Your cell was roughly six strides by six strides.
The interior was sparsely furnished as far as your questing fingers could tell. There was no mattress. No toilet, either—just a narrow hole in the cement floor where it had once been, though that hole was at least large enough for you to use should it come to that. Somewhere up above you was a vent that periodically spat forth a rush of warm, stale air. There was an old sink, grimy and covered in dust. Nothing escaped the faucet when you finally managed to wrench the rusted handle into the 'on' position. Even if it had worked, you weren't sure you'd trust what came out of the pipes.
Then again, you were pretty thirsty, and that thirst would only get worse unless someone came by with some water.
You spent what must have been hours restlessly mapping the cell and messing with the door if only to keep your mind off the darkness around you. Your efforts proved futile: the heavy steel door was sealed tight and no amount of prying from you could work so much as a screw free. All the attempts did was leave your nails chipped and bloodied. You had a little more luck with a small vent you found set low against the wall, though 'luck' was a relative term. You used your knife to loosen the four screws holding it into the wall, and then you had… a vent panel, and four rusty screws.
Maybe you could hit someone with the panel?
This is not going well.
You were well and truly trapped.
Panic welled up inside you, snapping its teeth and straining against the heavy chains you'd bound it down with, ghosts that whispered of padded rooms filled with nothing but pitch black murk roiling upwards from the depths of memory. You lifted a hand to bite your fist, taking a few calming breaths, trying to anchor yourself to the present. Above all, you needed to remain calm because even though the vent above you only rattled to life occasionally, it was still running often enough to keep the cell unpleasantly warm, and you couldn't risk sweating more than you already were. A panic attack could kill you, here.
You weren't unaware of what might be coming as time dragged on. You'd lived in warmer locales, in cities where summer heat waves were common and everyone with the means sought shelter during the hottest parts of the day when the sun burned so bright your shoes could melt against the scorched asphalt. With all the time you spent outside while tracking, it had been in your best interest to learn the symptoms of dehydration and heat stroke.
So focus. Think. Take stock.
You'd had a glass of water before you left your apartment, but that had been hours ago and you were fairly certain you'd sweated most of it out as you chased after Anya. It was also warm tonight, so you were likely already dehydrated, if only mildly. Hopefully it hadn't affected your cognition yet, but that would come in time, along with other unpleasant symptoms if you weren't careful. Though you were trapped underground—something that normally would have kept you cool—there was a heater above you ensuring the cell stayed warm. Lastly, there was no water to be found here that might help you replenish what you'd already lost.
Until Jason came with water or Matt found you, you needed to conserve your energy and avoid any unnecessary exertion.
I'm on my own until then.
You'd been in a cell before thanks to the Man in the White Coat. You'd survive this one, too. There may have been a few minor differences—this cell wasn't padded to prevent you from hurting yourself, for one—but the darkness that pressed down on you like endless fathoms of lightless water was familiar. You'd come to loathe that pitch-black emptiness, and it had taken you years to shake off your fear of darkness like this. But if you kept your mind busy and Matt found you quickly, you'd be alright, though you wouldn't be surprised if you wound up having nightmares again. Nightmares I can handle. Just keep yourself occupied. You went back to the low vent, moving more slowly this time and careful not to work up a sweat. Maybe there was something inside the small opening you could use.
The vent was just large enough to get your arm through, so you stretched out flat on your belly and slid your arm inside shoulder-deep. There was no vertical space to move your arm, only a path forward, so you reached as far as you could, feeling around until your sore fingers eventually brushed what felt like another vent panel. The panel you'd left on the ground scraped noisily against the concrete when you bumped into it, the sound painfully loud in the confines of your cell.
"Hey, you wanna keep it down over there?"
You paused at the voice coming through the vent. Whoever it was on the other side, their voice was low and smooth and… bizarrely, completely relaxed. They weren't anywhere near as worried as you were.
"Hello?"
"Yeah, I can hear you, kid."
Jason said there were other prisoners. Wonder who this guy is?
At this point, it didn't really matter. You were just glad for the company. That was something you'd never had when you were younger and found yourself in a cell like this. You almost laughed to yourself in relief, pushing yourself up and leaning back to sit against the wall next to the vent. It was as close as you could get to another person right now and you'd take it, all things considered. "I was kinda worried I was alone in here to be honest. Sorry for the noise."
"No worries. We're all stuck in here together. Bound to go a little batshit 'til they let us out in a few days."
"I wish I could believe that."
God, you were thirsty, and hungry too. Your eyes felt dry, so you let them drift shut. It wasn't like you could see anything anyway and you were exhausted and aching. It wasn't comfortable here exactly, tucked into the corner between the door and the low vent, but you'd make due. Sitting still was the best thing for you right now as you tried to think. It had been around two when you'd come back to your apartment, if you remembered correctly.
"Do you guys get fed on a schedule?" you asked suddenly.
"What?"
You cleared your throat. "I said do you guys get fed at a certain time?"
