Heather was gathering up the breakfast dishes when Matt's phone dinged. "Text message from Foggy," the computerized voice said. Heather didn't pay much attention, carrying the plates to the sink as Matt fiddled with his phone.

"Dude, you have to listen to this. Www –" the voice cut off, presumably because Matt pressed whatever link his friend had sent.

"I'm not very good at this, speaking in public. But I feel it's important to speak up, for this city, and for my family."

Heather's head snapped up. That was Wilson's voice. Matt was still sitting at the table, his posture rigid, so he must recognize Wilson's voice from the conversation they'd had on the phone.

"No one should have to live in fear. In fear of madmen, with no regard for who they injure. In fear of the Devil of Hell's Kitchen who has inflicted untold pain and suffering on this city. And upon my sister."

Heather went lightheaded. What?

"By now most people have read the interview with my sister, Heather, about the tragic events of a few nights ago. I am here to confirm what the media suspected, that the Devil of Hell's Kitchen coerced her into giving that interview, threating to hurt her if she didn't do as he said. Even now, I have had to help her go into hiding, to keep her safe from him. Heather is not the only person this masked terrorist has targeted. He also assaulted my dear friend, Leland Owlsley, a pillar of the financial community."

Owlsley; Heather recognized the name. The one Vladimir had said was Wilson's money man.

"This assault, how he terrorized my sister, these things were done for no other reason but to send me a message. A message warning me to stop, to give up my dream that I have for this city. A dream of a better place. A place where its citizens feel safe, feel pride. I tried to do this quietly, not wanting to draw attention. The last thing I wanted was for anyone close to me to become a target for those who do not share my dream. For those who will have this city stay exactly as it is, mired in poverty and crime. But I know now that it was foolish to make that decision, and I can no longer do it alone. I cannot keep living in the shadows, afraid of the light. None of us can. None of us should be forced to. We must do this together. We must resist those who would have us live in fear. My name is Wilson Fisk, and together, we can make this city a better place."

Matt's phone went quiet, and a heavy, smothering silence fell over the apartment. Matt didn't move a muscle, and Heather couldn't find words to say, still mentally reeling from Wilson's speech.

He twisted all of it.

The article Heather had convinced Ben Urich to write, her disappearance. Wilson had twisted it to paint Matt even more of a villain, and himself, the beleaguered hero standing against him. And given the sound of clapping she'd heard before the video ended, the public was buying his version of events.

Matt broke the stillness, standing with enough force to knock his chair back. He snatched up his coffee cup and threw it with a frustrated cry. Heather gasped and shrank back as the cup shattered against his living room wall. She watched wide eyed as Matt paced away from her, his chest heaving and hands curled into fists.

She'd never seen him this angry when he wasn't "in uniform," and seeing him like this now, when he was just Matt, was enough to unsettle her. Heather shifted another step back, arms curling protectively around herself as she watched him. He didn't throw the cup at me. Hadn't thrown it anywhere near her. The thought still didn't work to calm her racing heart.

Abruptly, Matt stopped moving. Slowly, he turned to face her, regret clear in his expression. "Heather, I – I'm sorry. I'm not angry at you."

Heather swallowed. "I know." Knowing didn't make it less frightening in the moment. But the regret in his face, the way his shoulders slumped slightly, worked to help ease some of the tension. At the very least, it suggested he wouldn't be doing that again in the near future.

He ran a hand through his hair and grimaced. "I'll clean it up."

Matt got the paper towels to mop up the little coffee that had been left in the mug and to pick up the pieces while Heather rinsed the other dishes and loaded them in the dishwasher. After Matt threw the pieces of the cup away, he picked up his suit jacket, but hesitated before heading to the door. "I didn't mean to scare you. It won't happen again."

"Okay," Heather said. "Good."

Still, she didn't fully relax until Matt left the apartment and she heard the lock turn. Heather let out a sigh and ran a hand over her face. The girls would tell me that that was just a major red flag. And normally, Heather would agree with them. But this wasn't exactly a normal situation.

It's not like I didn't know he had a temper.

