The red thread

by Lazydaily

matt and Read red strings. For TTS

9. Chapter 9

You needed to get this under control before you left. And for once, you weren't referring to your… delicate tango with Matt Murdock.

No, it was your ability you were having issues with.

You'd had more nosebleeds in the past week than you'd had in the past ten years combined. Each time your fingers plucked up a glittering thread, you were damn near overwhelmed with a powerful rush of emotion that left you gasping for air. You had no idea what all the new, puzzling colors meant. And while you'd made some improvement, your third eye still had the maddening habit of opening at the most inopportune moments, though at least now you didn't startle and drop whatever you were holding.

You had one week to figure it out. And then… you were gone.

You'd already laid the groundwork. You'd paid cash for multiple bus tickets to a number of randomized locations—with each bus departing on the same day. You'd only choose your bus on the day of departure, thus beginning a series of seemingly random and convoluted jumps that would eventually take you to Seattle where you'd settle in. Most of your excess funds had already gone into your various savings accounts scattered around the world, but what little you did keep under the name Jane Hind you shifted around. You always left a portion behind when you ran—draining your whole account in one day was too suspicious—but if you were careful over the next few days and didn't stall, you could pull out enough cash to keep yourself going until you made it to somewhere a little more permanent. Your go-bag under the floorboards was packed; all you needed was a little more cash, and a few other items you didn't need to toss in until you were ready to leave.

And yet, there were certain tasks on your lengthy to-do list that you were avoiding.

You'd hesitated to write the letters and emails that had long been a customary step of your traditional escape ritual. You should have written the messages, filling them with all the toxic words and carefully calculated insults that would cut the deepest before you prepared to send them off to their intended targets. You should have scheduled the emails and letters to be delivered on the day of your departure. It was an insurance policy to ensure that you'd have no connections left when the time came and that you had no reason to stay. Why remain, after all, when you'd burned every bridge in town as surely as if you'd soaked them in gasoline and lit the match? Lingering over the smouldering ashes would only bring more pain.

You especially should have ignored Matt when he sought you out during those warm, late summer nights. You should have sent him away or slammed the window in his face. Up on the rooftops when you were both hunting your quarry across Hell's Kitchen, it was easier to remain strong, to avoid him. It was different when he appeared at your window, and you could never bring yourself to tell him to get lost. All you had to do was order him to leave you alone, and he would. You knew he would. It wouldn't take much effort at all, not when he was so prepared to blame himself for any perceived mistakes. Instead, you'd turn your eyes away, and the invitation to come inside would spill out before you could stop yourself.

Even without the knowledge that the horrible old man had given you, there was a laundry list of cruel things you could say to Matt. Less life-destroying things, perhaps; words that cut less deeply, but they'd leave the mark you'd intend. He'd given you more than enough ammunition, bared himself to you in enough ways that you could make the calculation if you wanted to. It would be so easy to hit him there and watch the stunned agony blossom across his face as bright as any thread before he hid the pain away and left you for good. Then you could… abandon him, just like the others in his past had.

You should have ticked off the boxes on your to-do list with an ease that spoke to your years of practice. Only you didn't. You didn't lash out at Matt, didn't move enough of your money, didn't write those letters because… because it wasn't time. That was all.

You weren't stalling. It was different here. That was what it was. It was different since you had... friends, and if you didn't time things right, they'd come knocking before you were gone. Then things would be awkward, or they'd delay your escape. You were avoiding any unnecessary conversation that could sway you to remain.

If only you could believe it.

-x-

You still had to play the part, and Jane Hind's routines couldn't change, not yet. Too much change too early and those around you would become suspicious. Suspicion naturally led to digging, and were they to dig deep enough to unearth what you were planning, well, that was a problem.

So you walked. You hunted. You slept. And you worked.

The last assisted in letting you stay busy, which you were grateful for since it kept you from having to answer too many questions. You'd mostly been out on item hunts lately—pawned rings, a stolen car, a lost phone—for your usual clients, along with a few odd jobs for Mr. Winter hunting down god-knew-what in boxes you didn't look too closely at. Matt had followed you on those cases, or you'd thought he had. He couldn't tell you, of course, and you couldn't ask, because to do so would break the contract. You couldn't even tell him when Mr. Winter had assigned you a job. As far as you could tell, Matt just… knew.

After those cases, Matt would always come by late at night once the bustling city was as quiet and peaceful as it would ever be. He'd talk a little, sometimes just while he perched on your window sill and you sat on the couch, facing away. Eventually, he'd pick up whatever non-verbal clues he needed from you and head back out. Other times he'd enter your apartment, prowling around the space behind your back, searching for… you weren't sure what, without being able to see him. When he was restless like that, he'd end the visit by brushing his fingers against your shoulder. You'd hear a soft inhale like there was something he wanted to say. And you desperately wanted him to, wanted him to call you out on leaving so you'd have a chance to stay.

He never did. Just disappeared back out into the city.

One week.

One week to go, and you were stuck in the office filling out paperwork and fighting a massive headache when there was a knock at your door.

"Come in," you mumbled, scribbling through forms as quickly as you could. One of the few changes you'd made to your current behavior was finally tackling the paperwork you usually avoided. When you finally disappeared, having all this done would make it easier for Maya to take on your former clients. To help ease the transition, you were ensuring she had as much information as possible.

"So this is a psychic office, huh? Thought it would have more, I don't know. Crystal balls. Tarot decks! Maybe some incense?"

You couldn't help the little grin that pulled the corners of your mouth up as Foggy eagerly poked around, examining the shelves and art along the walls. "All that stuff's out being cleaned today. Come back tomorrow. You'll be more impressed I'm sure."

You avoided looking up at him. You'd gotten very good at resisting the urge to make eye contact this past week. While Matt was your main concern, it was best to avoid seeing the threads of anyone else you were friendly with, and Foggy definitely qualified. With him standing in front of you and you in a seated position, any friendly threads between you would dart right up into your line of sight should you glance up. Not only that, but with your current lack of control, you hadn't quite managed to fine-tune the illumination level of your second sight yet and that kind of glaring brightness would only make your headache worse. Or set off another nosebleed, which might stain the paperwork, and then you'd have to start all over and where would you be then?

"You shoulda kept the crystal ball at the very least. Then you would've known I was coming. Bad form, Jane. What would the other psychics say?" He plopped into the chair across from you with a theatrical sigh, and you risked directing your gaze a bit lower down your desk. It would bring you closer to your own threads should your third eye open, but it was at least farther away from Foggy. "Seriously, this place is nice, though. All these big windows! Don't suppose you have any spare office spaces for a couple of lawyers?"

You're welcome to it when I'm gone.

You clucked your tongue. "'Fraid not. Not unless you're willing to get rid of me."

"You look like you're about ready to keel over anyway," he said sympathetically and you grimaced. "You been sick? You've canceled three meetings now. Wanted to check in."

You drummed your fingers and dug around in your desk for more aspirin as you considered telling him the truth. Truth for you was always a calculation, but it wasn't like you were going to be here much longer, and he already knew about your abilities anyway. It couldn't hurt. "Dealing with problems with this." You tapped a finger lightly at your temple, indicating your second sight. One thing you had quickly learned was to avoid any careless touches to your forehead. That seemed to force your third eye to open, and that always ended up being a lot more painful than trying to open or close it naturally without prodding. "Things are brighter than they should be. New colors. And it's been opening without warning."

"Is that why you're not looking at me?"

