As Heather and the cop she'd been cuffed to – Officer Sullivan, he'd introduced himself – drew near to the warehouse exit, her steps faltered. They shouldn't have. She should want to be out of this mess; she did want to be out of it. But every step she took now took her further from the masked man, and rational or not, Heather couldn't help but feel like every step away from him was a step closer to danger.

"We're almost there, Heather," Officer Sullivan said. "You're going to be fine." He was trying to be helpful and reassuring. There was no way he could know how wrong he was.

They stepped through the door together, Officer Sullivan calling out to let the crowd of police outside know who they were. There were more than just police waiting for them though; Heather spotted news vans, cameras, and ambulances. She saw a figure on a gurney, covered with a sheet and being loaded in the back of an ambulance, and her knees went weak. She remembered the gunshots, remembered the masked man's frantic "What did you just do?" And she knew.

Wilson had more people killed.

She couldn't begin to understand why. Heather hadn't been able to hear Wilson's half of the conversation, only the masked man's. But Heather couldn't see how Wilson could even begin to have an explanation that would be satisfactory for all of this.

Heather wanted everything to just stop. She needed time to breathe, to cry, the clear her head so she could just think. The world didn't listen to her silent pleas. People rushed to them, barking questions, uncuffing her from Officer Sullivan, guiding her along away from the building. Heather didn't absorb anything that was said. It was all she could do to hold onto the tattered shreds of her self-control and not break down.

She was deposited by one of the ambulances where EMTs were quick to tend to her, bandaging the cuts on her arms, checking her over, asking questions that she somehow managed to stammer out answers to. One of them draped a blanket around her shoulders, and Heather clutched the edges, pulling it tight around her like it was some kind of shield, like it could keep the world out.

"Heather!"

Her head snapped up at the sound of a familiar voice calling out her name. She spotted James, pushing his way through the crowd towards her. Her fingers clutched the blanket tighter and she hunched in on herself. James was Wilson's personal assistant, his right hand. James was the one that Vladimir had called to pass along the news of her kidnapping. He was part of this insanity.

James's face was creased with worry as he stopped in front of her, but he addressed the nearby EMT. "Is she alright?"

Alright? Was she alright? How could he even ask something like that? She'd been kidnapped, almost murdered, abruptly confronted with the worst of Wilson's crimes. How was she ever supposed to be alright again?

"Are you family?" the EMT asked.

"A friend," James replied. "I'll be taking her home."

"No!"

The word escaped Heather with enough force to startle all three of them. She hadn't planned to say it, but now that she had, she wasn't going to back down from it. While there were plenty of things she hadn't known about her brother, Heather did know him well enough to be sure that James had no plans of actually taking her home after the events that had happened this night. No, Wilson would have told James to take her to him, and Heather couldn't face him. Not yet, not after all this. She was too brittle. She didn't know what she might do if she actually came face to face with Wilson right now.

"No," Heather repeated, volume lower, but her voice no less insistent. "I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Heather, please," James started, but the EMT moved, inserting himself between James and Heather.

"Sir, I think you need to leave," the EMT said. James stiffened at the interruption, shoulders squaring back. The EMT was several inches shorter and a bit leaner than James, but he showed no signs of being intimidated, and his voice left no room for argument. "If you don't, I'll be forced to have the cops remove you."

James held his stare for several long seconds, before finally breaking away to let his glaze flick over Heather. In the light spilling out from the back of the ambulance, his expression seemed calculating. "Very well." He turned and walked away, and Heather quickly lost sight of him in the crowds.

"Thank you," she said softly.

The EMT turned towards her and shrugged. "As long as you're in my ambulance, you're my responsibility." The interaction had cleared her head enough that Heather finally noticed his name tag – Alfred Williams.

"I still appreciate it, Mr. Williams," Heather said.

He just shrugged, his dark brown eyes assessing her. "You seem more responsive now. Not sure you heard anything I said earlier, so I'll repeat it. You're not hurt too bad, considering. Mostly scrapes and some nasty bruises. Still, I recommend that you aren't alone for the next twenty-four hours or so, just to be on the safe side. Got anyone you can call?"