Until now though, she'd only seen him angry in life or death situations. She hadn't realized he could get that angry when it wasn't life or death. Heather just hoped he'd keep his promise, and wouldn't lose his temper like that again.

Matt moved through the crowded sidewalks with practiced ease, only paying enough attention to make sure he didn't bump into someone or step out in front of a car. I didn't see this coming.

Fisk had spent a lot of time and effort making himself a ghost, hiding in the shadows. The last thing Matt would have expected was for him to publicly reveal himself. The speech he'd given had been excellent; now public opinion wouldn't just be against Matt; it would actively root for Fisk, even though he was the one hurting people.

The thought was as infuriating now as it had been when he'd listened to Fisk's speech. Anger seethed in his chest, though this time Matt kept a lid on it.

How am I supposed to stop him?

Him and Foggy and Karen weren't any closer to taking Fisk down through legal channels. And everything Matt did as a vigilante, Fisk somehow managed to twist to his own advantage. What would it take?

"You think you're different? From me? From him? You'll get there. Sooner or later. We all do, men like us."

"Someday, it's going to come down to you or the other guy."

Matt shook his head, trying to dislodge the words Vladimir and Stick had said to him. He didn't like remembering them, didn't like considering what he knew they'd both suggest.

They'd both tell him – had told him – he needed to kill Wilson Fisk.

I'm not a murderer.

But Wilson Fisk was. He'd already killed innocent people and ruined lives; likely far more than Matt even knew about. And Fisk had made it abundantly clear that he had no intentions of stopping.

Unless Matt stopped him.

How many innocent lives was Matt's soul worth?

His steps led him down quieter, less crowded streets. He needed to talk to someone, and he didn't have a lot of options. Father Lantom wouldn't have arrived at Clinton Church just yet, but if he stuck to his schedule, Matt wouldn't have to wait very long.

Matt settled on the bench outside the church, listening for Father Lantom's approach. The sidewalks along the church were quieter, but not deserted. Cars still drove past; the occasional person or group going by on the sidewalks; houses lined the street on either side of the church complex, and Matt could hear the sounds of life from within them as people went about their morning routines. There was a quiet serenity to the moment, and the weight of it pressed down on Matt's shoulders.

I'm only one man. How am I supposed to protect them all?

A steady set of steps approached, and Matt recognized the gait of Father Lantom. Still, Matt waited, not acknowledging him until the steps stopped in front of him. "I was starting to wonder if you'd ever turn up again," Father Lantom said by way of greeting.

Matt considered everything that had happened since their last conversation. "Yeah, I've uh. I've been busy."

"Mm," Father Lantom said, "well, I'll be inside if you want to take Confession." He took a few steps towards the door before Matt managed to call out to him.

"Father," he said, and Father Lantom's steps paused as he looked back towards Matt. "Actually, I was wondering if…I could take you up on that latte."

"I've always got time for lattes," Father Lantom said. "Come on."

They ended up in a cafeteria type room in the back of the church where Father Lantom set to work fixing the lattes with his fancy coffee maker, while Matt sat in one of the metal folding chairs at the long table.

Heather would probably love that thing.

Matt winced as soon as the thought occurred to him; he couldn't think of Heather without feeling a pang of guilt and regret. He hadn't meant to frighten her, he just – he'd been so angry, and he hadn't taken a moment to think through his actions. He couldn't make that mistake again.

Father Lantom carried the two cups over to the table and set them down before sitting in a chair himself. "Sugar?" he offered, but Matt waved him off. Father Lantom picked up a jar and sprinkled a liberal amount of sugar into his own latte. "So," he said as he stirred the sugar into his drink. "What's on your mind, Matthew?"

Surprise cut through him; he hadn't mentioned his name the last time he'd been here to talk to Father Lantom. His surprise must have shown, because Father Lantom added, "Wasn't that hard to find out. People still remember Battlin' Jack Murdock around these parts. And what happened to his son."

Matt let out a breath. He supposed they would remember. This was the church they'd attended when his father was alive, though their attendance had been sporadic at best. But it had been enough, apparently.

"Seal of confession still applies over lattes," Father Lantom said, "if that's what you're worried about."