You popped an aspirin and washed it down with a few swallows of your cold coffee, taking your time to answer. It always amazed you how easily Foggy snuck under the radar. There was a razor-sharp intelligence hiding behind the shaggy hair and beaming grin. It was always a surprise when he let it show, like now when he'd accurately honed in on your mood and reasoning. Fortunately, you could spin your answer in a way that would help you redirect the conversation. You'd been canceling meetings yes, both because of the threads but also because you were leaving soon. He didn't need to know about the latter; the former would be more than enough. "I don't want to see anything, yeah. I've been avoiding people."

"I mean, I wouldn't mind if you look." His arms raised in your peripheral. He'd probably held his hands up in a shrug. "What secrets could a guy like me have? I probably just got the usual. Friend strings, family strings—although my family is quite large—and my unhealthy fondness for the bagels at Leiderman's Bakery. Amazing, by the way. Totally recommend their deliciousness."

You shook your head even as he tried to cheer you up. "It's… invasive, is all. It's one thing when it's a client, or someone I don't know. I'm five steps removed from that. It's different when it's… someone I know. And it hurts lately, so I'm just waiting until it's settled."

"I get that. But maybe you could let Matt know? He's a little, you know, mopey lately. I think he's worried about you."

Of course he is. The man's heightened senses had no doubt picked up on the roller coaster that was your emotional state this week as you swerved between anxiety, glum melancholy, and a cool emotional distance. It would probably be easier to reassure Matt if you could actually see him and adjust your reaction based on his expressions, but that was a no-go. Oh sure, you'd heard him, had spoken to him, but you hadn't actually seen Matt for days. Not since that night with the old man. All you'd had were flashes of black in your peripheral before you turned away. It was probably a good thing though. It was easier to pull away when you couldn't see him.

"I'm sure he's fine," you mumbled, going back to your paperwork.

He'll be ok eventually. Better, even, once I'm gone.

Foggy went quiet, watching as your pen scraped across the paper. You found yourself hoping he would go away before you needed to say something cruel. You liked him, a lot if you were honest. He was a good guy, cheerful and fun, and one of the most kind-hearted people you'd ever met. There were no secrets with him, no hidden motives. He was just… genuinely nice. He didn't deserve any ill-treatment from you, and you wanted to avoid that if you could.

"Are you ok? I mean, aside from the psychic thing."

Your pen paused and you stared down at Jane Hind's signature, still refusing to look up. "Why do you ask?"

"Because you seem… sorta sad." His tone was gentle and kind as he tried to draw you out. "Upset. Maybe? I'm thinking it's not just Matt who's down, anyway."

Your brow furrowed and you rubbed at your temple. Fuck, you really had been here too long if he was reading you that well. Or maybe you were just out of practice locking yourself away. You'd started slacking. "Long weeks, hard cases. Lots of headaches… That's all. I really need to finish these, though, I'm sorry. So—"

He rose to leave, but before he did he put a friendly hand on your shoulder. "Hey, I get not wanting to talk. And that's fine. But if you want to, me and Matt? We're here, ok? We're your friends. So don't forget you've got people in your corner."

"Thank you. I'll try to remember that."

Even if you really wished you could just forget.

-x-

Four days.

Four days, and at least tonight's case was going alright.

You were out on the trail of an antique bracelet. Mrs. Horvat had lost it at some point within the last two days in Hell's Kitchen, though she wasn't sure exactly when or where it had slipped off her wrist. It was an old family heirloom, she'd said, and not of exceptional value outside sentiment. That was good for you, since it meant it was a little less likely to have been sold off as something valuable. Those cases were more difficult, when you were left to either negotiate a return or simply alert the customer to where the item had ended up.

You'd climbed up to an apartment building's rooftop, as was your habit, to get a sense of where you'd headed and how many more blocks you had left to walk. You liked the height it gave you—the perspective up above the noise and hot city streets. It always seemed cooler up here where the breeze could reach you, too, even if only by a few degrees. It helped that you'd waited until after dark to start this hunt; the additional brightness of the sun on top of the light from visible threads was something you tried to avoid. The sun had long since set and now you eyed the remaining blocks between you and the end of the thread you were trailing, wiping away the sweat from the back of your neck as you did.

Six blocks to go, looks like. Not so bad.

Tonight the threads were a little less painful to look at directly, dimmer in your sight, or maybe you were just high enough up that they weren't quite so overwhelming. Down at ground level, there was a knee-deep sea of color to wade through. Up here, you could breathe. You pulled out a napkin and swiped at the few droplets of blood that had leaked from your nose before you shoved the napkin back in your pocket. You had the blue thread leading to Mrs. Horvat's bracelet twisted around your pinky on one hand, and with the other, you tentatively touched a glimmering purple thread that trailed through the air by your head. Based on the angle, it started somewhere on the ground behind you. It then followed a sharp angle upwards some ways off into the distance until it eventually disappeared into one of the massive skyscrapers that towered over the city.

You weren't sure what all these new colors signified. Black and white seemed fairly rare, as was the strange charcoal grey that seemed to flake in your hands as if it had been burned. Purple was somewhat more common. You edged your fingers along the purple—this one a deep, rich violet. It was difficult to express what you felt when you touched a purple thread; there were hints of… of absolute rapture, the roar of a crowd and a throbbing rhythm in your chest. Other times it was a peaceful wash of bliss, the scent of incense, and the feel of paper under your fingers. The closest you could come to describing it as a whole was worship, but you weren't sure if that was right. It wasn't like red—red for affection between good friends, family, lovers. Nor was it blue—impersonal, inanimate. But it wasn't not those colors either.

You released the purple thread and rubbed your hand over the returning ache in your chest as you considered the other threads you could see from your perch on the roof. There were a few white threads farther down at street level, along with one or two black threads. You hadn't been close enough to one of those to get a read on them yet, unlike purple. You weren't sure you wanted to. White, especially—white was so bright that up close it left you feeling dazed. Presumably, these issues would get easier to manage as time went on, and as you regained control of your eye. It had been equally overwhelming years ago when you were young and things were new. The scientists monitoring you had quickly learned to keep nasal sprays and gauze on hand because your nose would start to fountain blood the second your third eye was forced open.

It had hurt then, too.

Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap.

"Hey, D," you said quietly, keeping your eyes directed outwards towards the lights of the city. You couldn't risk closing your third eye, not when it would mean losing the blue thread you were holding. Even if you could have shut your second sight off, though, you wouldn't have been able to turn to greet him. Not when it meant you might see Matt's threads.

A pale glow flickered on the ground around you, your form casting a shadow as Matt moved closer. You closed your physical eyes as he greeted you with your name, but that only made it worse. By shutting out the visual stimuli of the city around you, all that was left to focus on was the radiant light of Matt's threads, drifting around you like smoke in your mind's eye. Part of you swore you could feel that warmth swirling around you as it flowed past. You rubbed at your chest again where it ached under the fabric of your shirt, your hand sliding over sweat-slick skin, and opened your eyes.

"What're you after tonight?"

"A bracelet." You flicked your fingers off in the direction you'd been headed. "Somewhere over there, about six blocks if I've got it right. What about you? Who's the Devil hunting tonight?"

"You."

You ignored the rush of heat that shivered through you. You weren't sure what reaction he was looking for, so you went with casual. You snorted and shifted on your feet, rolling the blue thread between your fingers. "I'm not sure I've done anything lately to deserve that kind of notice, D. Life's been pretty boring."

"Has it? Foggy said you weren't doing well." His voice was soft and careful behind you, close enough to be heard but not so close as to invade your space. You didn't know how far away he was exactly, but he seemed to be respecting the distance you'd put between you both. You also knew he would cross it in a heartbeat if you'd let him. All you had to do was toss him a line, crack the door just a little and he would be there beside you.

Stay strong. You can do this.

