Chapter 5 – Lead Me Not Into Temptation

Matt

Matt spent the week after Fisk's release working to set up the transactions that would transfer the properties Gao wanted from Fisk to her. It wasn't a straightforward process. Gao's involvement and the sources of the funds used to purchase the properties had to be concealed at every step. It took time for Matt to figure out how to do it. It wasn't the kind of thing Nelson & Murdock usually handled. He worked steadily, setting up a complex series of transactions and money transfers, using the REITs and corporations formed by Alexandra, the former leader of the Hand.

In the afternoons, the silent man would bring tea, and Gao would sometimes come with him. On these occasions, she sipped tea and asked how his work was progressing. He answered truthfully, unsure how much, if anything, he could conceal from her. One afternoon, when the teapot was empty, she rose from her chair and started to leave, commenting that she wanted to return to her painting.

"You still paint?" Matt asked, remembering their conversation when he was searching for the Blacksmith.

"Yes. I suppose you might call it a hobby of mine. I find it . . . relaxing. You should try it, after I have restored your eyesight."

"Maybe I will." He fell silent for a moment, thinking. There was a question that had been in the back of his mind, ever since Gao's offer. He took a deep breath and asked, "All those people, the blind workers in your heroin operation in that warehouse, you could have restored their sight?"

"Yes."

"But you didn't."

"I did not."

"Why not? Why me and not them?"

"They chose blindness. You did not."

"You expect me to believe they were acting of their own free will when they blinded themselves?"

"I do not expect you to believe or disbelieve anything," Gao said serenely. "But it is true. Their faith was strong. They wished to escape the distractions of your world. Offering to restore their eyesight would have been an insult."

She turned and limped out of the room, leaving Matt to ponder her words.

That evening, Matt stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. No one tried to stop him. Apparently Gao believed the promise of sight was enough to keep him from bolting. She wasn't wrong, not entirely: he intended to stick around until the job was done. But she was wrong about his reason.

He left his dark glasses and cane behind in the apartment. A blind man was noticeable, and he didn't want to be noticed. It wasn't hard for him to pass as sighted when he was simply walking down the sidewalk, especially at night. Most people didn't make eye contact. This was New York, after all.

He turned right, walking along Mott Street and taking in the sounds and smells of Chinatown. They were different from the sounds and smells of Hell's Kitchen, but the two neighborhoods had the same energy. They also had the same undercurrent of danger. He was nearing the corner of Hester Street when he heard a woman, a block away, calling for help. His muscles tensed reflexively, ready to run toward the sound. Then he stopped himself. Daredevil couldn't show up in Chinatown. Besides, the neighborhood had its own protector: Colleen Wing, who had assumed that role, along with the powers of the Iron Fist, when Danny Rand departed for Asia. He stayed where he was, listening. Within a minute, the woman's screams stopped, replaced by the swish of a sword: Colleen's katana. He smiled to himself and crossed the street, heading downtown toward Columbus Park.

When he reached the park, he found a bench and sat, trying to wrap his mind around Gao's offer. Matt didn't spend much time thinking about his blindness. It was a fact of life, something he'd learned to live with. And he definitely didn't think about getting his sight back. It was easy not to think about it when he believed – no, he knew – that it wasn't possible. Now? Not so much.

If sight really was a possibility, did he want it? He heard Stick's voice in his head, dripping with contempt, "What good is sight? You don't need it. You never did." Stick snorted derisively. "You want it? Take it. You always were soft, weak."

"You're dead, old man," he told Stick's ghost, "and I'm not a child anymore. I don't have to listen to you."

"Maybe you should."

Mercifully, the sneering voice fell silent after that riposte. Matt scrambled to his feet and found another park bench, hoping Stick wouldn't follow him there.

Stick was partly correct, of course: he didn't need sight. But that wasn't the question he was grappling with. The question was whether he wanted it.

For the first time in a long time, he wasn't sure. His senses told him most of what he needed – and wanted – to know. But there were still things he couldn't do, things he would never know – unless he took Gao's offer.

That offer came with a price. He didn't yet know what it was, but it would be high. Matt once told Karen that he would give "anything" to see the sky one more time. But would he? Now that the possibility was real, he had his doubts. With each passing year of blindness, his memories of seeing were fading. What people and things looked like no longer seemed important, or even relevant. Sure, he'd wondered from time to time what Foggy looked like. Karen, too. But he didn't have to see them to know who they were. They were his best friends, the people he cared for – no, loved – above all others. Seeing them wouldn't change that. Still, it was the only thing that might be worth the price Gao would exact, whatever that was.

Sight wasn't the only thing Gao was offering, he realized. If he could see, he could ditch his blind act. And he wouldn't have to deal with ableist bullshit. Every. Single. Day. Like the people who treated him as if he was made of glass (he wasn't). The people who underestimated and dismissed him because of his blindness (he used that to his clients' advantage in court). The people who thought he was broken (he wasn't) and needed to be healed (he didn't). The bartenders and waiters and baristas who asked Foggy or Karen, "What will he have?" when he was right there, in front of them. The people who came up to him on the street and grabbed his arm to "help" him (it was a minor miracle he didn't clock all of them). He wouldn't miss any of it.

