp –

It's not until he notices the man's breathing even out, ragged and weak but still there – unconscious – that he realizes that he'd been shouting, allowing each punch to tear loose an angry, guttural sound from somewhere inside him and into the night. Matt drops back his head, panting heavily, and stands – his muscles audibly stretch in protest, while his right arm simply burns, the fire spreading all the way down to his fingers and across his shoulder.

It takes a minute for his senses to calm – when they do, he searches the alley that he's in, taking in the slow breaths and steady set of heartbeats, blood beginning to thicken and crust over the two men's wounds. They're both unconscious – not anywhere near death, but certainly not going anywhere, anytime soon. Only then, when he's sure, can Matt let out a breath that's surely been trapped in his lungs this entire time, locked away inside his body, beneath his skin and within this suit. It's over.

The cold air of the night seems to eat at his energy, making him want to collapse and just sleep and forget about how his arm burns. It's always that way, after the fight is over and there's nothing left to hit. Matt's exhausted, struggling to stay sharp, and he needs to get out of there before cops are swarming over the entire block.

But. He's about to leave, telling his legs to move and carry him back to the rooftops, where he can make a swift getaway – but. He can't move, his legs don't listen. Fatigue is the natural response, but Matt's senses are awake enough to notice that there's something, still. Something telling him to stay.

Matt drags his feet forward, not towards the way out but back into the warehouse, slowly shuffling back down the hallway with his head tilted in confusion – there's something wrong, something obvious but he can't place it. Matt tries to stifle his heavy breathing, confusion settling in because he knows that he's missing it and he'll kick himself for being so slow –

It's really just the exhaustion – that's the only thing it could be – that lets him walk all the way back up that hallway, back into the doorway leading into the warehouse, before he stops, movement stolen from him as the realization hits. It stuns him, making his heart skip a beat, as ironic as that is.

The building is silent. Yes, the shrill scream of car alarms is still there, as well as the creaking, groaning noise that any building is full of – but no heartbeats. Matt forces his senses to flatten, not daring to breathe or move as he listens, grasping at anything and everything – but there's nothing.

What? It doesn't make sense, and Matt can't understand how to make it – did they all leave, already? Even if some of the dealers ran and the police made chase, the injured men and a few cops would have stayed – how is it so quiet?

He takes a stumbling half-step forward, finally allowing himself to gasp in a quick breath – and that's when it hits him.

Blood. The thick, cloying, sticky-copper-sweet smell of it floods the room, so intense and overwhelming that he can't believe he didn't smell it before – it's everywhere, seeping into the walls, into his skin, snaking into his lungs and threatening to strangle him. He chokes on it, forces the air out of his chest and tries not to breathe but that only makes it harder, and he can't help but suck in a full breath, tasting the heavy metallic thickness as it coats his tongue and throat on the way down.

So, so much – he reels back, trying to step away but there's a strange pull to his foot, some force keeping it stuck to the floor – it's then that Matt notices the stickiness, the spongy feel that the concrete ground suddenly has, and as he yanks his foot up into the air with a soft sucking sound, he knows what it is. He only has to listen, breath, feel, to know what is coating the floor, pooled like syrup across the entire place, muffling sound and releasing that terrible smell and dripping off the bottom of his shoe with thick, heavy, viscous drops.

It's everywhere.

His senses are fully alert now, because it's shouldn't have been over, and now they're painting a picture for him that he really, really doesn't want to see. He can smell the flesh, the dried sweat mixed with the even thicker, even more potent scent of organs and already-decaying meat, ripped open for the world to witness; the muffled state of the blood-coated floor makes it easier to find the sharper feel of clothing, stiff polyester along with the sleek metal and scent of gunpowder smeared along well-oiled holsters. Four, six, nine on the ground; a few are slumped inside the cars, the blood slowly being absorbed by the soft upholstery.

All of the dealers who'd remained inside the warehouse, where he'd left them to get arrested – he can still smell the cigarettes on one, the sharp cologne of another, underneath the weight of all their blood. All the police officers as well, their energy and vigilance finally cut out from beneath them – the blood is beginning to thicken and dry, stiffening over their well-kept uniforms, layered like a fresh scab over their formerly clean scent. Two of them are women; he can detect their perfume, one flowery and one closer to musk, hidden beneath the blood.

He doesn't need to see to know. Matt knows – every person who was alive just minutes ago, every beating heart has been silenced, and now all that remains is a warehouse full of congealing corpses, their throats ripped out so that the blood could flow free and fill up the building with a lake of misery and death.

So...hopefully that wasn't too horrible, in any aspect. This was the first full-on fight scene I've ever written, so I hope it's okay and wasn't too boring - I know that these types of scenes can be sometimes, when not written right. Please let me know what you think!