"I'm fine, D." You winced as soon as the lie left your lips, wanting to bang your head against a wall. The answer had been instinctive, and it was a common lie millions of people told every day. But you'd also forgotten who you were talking to. This was a man who could tell a lie from the truth from a block away, and you'd just handed him a big one.

Lie. Lie-lie-lie-lie—

You'd slipped, and his inhalation behind you ensured you knew he was aware of it. There was no way around it. It was a blatant lie, one not even you could get away with believing. You were not fine, and it was all thanks to that stupid fucking letter and that hateful old man. It was because of him that you knew that running off would be just one more in a long string of disappearances in Matt's life. One more case of abandonment, leaving him to pick up the pieces. And what was there to do? You'd doomed the both of you to this fate the second you'd met. The fact that you hadn't known how attached you'd get did nothing to change the outcome or absolve you of your guilt.

"Why would you lie now? I don't understand." There was something plaintive in his voice, some plea threaded through it and you curled your fingers tighter around that blue thread in your hand. "Just talk to me—"

"I can't."

"You can." He was becoming desperate for a real response from you, frustration leaking in around the corners. You could hear it, the frantic edge he'd gained as he dared to step closer, boots sliding on concrete. You'd thought he didn't know what you were planning but maybe he did, on some level at least; knew what you were going to do. "Please, just-just let me help you."

Fuck the thread.

You lifted a hand to your forehead, digging your palm in until you forced your third eye shut and you'd returned yourself to the welcome of the dark. You blew out a sigh and swiveled to face him.

He stood only a few paces away, his hands curled into loose fists and his body tight with tension. His lips parted in relief, relaxing slightly as you looked at him for the first time in days. He thinks he's reaching me. A sharp ache shot through you, followed by the realization that it wasn't just because of the risk of seeing his threads that you hadn't wanted to look at Matt. No. It was because seeing him was nothing but a bitter reminder of what lay ahead. It was easier to leave when you couldn't see his face.

You hated everything about this.

"Fuck, D." You clenched your jaw. Your heart rate was starting to pick up, your body preparing itself for the confrontation that loomed over you. He cocked his head, listening intently even as the tension rose. "Why couldn't you just leave me be?"

"Because I want to help you." He wasn't reacting the way you wanted; he wasn't combative or irritated. Instead, he planted his feet stubbornly, tipping his head down even as he kept himself open and non-threatening. He was preparing to withstand what you might do, not fight back.

God, you could feel it coming: the surge of emotion inside you welling up as it sensed a crack in the walls you'd built up around yourself and Matt was right there in its path, chisel in hand. You gestured sharply outwards at Hell's Kitchen, practically spitting at him. "I have survived in this city perfectly fine, ok? I do not need your fucking help—"

"Lie," he murmured, taking a step closer.

You continued, trying to ignore him even as your hands clenched so hard your nails bit into your palms. "And Jesus Christ, do I just wish you would take a hint and leave me the fuck alone so I coul—"

"Lie." He took another step, inhaling slowly as he came within touching distance.

"Stop it!" you snarled, pushing forward aggressively into his space until you were practically nose-to-nose and the heat of him washed over you. He didn't move, unwavering even in the face of your anger as you shoved at his shoulder to force him back. He held fast against the pressure, and you ended up fisting your hand in his shirt instead as if you were going to shake him. He allowed it, accepting and resolute. God, he looked like he was ready for you to hit him, of course he was, and you just… couldn't bring yourself to. You shook him, or tried to as he laid a hand over yours, and you were close to tears over how you were failing so fucking miserably at chasing him away.

But then, you didn't have to hit him, did you? Not physically.

You could say it.

Abruptly the words hovered there inside you, rising like sour bile in your throat.

He tilted his head, mouth going soft. He said your name, but all it did was make your hands clench and you, you were this close, tongue curling to speak—

You swallowed the words down at the last second. Even now, that kind of betrayal felt like too much. Maybe it made you weak, or a coward. If it did, so be it.

"Why are you hiding from me?" he asked, so very gentle. "Let me in, sweetheart." His bare hand—when had he lost his gloves?—rose and he brushed his scarred fingers across your cheek as he leaned in. The affectionate touch was a shock to your system.

The explosion of light as your third eye opened was more so.

-x-

You'd seen a lot of threads in your life.

They came in a range of colors and a variety of sizes: red as deep a crimson as blood itself, mossy green stretching across vast distances, glittering blue as solid as a steel chain. There were threads so thick they were as big around as three fingers and others so delicately thin they glittered like the strands of a spider's web. You'd seen all there was to see, or so you'd thought. But Matt's threads?

Matt's threads put them all to shame—every last one. He was a beacon, so blindingly bright you could have seen him from miles away, a guiding star in the dark sky calling you home. It took time for your third eye to adjust to that kind of illumination, here up close where you were enveloped within the light itself. Matt said your name, but the sound was distant to your ears as the light finally dimmed enough for you to truly see. You lifted a hand, hypnotized and drawn in like a moth to the flame. You couldn't stop yourself from reaching out to touch.

He shivered, a startled gasp leaving him as you trailed your finger across the heavy white thread that trailed out of his chest—but, no, that wasn't right. This wasn't a thread; that word was too small, too ill-fitting a title. This light was so wide it was practically rope, at least as thick around as your wrist. "What is this?" you whispered.

And as you drew it between your fingers you finally understood what a white thread was.

You'd once read that the Greeks had multiple words for love or affection. They'd known such a strong emotion couldn't be limited to just one sound, one feeling. There was love for family, for friends, for lovers, for self, and… for something far larger. You knew why this thread was white, now.

White was the color of everything: every color, contained in one, from the most inanimate blue to the most affectionate red.

Oh, Matt.

His love of Hell's Kitchen. His love for this city and every part of it, from the buildings to its people to the very ground it was planted on. The intensity of the connection was pure and sweet, your hand warming as you marveled at the connection you held in the palm of your hand. As you stood there, your mind was awash with snatches of… not emotion, so much as treasured sensation. You basked in the smell of rain on asphalt, in the rich sound of laughter and the crack of a softball against a child's bat, in the rush of the breeze somewhere up high. Devotion ran like a river under it all, and you knew, somehow, that were you to follow this thread to ground level, it would dive deep down further than you could reach. There it would spread out to the far ends of Hell's Kitchen: a bone-deep affection that permeated the very soil of the city.

It was one of the most beautiful, tragic, tender connections you'd ever had the fortune to witness, and you knew that no matter where you went, this moment, this feeling, would be something you remembered for the rest of your life.

He jolted again as you ran a reverent thumb over the glittering white rope in your hand. "What—" his voice was strained, unsure as he fumbled for your hands. "What are you doing?"

"You can feel that?" you whispered, still in awe as you glanced up at him. No one had ever been able to feel it when you touched one of their threads, or if they had, they'd never said anything to you. You supposed it made sense. If anyone was going to pick up on it, it'd be Matt.

He sucked in a shaky breath and lifted a hand to touch right at the center of his chest where the threads escaped him. "It's like you're touching something here but… but inside. I don't—"

The movement of his hand drew your attention to the threads that had been hiding behind the intensity of the pure white thread until you'd shifted it out of the way, and just like that you were lost again.

So much green here. There was far more green than you could hold in your one hand, an absolute forest of it stretching out in all directions. You tried to puzzle them out, focusing in an attempt to sense what sort of events had led to their formation. There was a lot of… violence, action and adrenaline, followed by surges of relief. Had these been people he'd saved? You strummed at one thread curiously, trying to dip down into it. He caught your wrist. "A...a woman who was… was being robbed, I think. That's… that's who I remember when y-you do that," he panted. He was breathing hard, flooded with whatever sensations your actions were bringing about in him. You'd been right, though. These people he'd saved, they didn't know him, but he knew them, and he cared about them, far more than they knew.