Normally, Heather would call Wilson after something awful like this, but he clearly wasn't an option. Her mind shifted to her friends. Dominique and Peter had two small children, and doubtless seeing Heather like this would only serve to frighten the kids, so Heather dismissed that idea. Becky stayed with her fiancé just as often as Ethan stayed with her, so there was no way of knowing if he was around tonight or not, and Heather didn't know him well enough to be comfortable with him seeing her like this.

It'll have to be Maria then.

"Yeah," Heather said. "But, um, I don't have a phone on me." Probably still in her purse on her couch, unless the people kidnapping her had decided to take it. It seemed unlikely.

Williams pulled a phone out of his pocket and held it out to her. Heather took it with another word of thanks and typed Maria's number in, glad for the caution that had led to her memorizing all her most important phone numbers years ago. She just hoped that Maria would be willing to answer an unfamiliar number calling her in the middle of the night.

"Hello?" Maria's voice had the scratchy tone of someone woken from a deep sleep, and it was the most beautiful sound that Heather had ever heard. Tears sprang to her eyes again, and Heather had to swallow before she could speak.

"Maria, it's Heather," she said. "I'm sorry for calling like this."

"What's wrong?" Maria asked, sounding far more awake than she had seconds ago. "What do you need?"

"If you can, I need you to come get me," Heather said. She could hear muffled sounds in the background, probably Maria getting dressed.

"Of course. Where are you?"

Heather realized that besides the general category of warehouse district, she didn't know. She looked to Williams. "Um, what address can I give her?"

Williams told her, and Heather repeated it for Maria. "I'll be by one of the ambulances."

Maria drew in a sharp breath. "Heather, what's going on?"

Heather bit her lip. "Not over the phone. Please. I'll explain later."

"…Okay. I'm on my way."

Heather returned the phone to Williams. "Thank you for letting me use it."

"No problem," he said, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

A man approached them, tall and imposing, the badge on his belt identifying him as police. Heather tensed as he came near. Was this man working for Wilson too?

"Ms. Fisk," he said, "I'm Detective Blake. Are you doing alright?"

"I'll be fine," Heather said stiffly. What else could she say?

"That's good," he said. He fished a business card out of his pocket and held it out to her. Heather took it automatically. "I'm sure you don't feel up to it now, but I will need to get a statement about tonight's events from you. Let me know in the next day or two when you're ready."

Heather nodded, feeling stiff and robotic. How was she supposed to make a statement about what had happened? What could she tell them? If she told them everything, what would happen to Wilson?

"I want Fisk on trial for everything he's done."

She needed time to think.

"If you need a ride, I can have a car take you to your brother," Detective Blake offered.

Heather stared at him, feeling lightheaded. Oh. That answered her question of whether Blake worked for Wilson then. And the question of what would happen to Wilson if she told Detective Blake everything.

"No, thank you. A friend is on the way to pick me up." Heather purposely didn't mention Maria's name, or where they were going. Let Detective Blake assume the friend was someone who worked for Wilson, someone that would take her to him. That was fine by Heather.

Black clad figures spilled from the warehouse door, catching Heather's attention. It was SWAT people. She hadn't noticed them entering the building in the first place. They must have gone inside in the moments immediately following her and Officer Sullivan getting out.

A tremor went through her.

"They're…they're going to try and kill you again, aren't they?"

"Yeah."

Detective Blake had started to turn back towards the other police, so Heather spoke up quickly. "Detective, did they – did they find them?"

He turned back to her as she spoke, but he didn't answer right away. "We got Vladimir, but the masked man got away. You don't need to worry about him though. We'll get the bastard, I promise."

Heather did her best not to let the relief show on her face. "Thank you, Detective."

He nodded. "If you need anything at all, Ms. Fisk, just let me know."

Thank goodness, he got away.

She was well aware of the debt she owed him. The masked man had gone out of his way more than once now to keep her safe, even though there was no particular reason why he should. Even though there were reasons as to why he maybe shouldn't.

"Innocent? You think anyone connected to Fisk is innocent? Even if she didn't participate in his activities, she never tried to stop him, did she?"