Matt considered; there was a lot he wanted to say, to ask, and he didn't quite know how to form the questions. When one finally worked its way out, it wasn't the one Matt had expected to ask first.

"Do you believe in the devil, Father?"

Father Lantom paused. "You mean as a concept?"

"No," Matt said. Now that he'd asked the question, he wanted the answer. "Do you believe he exists? In this world, among us."

The Father took a sip of his latte. "You want the short answer or the long one?"

"Just the truth," Matt said.

Father Lantom considered a moment, then leaned forward as he spoke. "When I was in seminary, I was more studious than pious. More skeptical than most of my peers. I had this notion, that I was more than willing to speak about – at length – to whoever I could corner, that the devil was inconsequential. A minor figure in the grand scheme."

"Not very Catholic of you," Matt commented dryly.

Father Lantom chuckled. "Mhm, yeah. In my defense, in the Scripture the Hebrew word Satan actually means adversary. It's applied to any antagonist. Angels and humans, serpents and kings. Medieval theologians reinterpreted those passages to be about a single, monstrous enemy. And in my youthful zeal, I was certain I knew why. Propaganda. Played out to drive people to the Church."

The frown deepened on Matt's face. "So, you don't believe that he exists?"

"Am I done talking?" Father Lantom asked, and it was the same stern tone that Matt was so familiar with from his years at St. Agnes Orphanage.

"Sorry," Matt mumbled.

Father Lantom took a breath and leaned back in his seat. "Years later, I was in Rwanda, trying to help local churches provide aide and sanctuary to refugees. I'd become close with the village elder, Gahiji. He and his family had the respect of everybody, Hutu and Tutsi alike. He'd helped them all through famines, disease."

"The militia liked to force the Hutu to murder their neighbors. With machetes." He paused for a long moment; Matt could only imagine he was thinking back to the things he'd seen over there. He took another breath and continued. "But nobody would raise a hand against Gahiji. They said, how can we kill such a holy man? So, the militia's commander sent soldiers. With orders to cut his head off…in front of the entire village." Father Lantom shrugged slightly. "Gahiji didn't try to put up a fight. Just asked for the chance to say goodbye to his family. By the time he was done, even the soldiers didn't want to kill him. So they went back to the commander and asked for permission to shoot him. At least given him a quick death."

"The commander wanted to meet this man, who had won the respect of so many. He went to Gahiji, talked with him in his hut…for many hours." Father Lantom's voice trailed off, another long pause before he could finish telling the story. "And then he dragged him out in front of his village and he hacked him to pieces. Along with his entire family. When that man took Gahiji's life, I saw the devil. So, yes, Matthew. I believe he walks among us, taking many forms."

Matt could hear the old, weary pain in Father Lantom's voice as he recounted Gahiji's loss, and the evil it had taken to publicly slaughter a man and his family. And Matt knew it was the same kind of evil that let Wilson Fisk manipulate, and murder, and blackmail to get what he wanted.

"What if you could have stopped him?" Matt asked. "From ever hurting anyone again?"

"Stopped him how?"

Matt couldn't make himself say the words; he already knew what the response would be. He wasn't thinking about killing in self-defense. He was thinking about murder. About committing a mortal sin. No priest was going to tell him that it was oaky. That it was justified.

He took a breath and stood. "Thank you for the latte, Father. I'd better get going; I'm running late for work."

"You see the news? Everything's changed." The unfamiliar voice coming from his office caught Matt's attention. "Fisk has gotten out in front of being dragged into the spotlight."

Matt picked up his pace at the mention of Fisk's name; whatever conversation was happening, he needed to be part of it.

"My editor thinks he's the second coming. Hell, the whole city does."

"So we keep digging," Karen said.

"I've been doing that," the man responded. "The internet went from almost nothing about Fisk to three million stories about a poor little fat kid from Hell's Kitchen, abandoned by his father when he was twelve and his mother died four years later. Now look at him; bootstraps and a big dream."

"Look, somebody knows something about him," Foggy said. "Maybe, if we can find his sister –"

"What, Heather?" the man interrupted. "The one Fisk is supposedly hiding from the Devil of Hell's Kitchen? Going after her would be a good way to get hurt."