He let you go and you trailed your fingers past the green and hit upon the blue threads next: blue for the feel of soft and satiny fabric under your fingers; blue for the taste of vanilla ice cream that exploded on your tongue.

You slid into red next, and couldn't help but swallow hard in sympathy. There were… so few of these. For someone who cared so much, there was far too little red. What few he did have, though, were solid and strong: Foggy, and Karen. It had to be. Their threads were thick and heavy, glowing brightly in between your fingers. Their bright scarlet threads felt like laughter late into the night, the comfort of a strong hug when you needed it most. You were glad he had these connections; that he'd allowed himself at least a few people who cared about him.

"Sweetheart, you're bleeding, you have to stop—"

You could feel the blood beginning to drip from your nose. He was right; you needed to stop. You'd already gone too far, had seen far too much. But then your fingers brushed a thread that thrummed and pulled at something deep under your own skin.

No—

There was a resounding kick inside your chest, a dull thud of impact as your heart slammed into your ribcage. Matt made a startled noise, grabbing at you, but your answering sound was touched with grief.

No, no—

Static roared in your ears.

An orange thread, tinted with the smouldering red-orange hue of a dying fire, lay against your fingers. The second you'd touched it—become aware of it—it had started a chain reaction you were helpless to stop. Even now as you watched, it slowly began to darken, hesitant rust-red trickling outwards from the center. That lurking undertone had already been there, you could see. It had just been biding its time down in the thread's center, waiting patiently for its moment. Now that you'd seen it, it was inevitable that the thread would bloom to a full, bloody red. Of course it would. Because how could you deny your connection and affection for Matt when the evidence was right there in your hands, the light about to stain your hands scarlet?

Sensations, emotions, and scenes rippled through your mind as you held that thread, but the sources were split between you both and you couldn't separate what belonged to who: the quiet safety of his apartment, the cool relief of your hand against his cheek, scent of cinnamon and salt and warm fabric, chest aching with laughter, his arms around you tight, your hands sweeping down his back and your face buried against his neck. Longing, longing, please don't le—

Matt had taken your face in his hands. He was whispering something—reassurances, you thought distantly—as he pressed his forehead frantically to yours, but you couldn't hear it over the panicked sound of your own breathing as you stared down at the changing thread you clenched between your fingers.

No.

If the thread went red, the Man in the White Coat could use Matt to follow you wherever you went. There would be no more hiding. Game over. The end. You'd have cursed not just you, but Matt too, because surely a man like the one tracking you would have just as much use, if not more, for studying someone like Matt. Matt couldn't protect himself with money and power, like your friend in Los Angeles could. You'd have done that, brought that down on him, and wrenched him away from here. You couldn't allow that, not after the white thread you'd just seen.

No. I won't let that happen.

You reached for a way out. You'd take something, anything, if it meant it would protect him.

Matt tilted your head up, blood dripping from your chin. He'd ripped his mask away and now his eyes darted blankly around you, his face twisted in desperation. He was still talking, his mouth moving quickly as he tried to reach you, but your eyes drifted outwards towards the horizon instead, and towards the escape that lay beyond it.

Your mind found what it was looking for. You glanced down again, waiting.

The orange thread flickered as it shifted, and then finally stalled in its progression, a deep rusty orange. A vein of light red pulsed ominously through the core of the thread, a warning you couldn't ignore. You didn't have much room left in you for relief but what little space you had, it stole until you almost gasped with it. It had stopped—you'd stopped it, had managed to claw yourself back from the edge. He's ok, he'll be ok.

There was no room for error now; you'd both eaten that ground away, and that left you with only one way out. You took all of it—all that you had seen, and felt, and heard—and forced it down. Every last bit of emotion went with it until you were as calm and unfeeling as a sheet of ice, the cold shiver of it inside your chest familiar and comforting in the way of any old habit.

Matt picked up on the change, faltering as you closed your third eye. The orange thread disappeared from your fingers, though you imagined you could still feel the tension of it where it entered your chest. You reached up and took his wrists, pushing his hands away from your face. It was a neutral gesture, absent any force that might give you away. You couldn't afford any lapse now: not one inch, or you'd break.

"What—" He stepped back and you took advantage of the opening.

"We're done, Matt. This is too much." Your voice was as toneless and bland as you could make it. You wiped the blood from your face with an irritated grimace, and hoped he didn't notice the way your hand was trembling. You didn't allow your eyes to linger on him, directing your gaze away. It helped you avoid seeing his flinch, as if you'd just struck at him. "I'm done. Just leave me alone."

Hopefully, you wouldn't need to say anymore. He'd been abandoned before, and you could let his self-blame do the rest here. He was good at that, and you wouldn't be around to convince him otherwise. You also couldn't afford to throw an insult now that might give away any hint of emotion.

You left him there on that rooftop, alone and cold, ignoring him when he called after you.

-x-

Your go-bag was on the bed, a few changes of clothes set beside it on the scrappy dining chair you'd dragged over. You quickly gathered up the few toiletries you couldn't live without from the bathroom. You'd leave the rest of the items here behind, along with everything else in your apartment you didn't need to dispose of. By design, there wasn't a lot here you were attached to. The art on the walls, the jewelry hung with care—all of it was part of a performance, and you had no issue leaving behind what amounted to costumes and set pieces. It was the people you were going to miss.

It was four days early, but you couldn't wait, thanks to him.

Stop it. People without red threads don't give a shit about leaving.

A quick getaway was your only hope to keep you both safe, to stall the red thread. People with red threads didn't just up and abandon people, did they? Someone who cared about Matt, knowing how he'd been abandoned, wouldn't do that to him again. And here you were, leaving without notice. That proved it.

You ignored the wetness on your face as you shoved your handful of items into the duffle bag. There wasn't a lot left to do. You weren't going to have time to withdraw as much cash as you'd intended to leave with, and you hated that you'd stalled for so long when you knew better. You'd have to see if you could pick up more along the road. You also had to write your letters. You'd… you'd have to leave one for Matt.

You'd bought a braille printer a while back. You'd used it to create the instructions back when you'd left food in his freezer. That seemed like a lifetime ago. It figured you'd have to use the printer now to hurt him when you'd originally bought it to make things better.

You connected your laptop to the printer with numb fingers and pulled up the program. The cursor blinked mockingly as it awaited your input, and your hands shook as they hovered over the keys. It would be so, so easy to type it out. You just needed a few sentences. It would be something short and simple, not too long or elaborate. There was no way around it, was there? He'd forced your hand.

The ache in your chest didn't abate as you forced yourself to type out the words you knew would cut to the bone. After a long moment, you pressed print.

You're going to kill him.

You smacked the cancel button and tore the paper from the printer before it could finish, crumpling the paper and throwing it away with a snarl. You brought your fist down on the table next to the laptop, spitting out a curse. Why couldn't you do this? You'd done it before. This wasn't new to you, and in the long run, it was the kindest thing you could do. It would protect everyone involved, even if it was agony in the immediate moment. One day, he'd be grateful for it, and so would you.

You tried to hit print again, but though your fingers brushed the necessary keys, your body refused to cooperate.

"Fuck, come on, you stupid—"

You couldn't. You couldn't bring yourself to do it. You groaned, dropping your head before heading to the sink to grab a glass of water and another aspirin because this whole thing was driving you mad and you were so tense you felt like you were about to snap. You considered the laptop as you chugged the glass of water, stalling so you had time to think.