Vladimir would never know it, but those words wounded her deeper than anything else that had happened to her this night. Each one was barbed, and they hooked themselves into Heather's heart and mind and refused to be budged.

"You think anyone connected to Fisk is innocent?"

"…she never tried to stop him, did she?"

Heather closed her eyes, tried to push the thoughts away. If she kept thinking about it, she'd brake down right her sitting on the back of the ambulance, and this wasn't the time. It was coming, but not yet.

It was hard to keep track of how much time was passing when Heather was focusing on keeping her mind blank. But enough time passed that all the media people started drifting away, and as they were going a cab pulled up. It had barely stopped moving before the back door was flung open and Maria jumped out. She spotted Heather right away and rushed to her.

Heather let the blanket drop with a short cry, slipping off her spot on the back of the ambulance and flinging her arms around Maria as soon as the other woman was close enough. Maria hugged her back, and it hurt, but Heather didn't care.

"What happened? Are you going to be okay?"

A few rebellious tears slipped free at Maria's questions, and Heather pulled away enough to swipe under her eyes. "I'll be okay. It looks worse than it is." Probably not true. Heather had no idea what she looked like right now, but everything ached and throbbed. It didn't matter. She wanted to reassure Maria anyway.

Maria looked unconvinced, but didn't stand there to argue about it. She kept an arm looped around Heather and guided her to the taxi instead. "Come on. Are we staying at your place or mine?"

It was such a relief that Maria didn't make her ask for the company. "Yours, please."

They got in the cab, and Heather leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes as Maria gave instructions to the cabbie. The ride back to Maria's apartment was quiet. Heather knew questions were coming, but thankfully Maria was waiting to ask them.

The ride passed in a blur, and before Heather knew it, they were at Maria's building. Maria got her inside, up the elevator to the third floor, and then inside her apartment. Heather paused near the door, letting her gaze drift over the open space of Maria's apartment, a space as familiar to Heather as her own home.

"Heather," Maria said, catching her attention. Heather blinked as she focused on her friend, noticing for the first time how Maria's hair was a ruffled mess, how she wasn't wearing any makeup, that she'd actually left her apartment in a sweatshirt, all of it evidence that she'd rushed to help Heather as fast as she could.

A sob escaped. Maria wrapped her arms around Heather again, guided her to her small couch. Heather leaned into her when they sat, burying her face in Maria's shoulder as Maria held her and murmured words of comfort. She trembled as she cried, finally releasing all the pent-up tension and fears the night had brought. Eventually, Heather's sobs faded to whimpering hiccups, and then to silence. There was a large damp spot on Maria's sweatshirt by the time Heather was done, but for once Heather was too overwhelmed to feel embarrassed.

"Okay," Maria said. "I think it's time for you to sleep. I won't worry about answers until you wake up. Sound good?"

Heather pushed up off of Maria and ran a hand over her face. "Yeah. Thanks."

Maria loaned her a pair of pajamas, though Heather could have just as easily fallen asleep in her own clothes. She was out almost as soon as her head touched the pillow.

"What do you mean, she refused to come with you?"

Wesley considered his words carefully before answering Wilson's question. Heather had always been a delicate subject for him, but never so much as in this moment. "She was upset, and said she did not wish to go with me. The EMT asked me to leave. There was no way to press the matter without creating a scene. That would have only upset her more, so I thought it best to let Ms. Fisk have her way for now. One of her friends eventually came for her; Maria Ortega, I believe."

Wilson paced the floor of his living room, one hand fingering the cuff links on his shirt. "How badly was she injured?"

"Not as badly as she could have been, considering what she went through," Wesley said. There was no point in trying to soften this part. Undoubtedly, Wilson would see her for himself soon enough. Bruises had already been darkening on her face when Wesley had seen her, and he'd noted the bandages on her wrists. There were probably plenty more bruises that he hadn't been able to see since she'd been huddling under that blanket, but they couldn't be too bad since she hadn't been made to go to the hospital. "She was bruised, but she should recover just fine."

The scowl on Wilson's face deepened. "Vladimir should have suffered more for involving her."