If he could see, his life would be easier in some ways, no doubt about it. "Easier" didn't necessarily mean better. Who was he kidding, anyway? He was a Murdock, born and raised in Hell's Kitchen. His life was never going to be easy.

No closer to an answer, he got to his feet and made his way back to the tiny apartment above the restaurant.

Gao joined him for tea again the next day.

"More tea?" she asked, after he finished his tea and put his cup back on the tray.

"No, thank you." Matt didn't want tea, he wanted answers. He wasn't sure she would answer his questions, but even a refusal to answer would tell him something. "I don't doubt you have the power to restore my eyesight, but . . . how?"

"Why, the substance, of course." She sounded surprised he didn't know this.

"What you used to bring back Elektra?"

"Yes. It has many beneficial and useful properties. As you will learn."

"I thought it was buried under Midland Circle. Isn't that why you want the adjacent properties?"

She nodded. "Yes. But our people were able to bring out some of it, before the building fell. We have more than enough to restore your eyesight." She rose from her seat. "And now, if you have no other questions, I must go."

"Of course." Matt got to his feet and inclined his head in her direction as she walked out of the room. Then he sat down and leaned back with his hands clasped behind his head, considering what he'd just learned. Gao claimed to have a supply of the substance, more than she needed to restore his sight. What was she planning to do with the rest of it?

That evening, he returned to the park, finding a different bench. As he considered his options, an idea occurred to him: what if he forged an alliance with Gao? With his sight restored and the power of the Hand behind him, there was no limit to the good he could accomplish for Hell's Kitchen and, more importantly, for the people who lived there. It wouldn't be Fisk's dream of gentrification but a true "Better Tomorrow" that would transform the neighborhood and the lives of its people. It was worth a shot. What did he have to lose?

The answer, when it came, was in Father Lantom's voice in his head: "Only your immortal soul." Matt gasped and recoiled, as if he'd been punched in the gut. What was he thinking? If Gao was to be believed, the members of the Hand were thinking the same thing in the beginning, when they were expelled from K'un Lun. Look at what they became. With that kind of power, even the best intentions turn to evil. He wasn't going to fall into the same trap.

Foggy

"Yes, I understand. Thank you for letting us know, and good luck with the case." Foggy ended the call. He sighed wearily as he put his phone down.

"Another one?" Karen asked.

"Yeah. That's the third one this week. At this rate, we won't have any clients left by the end of the month."

Karen shot a glance at the front window. "At least the protesters are gone."

"Yeah, there's that."

"Do you think we – the firm – can recover from this?" she asked.

"Sure. Well, maybe. Honestly, I don't know." Foggy rubbed his temples. He felt a headache coming on. "People have short memories. They'll forget."

"You sure about that?"

Foggy shook his head. "Not really. We just have to wait and see. I mean, maybe Matt has a plan."

Karen cut him off with a mirthless laugh. "Oh. Right. 'Matt has a plan.' Why am I not reassured?"

"I get it. Really," Foggy told her. "But whatever happens, you're gonna land on your feet, kid. Ellison will hire you back in a heartbeat."

"Probably," she conceded. "But what about you?"

"Oh, Marci says the firm would be happy to have me back. But that's not what I really want to do, you know. So I'm staying put, for now. At least until I hear what Matt has to say for himself."

"Yeah, me too, I guess." Karen walked over to the window and looked out for a moment, before she turned around and said, "He's not gonna change, is he?"

Foggy gave her a sympathetic look. "No. Probably not," he said quietly. He thought he saw tears in Karen's eyes as she walked back to her desk. He was pretty sure what was going on with her. She never said anything, but she didn't have to. She'd thought their reunion meant a fresh start, not only for the firm but for her and Matt. It hadn't happened, and the way things were going, it looked like it wasn't going to. She pulled a tissue from the box on the corner of her table. His heart ached for her.

Matt

Finally, the afternoon came when Matt could report to Gao that everything was in place.

"Good," she said. "You will approach Mr. Fisk and persuade him to sell the properties. As planned."

"And then?"

"Mr. Fisk will no longer be a threat to us."

"You mean you're going to have him killed."

"Why would we do that?" she asked. "It would be a waste. He can still be . . . useful."

Matt didn't like the implications of that. Hoping he was hiding his thoughts from Gao, he said mildly, "I'm glad to hear it."

That evening, Matt returned to the park. He now had a pretty good idea of Gao's plans for Fisk and for himself – and what he had to do to stop her. He didn't want to do it. He wanted to leave Fisk to his fate. If anyone deserved what Gao had planned for him, it was Fisk. He sat there for more than an hour, turning things over in his mind, as the evening grew chilly and people drifted away, returning to their homes. Finally, he had to accept the hard truth. He couldn't stand by and let Gao carry out her plan, any more than he could kill Fisk himself. The stakes were too high. There was only one option: he had to save Wilson Fisk. "God help me," he whispered.