You couldn't do this to him. It would be too much, after what had happened to him in the past, and he didn't deserve it. You refused to destroy him, break him down so thoroughly, just to save your own skin. You'd hand yourself over if it ever came to that. He deserved… he deserved the truth. Not a lie, or a knife to the back. If the truth was the only thing you could give him, you would.

You backspaced the text on the screen, and before you could reconsider, you started to type. You had to do it without thought, working to keep the majority of your focus elsewhere. If you allowed yourself time to analyze your actions, you'd end up straying too close to the realization you were avoiding. You'd fall into the open trap that was waiting below you, its jaws wide and ready to snap shut. This needed to be quick.

Your finger had shifted towards the print button again when your phone rang. You didn't want to answer it, but you were distracted and the instinct was automatic. Late night calls were sometimes clients seeking your assistance, and your price went up after dark.

"Hello?" you said hoarsely.

"Ms. Hind?"

"Speaking." You knew that voice. You dug around in the back of your mind until you managed to yank out a name. "You're, uh, Anya's owners, right?"

"That's right! Listen, I know this is sudden but she got out again and—"

You passed a hand over your face, leaning against the table. "Listen, this really isn't a good time for me." Even if you hadn't been planning to leave, it had been a long, stressful, exhausting day chasing threads. You'd barely had time to stop and eat or drink all day, and now you were running on fumes. Your earlier encounter with Matt hadn't helped matters, the exposure to his threads and the use of your abilities leaving you drained.

"Please," the woman begged, her voice choked and absolutely miserable. "David had an accident a few weeks ago and we can't go out and look for her like w-we usually would. There's construction work nearby and we think she got scared away from her normal hiding spots. We'll pay! We have cash, we were going to use it for a reward but if you can find her—"

You turned and glanced at your open duffle, and the clothes beside it. You bit your lip. You hadn't been able to get the cash you'd wanted. That had originally been on the docket for tomorrow or the day after. This could be a gift in disguise, something to help pad your pockets until you'd reestablished yourself elsewhere.

"Please. I… we were going to offer a thousand for a reward. You can have it all, we'll have cash for you tonight if you can bring her home."

You shuddered, and swallowed down a sound. Just a little longer. A little longer in Hell's Kitchen. One last walk-around, and a chance to say goodbye.

"I'll be over soon."

-x-

You tracked Anya wearily across warm streets and endless back alleys. The little Russian Blue was indeed treading a new path instead of following her familiar route through her own territory. The change was probably sparked by the nearby construction her owners had mentioned. The noise would be enough to put anyone off, much less a small animal with sensitive ears. Like the last time you'd tracked her, you followed the red thread easily, wiping away the blood from your nose that dripped out every few blocks. The droplets that escaped your hand quickly vanished into the sea of color that swirled knee-deep at your feet.

You tried to pretend you couldn't feel the warmth from Matt's white thread, the white that surely pulsed under your feet where it blanketed the city. His love for Hell's Kitchen encompassed it in its entirety, down to the very streets you walked on now. It was as if each step sent a shock of affection zipping up your tired legs until you swore he was standing there over your shoulder, radiating that warmth behind you. But when you turned to look, there was no one there. It was nothing but your imagination. Of course he wasn't there. You'd sent him away.

You needed to focus, to find that calm mental space inside you where there was nothing to think on but the movement of your feet and the thread you wound in against your fingers. If you could reach that state, the ache in your muscles, your growing hunger and thirst, and your wavering emotional state would fade away to background noise. Despite your efforts, your mind refused to quiet and give you that peace. You grit your teeth. You'd need to get out of the city fast after this. Your own thoughts would sabotage you if you waited long enough.

Maybe you wanted them to. Maybe they already had, and that was why you were still here.

Shut the fuck up. Just shut up.

You'd find the cat. Get the reward. Leave with cash in hand.

Protect yourself. All else was irrelevant.

In your distraction, you kept your eyes down even as the apartments and businesses around you transitioned into blocks of warehouses. The lights weren't as bright here as it became more industrial, broken streetlights leaving yawning gaps of shadow between the rare splashes of illumination. You ducked through an abandoned lot, dry grass crunching under your boots. You were headed for the run-down warehouse that lay at the far end of the property behind a rusted chain link fence topped with barbed wire. The building had seen better days, all filthy cement and darkened, dusty windows in need of a good scouring. The thread in your hand shifted back and forth as you walked. You were close now. You hitched the cloth cat carrier higher on your shoulder.

There were plenty of parked cars sitting silently in the small parking lot, which seemed odd for the late hour and considering the windows were dark. You didn't think much of it as you ducked through a hole in the chain link fence and headed around the back of the building where the thread led you. People kept odd hours in New York, so it wasn't enough to set off any of your internal alarms.

"Here kitty, here Anya," you called tiredly, clucking your tongue and shaking the treat bag. "Here kitty, come on. Need to come out so I can leave. Please, silly kitty."

There was a meow, and you caught a gleam of yellow as Anya's eyes refracted what little light the streetlights provided here back behind the building. She was perched up on top of a dumpster, her tail swishing as she peered curiously at you with precisely zero regret at the inconvenience she'd caused you. Yup, that was definitely her. The red thread in your hand crossed the space, ending where it disappeared into Anya's fuzzy chest.

You tried to let your third eye close but it didn't close so much as snap shut, the threads around you blinking out of existence in an instant as you stumbled on your feet at the sudden wave of exhaustion that swept over you. Jesus, let's not open that for a while. At least you'd found the cat before that happened. You kneeled awkwardly on the gravel, grateful for a breather. "Hello, pretty kitty," you murmured, wiggling your fingers at her. "Here, Ms. Anya."

"Hey! The fuck are you doing to that cat?"

You lurched clumsily to your feet, your mouth going dry, but a hand on the back of your neck stopped you from turning around. It was a large hand, thick and calloused, and you held your own hands out to the side. "Nothing," you said, your voice a little shaky before you swallowed it down. Just your luck that you caught the eye of a security guard or a cop. "I'm just here to bring the cat home, that's all."

"How do I know you're not gonna use it for a dogfight or something?" The male voice behind you was suspicious as he shook you lightly. It sounded like it was coming from somewhere above your head behind you, so he was most likely taller than you by a fair amount. He wasn't standing close enough for you to headbutt, either, so no luck there if you had to fight your way free. Not that you were in much of a condition to do so.

"If you let me get my phone, I can show you a picture and prove it."

"Where's your phone?"

"Front left pocket."

His other hand reached forward and dug around in your jacket pocket until he could fish out your phone. He took your wallet, too. He placed your phone into your hand so you could unlock it while he flipped through your wallet. You unlocked your phone reluctantly, and flipped through the texts until you found the picture Anya's owners had sent you. They were both smiling in the photo as they held her up between them, Anya's face the definition of long-suffering feline exasperation. You held up the phone over your shoulder. "See? Her owners. I came to get her and take her home. That's all."

"Turn around, slowly."

"Only if you let go of my neck." You cleared your throat, rocking your head against his grip meaningfully. You couldn't turn with him holding you this tightly.

"Fine." He released you and you heard him take three quick steps away, gravel crunching under his feet. When you finally shuffled around to face him he had a gun in one hand, aimed carefully at your legs where he could quickly disable you without killing you. He flicked on a flashlight in his other hand and you squinted at the bright light as it passed over your face. He glanced down at your wallet and then back up. "Well, I'll be damned. You really are that psychic. The one James was talking about. Thought you stole her license or something."

Jesus, I need to get some more confidentiality agreements drawn up.

"You know James?"

He rolled one shoulder, lowering his gun and you tried not to sag in relief. "Nah, not really. We live on the same block though and our girls talk. Whole block was on about the psychic and the lawyer who helped out after though. Hard to miss."