Wesley agreed, but didn't bother voicing the sentiment.

Wilson's pacing came to a halt near a window, looking out over the city. "He's going to try and turn Heather against me, isn't he?"

There was no need to ask who Wilson was referring to.

"That seems a reasonable assumption, sir," Wesley said.

The masked man had claimed he had no intentions of hurting Heather, and so far, that seemed to hold true. But threatening her was not the only way to get at Wilson. Turning Heather against him would be a heavy blow all of its own.

Wesley would like to think it wasn't possible, that Heather wouldn't turn on her own brother. But Heather was such a soft, gentle soul, and far too delicate to truly accept the harsh realities of Wilson's work. Tonight would have been an unimaginably terrifying experience for her, and the masked man had been in the perfect position to set himself up as her savior. Wesley was all too aware of the kind of loyalty that situation could inspire. No doubt the masked man intended to use it to his fullest advantage.

What's the worst-case scenario, if she decides to betray us?

She couldn't reveal anything about Wilson's criminal activities. Heather's lack of knowledge there was entirely deliberate. But that didn't mean she knew nothing of importance. Heather knew the location of several of Wilson's buildings, which would give the masked man access to people who did have information, and of course she knew where Wilson lived, and if she told the masked man that, he could become a far more direct threat.

This is not an acceptable risk.

Part of Wesley's job was mitigating risk. This time at least, it wasn't difficult to conceive of a solution.

"Sir," Wesley said, "given the current circumstances, I believe it may be in the best interests of all involved to move Ms. Fisk out of Hell's Kitchen. She can be kept more than comfortable, and out of reach of anyone that might try to use her against you."

Wilson turned from the window to look at him. "Heather will never agree to go. I can't even convince her to move a couple blocks."

Wesley nodded. "Yes, sir. But I believe the situation may be desperate enough to warrant not giving her a choice."

Wilson shook his head, his hand moving again to worry his cuff link. "I don't like it. Heather is already upset with me."

"Given time and distance from this place, I am sure your sister will come to forgive you," Wesley said. He was confident that he was right about that; after all, the same softness that wouldn't let her accept Wilson's work would surely prevent her from holding a grudge for too long. "And it is for her own safety as well. The masked man might not hurt her, but there are those who would hurt her to get to you."

A moment of silence stretched out as Wesley waited for Wilson to come to a decision. Finally, Wilson nodded. "You are right, Wesley. We will move Heather from Hell's Kitchen."

Heather groaned when she woke up. She'd thought she hurt last night, but clearly that had only been the precursor to the true pain waiting for her today. Everything ached and throbbed, and if someone had told Heather a truck had hit her at some point and she just didn't remember it, she'd probably have believed them.

She opened her eyes and glanced around. The door to Maria's room was closed, and Maria no where to be seen. But when Heather listened, she could hear muffled voices beyond the door, and the recognized the sounds of her friends talking. Maria must have contacted Dominique and Becky at some point. Probably for the best. It saved Heather from having to call them for herself.

Heather sat up slowly, wincing at the aches and pains. This might be worse than that time she'd broken her arm in college. She glanced at the clock on Maria's nightstand and wasn't surprised to see that it was past noon already. Heather tossed the covers off and stood.

I'm at least going to shower before I go out there and face the inquisition.

She didn't have any clean clothes with her, but she knew Maria wouldn't mind loaning her some. Heather went to the dresser and found a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt before heading into Maria's bathroom.

Heather caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and froze. She knew she felt bad, and some part of her had realized she probably looked awful as well. But she hadn't mentally prepared herself for the image she made. Heather tilted her head, studying her face from different angles. There was dark bruising on the left side of her forehead and temple, and thin scratches she didn't remember getting, no doubt from when she'd fallen over in the chair. There was another bruise on her right cheekbone, from where Vladimir had hit her.

She let out a slow breath. "No amount of makeup is going to hide this." Heather set the bundle of clothes on the counter. "Might as well check out the rest of the damage."