Matt opened the door to the office about the time he was speaking. "Yeah, that's what I keep telling them. Maybe they'll listen to you."

Karen sighed. "Ben Urich, meet Matt Murdock, attorney at why the hell bother?"

Matt let the jab slide, holding out a hand. Ben shook it. "Mr. Murdock."

"Matt's fine," he said.

Karen took a breath and straightened. "Anyway, Fisk doesn't have Heather."

Ben spun on his heel to face her again. "And how do you know this?"

"Because the Devil of Hell's Kitchen came to see me last night," she said, crossing her arms defensively.

Foggy immediately bristled. "And you're only mentioning this now? Karen, that guy's dangerous!"

"Only to bad guys," Karen said.

"You don't know that!" Foggy said, throwing his hands up in a frustrated gesture.

"Well, I like his track record better than Fisk's," she snapped back.

"You realize what a low bar that is, right?"

"Enough, stop!" Ben said, waving a hand to interrupt the bickering. "What's done is done, and Karen's clearly fine. Now, Karen, what did he tell you?"

She huffed a little, but said, "He told me that Wilson Fisk was the Kingpin, which is obviously less useful after his press conference this morning. He also told me that Heather is in hiding, but she's hiding from Fisk. Apparently, he wiped her bank accounts and arranged to get her fired from her job in retaliation for that interview she gave you. He was going to force her into some kind of house arrest to keep her out of the way of any of his enemies. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen is helping her hide."

"Which means reaching out to her now that we know Fisk's identity is useless," Ben said.

"Even if we could find her, I don't think it'd help, considering the way the media trashed her reputation," Foggy pointed out.

Ben grimaced at the reminder. Heather's reputation wasn't the only one that had suffered from the fallout of the article he'd printed about her.

"We've got another angle to use though," Karen said. "He also told me the name of Fisk's money man; Leland Owlsley."

"That's something to look into," Ben said, "But if he controls the books, he'll be hard to get to. Fisk will have him closely guarded."

Silence fell over the group; it seemed with every idea they came up with, there was some reason it wouldn't work. Fisk was smart, and covered his potential vulnerabilities well.

"Someday, it's going to come down to you or the other guy."

"What about Confederated Global?" Foggy said slowly. Matt shook his head slightly, trying to dislodge the memory of Stick's words. "The suit who hired us to defend Healy was standing right next to Fisk when he gave his big speech."

"I looked into that," Ben said. He started pacing. "According to FCC filings, Confederated Global is where Fisk keeps most of his reported income."

Confederated Global…that was an angle that might work. "Let's play this out," Matt said, mind racing as he considered the possibilities. "If Fisk is involved with Confederated Global, then that means he's also connected to the Westmeyer-Holt Contracting."

Karen turned to Ben. "Westmeyer-Holt is strong arming tenants out of their rent controlled apartments. They were hired by a guy named Armand Tully."

"The slumlord?" Ben asked.

"Landman and Zack claim he's on vacation on an island that no one can pronounce the name of, where they use coconuts as phones" Foggy said.

Ben sighed and nodded. "Another connection in the wind."

"Westmeyer-Holt is connected to Fisk though," Matt said. "We can pull that thread, see what unravels."

"Still not sure about this Devil guy," Foggy grumbled.

"Well he didn't hurt Heather, and he didn't hurt me. I'll take the Devil of Hell's Kitchen over Fisk any day," Karen staunchly said. At least he had the support of one of his friends, even if they didn't realize it was Matt they were discussing. "Plus, he kicks ass." That got a groan from Foggy, and Matt had to duck his head to hide the surprised smiled that flickered over his face.

"He does!" Karen insisted. "You should have seen the way he was flipping around in the rain."

"Well if he's so good, why did he come to you with information?" Foggy asked. "Why not take care of Fisk himself?"

And the brief flicker of levity vanished. Matt felt himself tensing, as Ben quietly replied.

"Maybe he knows there's some roads you can't come back from."

AN: Thanks for your patience in regards to my updating schedule, lol. And a special thank you to wickedgrl123, who's review kickstarted me actually writing this chapter a month and a half ago, and reminded me about how much I love Matt and Heather's story!