"Well, that's me." You waved your phone. "Believe me now?"

"Yeah," he sighed, holstering his weapon and handing you back your wallet. He didn't look like a cop or a security guard. His clothes were too casual for that: jeans and a t-shirt with no name tag or company logos. He was lean, far taller than you, and had a scrappy mop of curly blonde hair that had frizzed up in the humid night air. Even though he appeared relaxed, he still moved with the smooth grace of a man who was accustomed to violence even if he didn't go looking for it. You needed to be careful. "Sorry, you have no idea how many people pick on cats. Makes me so fucking mad. But I figure you're good."

Your brow furrowed as you peered up at him. "Why?"

"Cause if you're the psychic my girlfriend was talking about, you also found Tony Esposito's cat when James sent him to you and Tony said the cat liked you."

Huh. Kinda nice to be recognized for something nice for once.

"And also, you know." He gestured at you and raised his brows. "Heard about Oscar."

Fuck.

He watched you as you knelt down again and psspsspss'd at Anya, trying to lure her back over. "Figured you'd be making too much money to be chasing down cats."

You shook the treat bag again as Anya came trotting over to you, purring and rubbing your fingers as she sat for her treats. He seemed to have a soft spot for cats based on the way he crouched next to you and gave the cat a fond stroke down the spine. Maybe you could use that to get out of here. "Well, you know how it is. People freak when they lose their cat; I had to help."

He nodded, picking up a treat Anya had dropped so he could offer it to her. "My girlfriend would definitely lose it, and I kinda would too if we lost Smokey. Fuckin love that cat. You gotta hurry though, Ms. Jane. I'm the only one out here right now but that changes in ten minutes and they ain't as nice as me." He reached over and held the cat carrier open as you lured Anya inside with a few treats, and you quickly zipped it shut the second she was inside, sweat starting to slide down your temple.

There was trouble lurking here somewhere, it sounded like, and you needed to make your getaway ASAP before it came looking for you and your night got worse.

"Done. Thanks." You hefted the carrier up with a grunt, slinging it over your shoulder. Anya let out a mournful wail of displeasure at having been so summarily caged, and you shushed her as you started to walk. The man shadowed you, trying to hide you from view as you headed toward the fence. Once you were past the parking lot, it was a short jog across the open abandoned lot back to the next building. You didn't cherish the idea of crossing that empty space when someone might be looking for you, but you didn't have much of a choice. You'd just have to keep your head down, move quickly, and try not to collapse for a nap in the middle of the dried grass.

"Hush, kitty," said the man. Anya had only upped her volume as you both trotted along, and it was going to attract notice if you weren't careful. He patted the carrier at your back, trying to soothe her. "Hush kitty, hush kitty—"

"Jason! You got another delivery over there?"

The man's hand came up and grasped the back of your shirt, yanking you to a stop.

That can't be good.

"Fuck," he spat, his fingers curling tight in your shirt. "Fuck—"

"I take it this is bad." You licked your lips, trying to calculate whether you could make a run for it, even tired as you were. Adrenaline was a hell of a drug, after all. As if he could sense what you were about to do, he tightened his grip on your shirt in warning.

"Jason! Answer me, fuckhead! What're you doing over there?"

"Play along or she'll fucking shoot and then your boss will kill me, understand?" he hissed, swiveling around. As he did so, he took the cat carrier from you smoothly and marched you forward towards the side of the building where a metal door had opened. A figure stood in the open doorway, the glow of a lit cigarette still held in one hand. The woman must have come out for a smoke break; just your luck. "Jesus, just chill the fuck out Sarah."

"The fuck were you doing?"

"She was looking for that cat wandering around earlier," he snapped, dragging you along until you both stopped in front of the open doorway. He indicated the bag over his shoulder. "Was helping her get it so she could leave."

"You and your goddamn cats, Jason, I swear to god." The dark-haired woman standing there exhaled a puff of smoke with a roll of her eyes. She was dressed casually like Jason beside you, and she was equally armed, which meant if you tried to run, your odds of being shot had just risen astronomically. Her hair was pulled back away from her face, exposing sharp cheekbones and eyes that were far too intelligent for your liking. This woman wasn't going to miss much. She clicked on another flashlight and aimed it at your face. You lifted a hand to block some of the light. "She looks familiar. One of— Jesus, that's one of his, you goddamn dumbass!"

"She's not—"

"Shut up!" She shoved at him, dropping her cigarette and catching you at the collar as you started to run. You snaked your hand down for your knife where it was hidden in your jacket and lashed a kick out at her, but this wasn't a couple drunken dudes looking to steal a few bucks and you were exhausted. She dodged your kick and caught your wrist with ease, twisting it up before you could even get close to the hidden knife. Just as fast, she hooked one of your legs with her own and knocked it out from under you, sending you to one knee in the gravel with a grunt. The sharp stones dug up, digging hard through the denim of your jeans as you tried to get your feet under you, but she shoved you down again. "You come to spy on us, huh? Did he send you?"

"I'm just here for the cat, I swear," you croaked, leaning away from her grip as your heart raced. "God, I was just hired to get the cat—"

"You're lucky I don't shoot you," she muttered. She yanked you up off the ground and pushed you back towards Jason. "Take her downstairs with the others and toss her in a cell. We can't kill one of his or we'll be in deeper shit, but we can keep her like the others until we're ready to leave. Don't tell the boss or we're all fucked."

"We don't have any more working cells," Jason objected harshly, taking you by the back of the neck again as if holding you while he dragged you through the doorway. His hand was sweating, cold and clammy against your skin and the second you pressed back, you received a kick from behind that sent you stumbling forwards.

Cells? They're gonna put me in a cell?!

"I don't give a shit," she spat at him. "Find room, and keep your mouth shut. She's your problem and if she dies or gets found, it's on you." And then she slammed the door shut behind you, closing you into the dark of the warehouse.

"This is not good," he muttered after a beat, as if it weren't obvious. "Sorry."

"No shit," you panted. Your eyes darted around as you searched for an escape route, but there wasn't much to see. It was dark in here, though not dark enough to hide thanks to a dozen or so halogen work lights that had been positioned around the open layout of the warehouse floor. Here and there, freight trucks and moving vans were scattered about, with roughly half-a-dozen people you could see moving quickly and efficiently to shift cargo into the vehicles as a cargo elevator at the far end opened and a few people came through, hauling pallets of crates behind them.

"Come on, then. We'll take the stairs." He led you deeper into the warehouse, and by extension: further away from freedom. Even Anya had gone quiet, as if she too were trying to escape notice. Eventually, Jason brought you to an old, rusted steel staircase tucked away in one darkened corner, and you were forced to take it.

You'd thought the building was busy enough upstairs, but it was underneath the warehouse that it became a swarming hive of activity. Men and women passed you on the steel staircase without a second glance, and when you hit the bottom level, the space opened up to a sea of carefully-organized chaos. Well-lit metal tables were placed at regular intervals around the room where groups of people were busy packing up everything from disassembled guns to carefully wrapped bags of white powder. Each case was labeled and marked before it was set aside, presumably to be taken upstairs where it would be packed away into one of the trucks you'd seen. The business-like bustle of it was almost startling and you cast your eyes left and right, taking it all in as Jason pushed you onward.

God, Matt would have a field day in here.