Heather shrugged out of the pajamas Maria had loaned her. Dark bruises mottled her left arm and thigh, and there was a particularly tender spot on her rib cage where she thought her elbow might have jammed it when the chair fell over. More scrapes and bruises littered her shins. The right side of her body had the least damage overall, though it didn't feel like saying much.

"Not too bad, considering," Heather whispered, repeating the words of the EMT as she lightly trailed her fingertips over the bruises and scrapes. A true enough assessment, she supposed, if one was only looking at the physical damage.

Heather turned the shower on, letting the water get as hot as it would before she stepped in. Her skin reddened under the stream, and Heather carefully worked shampoo into her hair.

What am I supposed to do now?

Wilson was a criminal. She couldn't deny it after what had happened, or pretend to herself that she hadn't been suspicious about his business for years. There had been a number of things that had suggested something wasn't quite right about his business, things that she'd desperately refused to acknowledge.

But even if she had acknowledged her suspicions, never in a million years would Heather have guessed that Wilson was capable of the things she'd seen. He'd actually killed people; or at least, had people killed. Either way, he was responsible for their deaths. She could hardly wrap her mind around it.

The Wilson that Heather knew was kind and generous. He was a protective and indulgent brother, and more of a constant in her life than her mother had been, and certainly a more constant figure than either of her stepfathers. He'd been a support for her when no one else had. She couldn't reconcile that image with everything that had just happened.

He was her brother, and even after the revelations of the night before, she still loved him.

I don't know what to do.

Was there even anything that she could do? Even if she knew the truth about Wilson, it wasn't like Heather could actually prove it. She only had her word, and maybe the word of the masked man, but Heather wasn't naïve enough to think the police would listen to a vigilante. Even if the cops would listen, apparently a bunch of them were on Wilson's payroll or something. Trying to turn Wilson in was probably useless.

Heather turned the water off, a numb weight in her chest. I guess I don't need to stress over what I should do. I can't do anything at all.

Except maybe avoid Wilson for the rest of her life. That was the most appealing idea she'd had since she'd woken up.

Heather dried off and dressed, and now that she was clean, she felt as ready as she ever would to face her friends. She went into the living room, and as expected, she immediately spotted Maria and Becky on the couch, and Dominique in the armchair. They had been talking, but quiet fell over them when they saw Heather.

"Oh," Becky said. Then she was up off the couch and darting around the coffee table to wrap Heather in a gentle hug. "Are you okay? No, sorry, dumb question. Obviously, you're not okay. How bad is it?"

"Not as bad as it looks," Heather said. That was a lie; she pretty much did feel as bad as she looked. But her friends were going to worry enough, Heather didn't want to add to it. Becky ushered her to the couch.

"Are you hungry?" Dominique asked, leaning forward in her seat. "We've got food. Coffee too, if you'd like some."

She probably should be hungry – she hadn't eaten for a while now – but Heather didn't have an appetite at all. Coffee sounded wonderful though. "Coffee, please."

Dominique was out of her seat and in Maria's kitchen immediately.

"Sorry to hit you with a crowd so soon," Maria said. "But they saw the news this morning, so there was no avoiding it."

"News?" Heather asked blankly.

"Buildings blew up last night," Becky said. "Of course, it was on the news!"

Of course. Of course, Heather should have thought about that. There'd been crowds of media when she'd come out of the warehouse.

Oh, no. No, no, no.

There'd been crowds of media when she had come out the warehouse, cameras in hand, and Heather hadn't paid the least bit of attention to them or what they might be reporting on.

"What are they saying about last night?" Heather asked.

Dominique came back in view, coffee cup in hand, and held it out for Heather. She took it automatically, her hands curling around the warm mug, but she didn't drink.

Maria gingerly rested a hand on Heather's shoulder. "They're saying that the Devil of Hell's Kitchen – that's what they're calling the masked man – blew up those buildings in an act of domestic terrorism. That he took you and a couple other people hostage, and that he murdered three cops."

Heather's mouth worked as she struggled to come up with a response. Finally, she choked out, "No. No, that's not – that's not what happened at all!"

How could they have everything so twisted? They were accusing him of Wilson's crimes –

Oh. Wilson.

