Matt gasps a breath in, and struggles to let it out, repeats the process a few more times before he realizes that Fisk is gone.
Like, completely gone, and so are his goons, or whatever they're called. Matt's not thinking too straight right now, but he does know this: Fisk hasn't left him alone since he'd gotten here.
Not that he knows where here is, other than that it's a room in a building in a neighborhood in a city...you get the point.
Matt groans. His breathing hitches. He can't give in to Fisk's demands. His face throbs, feeling completely swollen. There's still so much good in the world. All he can smell is the blood. The serrated dagger—
No. Matt can't think about it.
Foggy and Karen, he must warn them, must tell them everything he's found out during his abduction, must keep them safe, if not himself. They must be looking for him, they must be worried.
He hadn't showed up to the trial, hadn't been able to. After all, Fisk has impeccable timing.
I'll get out, he thinks. I'll make it up to you guys.
He's sitting in a chair. His hands are tied with something rope-like behind him. Surely that's not the most secure?
He attempts to wriggle his hands out through sheer force of will alone. The only thing he manages to do is chafe the skin of his wrists.
"Okay," Matt grits out. "Shit, this sucks."
Seriously. The only references he has for escaping imprisonment is movies, courtesy of Foggy's animated descriptions.
He misses Foggy. His voice would be really nice to hear right about now.
The chair has a sharp edge, which he only notices once he accidentally cuts his right hand against it, which is just the icing on the cake. He's not sure he wants to lose any more blood. Despite the sting, he continues to rub the rope against the chair, grimacing at the strain in his arms and shoulders.
And then finally, the rope frays enough to snap. He sighs, immediately bringing his hands to his lap and rubbing them together. He rubs his wrists, his arms. He winces, realizing he has nothing to staunch the blood of the cut. He decides to ignore it for now.
He stands.
Correction: he tries to stand.
His legs give out and he stumbles to the dirty, dusty floor, catching himself with his hands, which probably isn't too good for his cut but right now he doesn't particularly care. He's focusing on getting out. He needs to remember.
Bracing himself, one hand on the floor and the other on the chair, he brings himself to standing. When he's somewhat upright, he does not let go of the chair, holding on tightly, arms shaking. "Which direction's the door?" he mutters to himself, and no, he's not crazy. He just likes to talk to himself when there's nobody else around. The quiet is unsettling. (In another life, the quiet would be mostly unattainable, a luxury to someone cursed to hear all. But this story is not about that Matt, is it?)
Unsteadily, he lets go of the chair and walks in the direction he thinks Fisk had left in before, his hands held out in front of him, his ribs aching, his head woozy. His hands brush against a wall, and he feels around for, hopefully, a doorknob. He finds it. Twists it. It's unlocked. Matt raises an eyebrow, but decides not to question it.
He tugs the door open with some effort, grimacing as pain flares in his chest. He grimaces, pressing his hand against it. But now's not the time to dawdle.
He steps through, scarcely able to believe that he isn't being seen by Fisk, by someone. Why would they leave him alone? Why...?
Whatever the reason, Matt continues to walk, one step after another after another, gait unsteady, one bloody hand trailing against the wall. Foggy and Karen must be waiting for him, somewhere. He has to get out. There's so much good left in the world. He has to remember. Fisk must go down. And he will, he will.
He hears the sound of periodic droplets, something dripping to the ground. At first, he thinks it's a leaky faucet, and it takes him far too long to realize it's his own blood, staining the walls and the floor, leaving a trail. His own life, smeared on this place like evidence, like a curse. Red.
Maybe he's losing more blood than he'd thought.
"I'm coming," he mutters anyways. Foggy and Karen must be waiting for him. Fisk is trying to stamp out the good in the city. Matt's so close to the entrance that he can practically feel the fresh air, or at least he hopes it's that and not his mind lying to him.
The hand trailing on the wall catches onto a nail, and he winces at the sting. Just another injury, it'll all be better when he gets out, he's getting out, getting back up. He must.
And then there are footsteps, loud ones in front of him. He freezes in place, and feels absurdly like a child again, when he'd believed that if you just stayed still enough you'd be invisible to the world. His dad had humored him, but he supposes he doesn't have that luxury here, does he? His dad isn't here to protect him from the horrors of the world. Nobody is here to protect him except for himself.
He curls his hands into fists, blood pooling in them and dripping to the floor.
And he swings, but the only thing he meets is air.
Hands grab him from behind, locking around his waist, pinning his arms, dragging him backwards despite his scrambling feet. "No!" he screams, voice suddenly raw. "Please, please."
They don't say anything. It's not even Fisk who has caught him, but one of the people under his thumb. Matt's breath shudders through his lungs, and the last thing he knows before falling limp is that he can't seem to do anything right.