You were guided down a twisting maze of tiled hallways, passing noisy rooms full of workers counting money and wrapping up even more packages, until at last you and Jason were the only ones in the empty hallway you'd turned down. The lights flickered dimly above you, poorly maintained here down a less-used corridor, and he directed you towards a closed door farther down. Pushing it open revealed a supply closet, shelves stacked high with dusty cleaning supplies and various tools. He shut the door behind you both and flipped on the lights, holding a finger to his lips when you opened your mouth to speak. You both waited a few minutes, and when no one came knocking he let out a breath. "We can't be in here for long, but—"

"The hell are you guys going to do to me?" you hissed. "The fuck are you—"

"Hey! I saved your goddamn life!" His tone was equally furious as he set the cat carrier down. "She's a fucking marksman and would have shot your ass otherwise."

You eyed him, your hands curling. He was bigger than you, and still armed, but in close quarters like this you had a chance if you could get to your knife, or maybe take his gun. But then what? You were in a building surrounded by enemies who'd watched him walk you down here. You were tired, drained, and hungry. There was no way you were fighting your way out of here. You needed to find another way.

"And so I ended up down here now, trapped?" You gestured weakly outwards and raised your eyebrows meaningfully. "Tell me how that's saving me."

"Listen!" He groaned, scratching his hands roughly through his curly hair. For the first time, you noticed how spooked he seemed to be. He hated this just as much as you, it seemed. "Boss wants us out of town in three days, ok? Your boss has made things too hot. So we got a few people, you know, in cells as a precaution. They all get let go when we all leave without getting shot up. We can't kill you, so you go in a cell, you get out in a few days, no harm done."

"How are they going to miss someone new in the cells?" The very idea was ridiculous; someone would notice you if they were keeping track of the prisoners at all. Captives didn't just spontaneously appear inside their cells.

"It's one person to a cell. I'll tell 'em boss said only I can talk to you. That should make them leave you alone." He rubbed at his chin, thinking. "There's only one cell I can put you in. The water doesn't run there, it's why we aren't using it, but I can bring you food and water. Ok?"

"And if it's not ok?"

"I mean, you could try to leave but they'd just shoot you, and then probably me too, so…"

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

How the fuck were you supposed to get out of this one? You'd just… you'd just wanted to find the cat and snag one last easy payday. Of course it all had to go to shit because that was what your life was now, just a seemingly endless series of fuck-ups. And yeah, maybe you'd put yourself into this situation, but goddamn it, you wished you could catch a break.

"You can't lead me out from another exit?" You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to hold back the tears of frustration. If you came out of this, you were never delaying an escape for money again. Next time you'd just book it, cash be damned.

He shot you a look. "Sarah up there will kill us both if you get out, and to be fair… she's right. We can't risk you getting out and telling him before we get out of town. Just hang tight for a few days. That's all."

"Why are you doing this?" you asked him, confused as you wrapped your arms around yourself. God, you were thirsty and exhausted and sweating, and this room felt far too crowded, and Matt wasn't here and you just wanted it all to go away. Anya meowed pitifully as if in agreement, clawing at her carrier. "Why are you trying to help me?"

He glanced at the carrier down by his feet. "You're supposed to be good people, and me and my girl like cats," he said sheepishly. "You helped my bro find his cat. So, you know. You're owed, I guess. He was pretty broken up about it, would have done anything to find her and you—"

An idea began to blossom in your mind, but… no. You'd closed that door, slammed it shut in his face, and it would be the height of selfishness to reach out now just because you'd gotten you into trouble again. Even if you were willing to, how the fuck would you spin that to yourself? To him? You were supposed to sever that connection and leave for good. Lighting that thread back up would undo all your progress tonight, and you weren't sure you'd be able to pull off a clean break again.

Except… you were about to be put into a cell, with no easy means of escape, and you were scared. They might let you out in a few days, as promised, or… they might not. You could die here alone, all because you'd refused to accept the help you'd long known was there waiting for you. And now you were just desperate enough to consider taking that hand Matt had held out to you for so long.

You knew where this would go if you put your plan to action. You knew… where it would end, could see that path as surely as miles of open road on flat land. You wouldn't be able to close this door once you opened it again. He wouldn't let you…and you wouldn't want to. New York would be where you'd stay, and damned be the consequences.

You made the decision, and something cracked inside your chest like the fracturing of old ice.

"I have the address if you want to take her back," you said softly, keeping your eyes low. You had to play this just right, or all your agonizing over your choice would amount to less than nothing. You needed him sympathetic enough to do what you were going to ask of him. "They miss her a lot."

He sighed. "Yeah, alright. I know I'd be broken up too. You gimme the address and I'll take her over there. Then gimme your phone, I can't let you keep it. Sorry."

You nodded, pulling out a pad of paper and pen from your pocket and writing down the address you pulled up from your phone. Then you handed him the address and your phone, the latter with great reluctance. You'd had the brief thought that you might send him to a very different address, but he'd already seen the photo of Anya's owners on your phone and you had no hope anyone would even be home when Jason made it over there. Not at this time of night. No, the real part of your plan came next.

"Also, I, uh... Listen, I get what you're doing and I'm grateful," you said, biting your lip and letting your breath hitch. "But I've got a guy who'll be worried about me." It was the truth, you knew, so you were able to say it without lying. The angle you were taking made sense. He'd said he had a girl, and his voice had warmed with true affection when he mentioned her, so hopefully, this was the right path to take with him.

"Oh come on," he groaned again. "It'll just be a few days. Look, you want me to leave a note or something—"

"I would, but my… my fiancé," you licked your lips as the lie slipped out smoothly, shifting on your feet and letting your voice pitch low and mournful, "he's blind. And he'd… he'll be so upset if he comes home and I'm not there, you know? You have a girlfriend. Can you even imagine how upset she'd get?"

He grimaced but you could see him wavering when you mentioned his girlfriend. The thought of her finding him missing had hit him hard, as intended, and you tossed in one last bit of bait.

Please, please, please, let this work.

"And look, he's a lawyer, right?" You held your hands up. "So he'd be a good guy to have in your pocket if you're ever in trouble. Even if you could just call him and tell him I'm… that someone needed my help, that'd be enough. I'd be really grateful, and so would he, if you catch my meaning."

Someone knocked on the door and he grabbed you by the shoulder again. "Listen, I'll try to let him know. What's his name?"

I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.

You swallowed hard, drawing in a breath.

"Matt Murdock. Nelson and Murdock legal practice."

-x-

He led you back down the maze of hallways, only now you took a different path. You tried as best you could to track the twists and turns but it wasn't long before you lost your sense of direction and were hopelessly lost. The people that passed you generally ignored you, though you got a few knowing looks that made you uncomfortable enough to edge closer to the wall. Eventually, you came to a large, narrow room with seemingly only one other occupant—a guard, sitting in a folding chair near the door and reading a magazine. He grunted when you and Jason entered but didn't otherwise move as you looked around.

There wasn't a lot to look at. The walls and ceilings were a dull, unpainted concrete, clearly built for utility and not for enjoyment or artistic beauty. Pale light flickered overhead, cast from cheap fluorescent bulbs that did a poor job of illuminating what lay across from the entry door. There, set evenly along the far wall, were six inlaid, rusted-steel doors. Each had a small slot at the bottom, presumably where food and water could be passed through. Only the door at the far end on your right was open, and it was the one Jason led you to.

You had a moment of panic as you stood in front of the cell. Though the door was open, little light penetrated the darkness that waited to swallow you up and your body reacted to the familiarity of it. No. Not this. Not another one. Not again. Your body locked up and your heels skidded to a stop, your breathing momentarily pitching up as you resisted the pressure at your back, resisted being forced back into another dark cell, back into a nightmare you'd thought long gone.

The hand at your back pushed a little harder. "The guard's looking. If you don't go in, we'll both die." His voice was careful and cautious, trying to goad you without alerting anyone else. "Please. I promise I'll bring you what you need, but you have to go in."