He was covering his tracks by pinning everything on the masked man. It was so unfair. The masked man was risking his life to help, had risked his life to help Heather, and this was how he was repaid, by being branded a terrorist and a murderer.

This is wrong.

"Then what did happen?" Dominique asked.

Heather glanced between her friends. They were watching her, all warm concern, and Heather realized she couldn't tell them the truth. Not the whole truth at least. How could she? How could she admit to them that the real monster behind everything was her own brother?

But she couldn't let them think badly of the masked man either. Not after he'd put his life on the line for hers. She owed him her life, and that was a debt Heather couldn't just ignore.

She took a sip of coffee to buy herself a second to think. "The masked man didn't kidnap me. He saved my life. I – it was the Russian mob. They're the ones that kidnapped me. I think – I think it was for a human trafficking ring or something."

Heather took another sip of coffee and hoped they contributed the tremor in her voice to fear rather than lying. She tried to keep her tale as true as she could. The explosion happened, she got out of the building, the masked man rescued her from a Russian mobster. She left out the fact that the mobster had been the leader of the Russian mob, and that he'd targeted her specifically. She told them about the cops attacking, but left out that they'd planned to take her to Wilson, letting the omission imply that she'd been in danger too. She talked about going with the masked man because that was the safest option, mentioned he was trying to find out who was behind those explosions, that there seemed to be some other criminal gang involved. How he couldn't possibly have shot those cops because he hadn't even had a weapon.

She didn't mention how he'd planned to ask her questions about Wilson, or the phone call, or how Heather's presence hadn't been random at all.

"That's – that's awful," Becky said when Heather finished.

Heather laughed a little, though it wasn't the least bit funny. "That about sums it up."

Maria ran her hands through her hair. "But with what you're saying, that means that whoever blew up those buildings, he owns part of the police force, and definitely some of the media for them to report things that wrong. He's some kind of criminal kingpin or something."

Heather winced. Kingpin. She didn't like the word when used to reference Wilson. But it fit.

"Sounds about right."

Dominique shook her head, curls brushing her dark cheek. "This is insane. How could one person have that much power?"

"Money, probably," Becky said. "This stuff always comes down to money." She wrapped an arm around Heather's shoulders. "I'm just relieved you're going to be okay."

"The masked man won't be." Her friends stared at her, and Heather was nearly as surprised as them that the words had slipped out. But they had, and Heather couldn't bottle the thought back. "This…kingpin…he's painted a target on the masked man. The whole city will be after him after what happened. It's not right."

"Yeah," Becky said, "but there's nothing we can do about that."

Nothing they could do. Heather's grip on the mug tightened as the words bounced around in her head.

Nothing. Nothing they could do. Nothing she could do. Nothing. No way to help the man who had saved her life.

A spark lit in her, the same desperate stubbornness that had been unwilling to walk to her death without at least trying.

"I can tell the truth," Heather said. Not the whole truth; mentioning Wilson wouldn't work, for all the reasons she'd thought of before. But she could tell the edited version that she'd shared with her friends, the one that would at least show the masked man wasn't responsible for what had happened. "The media has already named me as being there, someone will want to talk to me."

"Whoa, wait a minute," Dominique said. She raised her hands in a slow down sort of gesture. "Just, think about this for a second. If you do that, you're going to be putting yourself right in the cross hairs of this kingpin person. You realize that?"

Heather did. And she couldn't tell them, but she also realized that she was probably the only person who could, and survive. Even with everything else Wilson had done, there was no way he would ever hurt her. Not in a million years. And that meant she could help the masked man.

"I know," she said. "But he saved my life." Not just hers, either. He'd saved so many people, and he didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve any of it.

"...she never tried to stop him, did she?"

The masked man had saved her. Now it was Heather's turn to try and save him.

AN: And here is where things are going to start to shift! Wilson and Heather are both making plans, and they aren't going to mesh well.

If anyone is wondering, the whole Matt/Vladimir/warehouse mess ended pretty much the way it did in canon; they tried to get away in the underground tunnel, Vladimir gives Matt Owlsley's name at the last possible moment, Vladimir stays behind to slow the SWAT people while Matt gets away.