You didn't have a choice. You didn't have a phone, or another way out. All you had left was your knife, your wits, and a sense of trust, not in the man behind you but in the Devil you hoped still had your back.

You forced yourself to walk into the cell, and the door closed behind you with an ominous bang, leaving you in the dark.

-x-

Matt, still garbed in black, quietly raised the window and slipped into your apartment on silent feet. As he did, his heart sank.

You'd pulled your bag out from under the floorboards. He'd known it was there—had smelled it and its contents on your hands the past few weeks, had long ago noted its presence the first time he'd ever set foot inside your apartment—but he'd hoped… hoped you'd never have reason to use it.

Now it was clear what was happening, and why you'd pulled away from him. He cast his senses out, searching for you even as something inside him twisted in grief. Your escape bag was on the bed, packed with supplies and ready to go, and you'd placed some clothes on the chair next to it. You'd gone through the apartment to gather a few select items up, but you'd left most of your belongings alone. He could feel the fading heat in the floorboards where you'd walked, your familiar scent rich here where you spent so much time, but both had started to dissipate. You'd been gone for… hours at least. Had you just… decided to leave the bag? To trick him into thinking you were coming back for it? You'd run before; you probably had stashes elsewhere should you need to leave without returning to your apartment. You could have left this one to throw him off.

He'd just wanted to give you some time and space before he came to you again, but he'd waited too long. He'd waited too long and now you were gone, vanished with nothing left for him but ghosts.

He'd done this. He'd… he'd finally scared you off now that you'd seen he cared for you. And why wouldn't you run from him? You had enough issues without the massive pile of baggage he dragged behind him everywhere he went, without the inherent danger a man of violence like him presented. He'd wanted you to be afraid of him, and maybe now you were. It was because of him you'd become more involved with Fisk, because of him that you'd had to cut ties and run.

Run. Left. Just like all the others. His chest hitched, but you weren't there to hear it. He couldn't sync his breathing with yours; your soothing heartbeat wasn't anywhere he could hear. You weren't there to talk him down in soft tones, and your hands—cool and kind and so very wanted—couldn't brush against his face until he'd settled. That comfort you'd once offered him had been stripped away. Instead, he was alone yet again.

The chair beside your bed was a victim of the surge of despair that swept through him. It smashed against the far wall, leaving a hole in the drywall where it had impacted after he'd thrown it aside. Chest heaving, he traced the path you'd taken around the apartment. You'd come in the front door and headed straight for the bag, which you'd pulled out from under the floorboards. You'd paced: your feet warming the floorboards beneath you more than the surrounding floor. Then you'd started gathering things up from the bathroom and returned to shove them into the bag.

He tasted salt in the air. You'd cried. Not much, but enough for it to pass across his tongue.

You'd wound up at the kitchen table and he wandered towards it. You'd brought out your braille printer, and your laptop hummed quietly beside it in sleep mode. The scent of adrenaline and aggression was strong here. You'd been fighting yourself on something that had to do with him—there was only one person a braille letter could be for, after all. There was a crumpled piece of paper on the ground nearby and he retrieved it, unfolding it with hesitant fingers. A part of him didn't want to hear what you had to say, couldn't bear the thought of this night cutting any deeper, but he'd never been one to avoid pain even when he could.

There was a tear along the bottom edge, and minute scratches in the paper. You'd pulled it out before it could finish printing. That was… odd. There were no other finished notes or letters around; why pull this out if you didn't plan to finish it?

He tried to stifle the hope that rose in him—hope that you were coming back, that he could talk you down from whatever escape plan you were enacting—and tugged one glove off. He licked his lips and ran his shaky fingers over the paper quickly, as if by reading at speed he could lessen the blow of whatever you'd been planning to tell him.

Whatever you'd intended to say, you hadn't let the printer get very far. There wasn't much for him to read, not even a full sentence.

'Matt. I know abou'

There was nothing else, no further words to decipher or agonize over. He ran his fingers up and down the paper a few more times, searching out any further clues. Why? Why wouldn't you finish the letter? Why leave the cash, the documents? You hadn't destroyed the laptop or any other items that might leave some real trace of you behind. You'd only taken your phone, your wallet, and your—

He turned and scanned through the apartment again, trying to find some trace, but no. You'd taken your keys, too. Why would you take your keys if you weren't coming back?

He turned back to the laptop and printer. Both were still turned on, and when he nudged the touchpad it made a quiet beep, the screen flickering on with a hum. Not that he could read it, but… maybe he didn't have to.

The control key on a board for the sighted was in the lower left corner, the P up on the right. You may not have had a braille setup, but he'd used enough modified keyboards to know his way around. That wasn't the issue. The issue was he couldn't tell what he was printing. For all he knew, you'd closed the program already. After a long moment, he held down the two keys and then tapped enter.

For a second he worried he'd gotten it wrong, but then the printer sputtered to life and began to print, rapidly indenting the paper with the series of dots that would give him… something. He paced as he waited, tracking your past movements further as he did.

"Talk to me. What were you doing?"

You'd wandered into the kitchen after you'd crumpled up the paper. You'd pulled down a bottle of aspirin, and used a glass of water to take it. The glass was still in the sink, the imprint of your lips lingering on the edge. You were tired, and aching—he could taste that much on the air, if the aspirin hadn't given it away. Then you'd come back to the printer, and typed something before you'd left, seemingly abandoning your plan for the moment. Had you gotten a call?

He passed his hands over the wall in front of where you'd stood for a long moment, and he could just barely feel the lingering condensation. You'd been speaking here. There hadn't been anyone else in the apartment, so it was most likely a call, as he'd suspected. A job? You'd always been honest with him about your desire for money, and though at first he'd judged you for it, he'd understood once he'd had time to think it over. Had you put all this off for one last job?

The printer beeped, signaling it was finished printing. He'd just have to hope that whatever was on the paper, it gave him what he needed to track you down, maybe change your mind. Or… or let him know for sure you were done with him.

He lifted your letter from the printer tray as if the paper was made of glass, and his fingers hesitated. For all he knew, you'd never intended for him to read this. Just because it had been ready to print didn't mean you were going to send it. Not only that but… but this could hurt. You'd mentioned how you'd cut people loose before, how thoroughly you sliced that thread apart.

He shuddered at the fresh memory of your hands doing… something to him. He'd felt it before, a strange hum along his skin when you used your ability to take hold of the threads he couldn't sense. It was different when those connections were his. It was like you'd slid your fingers deep inside his chest, each gentle stroke along a thread dragging memories and emotions out of him unbidden as you held his connections in the palm of your hand like they were something delicate and worth treasuring. And then you'd touched what he presumed was the thread between the two of you, because not only had he been kicked headlong into a swirl of warm thoughts and memories of you, he could have sworn he received a rush of warmth directed back. It had all quickly been overwhelmed, though, by a surge of panic—not his, but yours.

He needed to know, one way or another, and so he forced his fingers to drag across the paper and read what you had to tell him.

By the time he was done he knew what he needed to do, a small, tentative bloom of hope tucked away deep inside him. He left the paper there on your table, and disappeared back into the city. He wouldn't stop until he found you.

-x-

Some blocks away, one Jason Bronewen was being handcuffed against the hood of his car, arrested on drug charges and a pile of unpaid parking tickets. He'd been caught on the road for expired plates not long after returning a small Russian Blue to her owners in Hell's Kitchen.

Thanks to a sting the previous evening resulting in a backlog, it would be roughly 12 hours before he had access to a phone. He would use his one phone call to seek legal counsel.

The human body can survive without water, on average, for three days.

The clock was ticking.