"As far 's I can tell. Not like they got a clock in here, kid, unless you got somethin' I don't in that cell of yours."
You tugged off your jacket and folded it up so you could place it behind your head, giving you something a little softer than concrete to rest against. It was too warm for the jacket anyway. You drew your knees up, letting your arms rest on them as you got comfortable. You were probably going to be here a while. "Breakfast? Dinner? Three meals?"
"Why the twenty questions?" Despite his jab, he sounded amused and not particularly unfriendly, so you kept going.
"Can't a girl be curious about the luxurious accommodations?"
Your neighbor snorted somewhere on the other side of the wall. "Breakfast and dinner, seems like. Nothin' much to write home but hey, food's food, right?"
You drummed your fingers against your knees. Well, the meals may not have been a clock, but the schedule would be enough to give you a rough estimate of the time and just how long you'd been in here. "Can you tell me when they bring you food?"
The sound of a rough chuckle drifted through the vent, warped and tinny as the sound bounced around inside the small opening before making its way to your cell. "If you're really that interested, sure."
"Thank you."
You fell asleep there against the wall, tired and aching and thirsty.
-x-
He searched until dawn.
He tried to follow your scent trail outside your apartment building but only got as far as the curb where you'd presumably entered a cab.
He couldn't hear your voice or your heartbeat, though he listened.
He couldn't catch your scent, though he worked his way back and forth in a grid pattern across Hell's Kitchen.
He couldn't feel you in his chest, though he tried to open up that part of him you'd inadvertently touched when you'd seen his threads.
You were just… gone.
The possibility that this was what it seemed—that you'd left—was a prickly thought, a shard of glass that burrowed in deeper every time he moved, but he refused to consider it. It wouldn't make any sense, not when you'd left so much identifying material behind and not when you'd failed to put your escape plan into action. Your letter had made that clear.
The letter.
He'd steeled himself against the multitude of cruel things he might read in that note he'd printed from your laptop. You'd warned him months ago that you left no ties, cutting to the bone as cruelly and mercilessly as you could on your way out. The truth was the last thing he'd expected when you were so adept at dodging questions, an expert at lying without actually lying. But instead of half-lies or calculated insults, he'd found honesty instead.
You were sorry. You were scared at what you might bring down on him. And all you wanted was to stay.
He knew he might be able to change your mind if you gave him the opportunity. There'd been too much uncertainty in your words, your will crumbling even as you prepared to run. All Matt wanted was a few minutes, one more touch, one more chance to offer his hand. And then… then he'd let you go, if that was still what you wanted. He wouldn't, couldn't force you to stay, but he also couldn't shake the notion that you were safer here where he could watch your back. There had to be a way for him to help you, if only you'd just... let him in.
You'd opened the door with that letter, just a crack but enough for him to see you. There was hope, and he had to try.
But as the cruel hours ticked by with no sign of you and dawn chased back the night in streaks of pale color he could feel but not see, that hope inside him began to wither. Another visit to your apartment confirmed you hadn't returned, and his own apartment remained equally empty despite his hope that perhaps you'd sought refuge there using the key he'd left for you.
Where were you?
She's gone.
The idea seized his heart and squeezed with iron fingers as he let himself back into his apartment from the rooftop door. He dragged his mask off with heavy hands, rubbing tiredly at his eyes. At what point was he just going to accept that you were gone? You'd seen all you needed to make the smart move and get the hell out of his life. He shouldn't have expected anything else. This was pointless, it was all—
His work phone rang where he'd left it on the table, a robotic voice announcing Foggy's call. He leapt nimbly over the broken floorboards at the bottom of the stairs, striding to the kitchen table and only just managing to answer before it went to voicemail.
"Foggy?"
"Hey man. You coming in soon?" Foggy's cadence was off, stilted in the way it always was when he was trying to figure out how to deliver unpleasant news painlessly. Matt had heard that tone more than once, and there was no mistaking it.
"Is something wrong?"
"It's about Jane. Her partner called. She's gone missing."
-x-
Noise in the neighboring cell stirred you awake. The abrupt movement as you lifted your head made you a little dizzy despite the lack of any visual reference point inside your cell. You tried to focus, making out the rough scrape of a metal across concrete. They must have slid a tray of food through the slot next door. You directed your eyes towards the tiny crack of light along the bottom edge of your cell door. Jason had said he'd bring you food and water, so surely he'd be here soon.
Minutes ticked by, without so much as a shadow to interrupt that narrow band of light.
Maybe Jason had forgotten you. Or worse, he'd never intended to bring you water at all.
Dread raked ice-tipped claws down your spine, so sharp you'd swear you felt your skin freeze and fracture. You forced yourself to breathe through the sudden terror, forcing air in through your nose and out through your mouth in a steady rhythm. You needed to keep your mind centered on the here and now. There wasn't anything to see, so you focused on other sensations instead: on the rough, cracked concrete under your fingers; on the smell of dust and rusty pipes; on the taste of blood where your lips had cracked and bled. You were here, and you were alive, and someone would come to let you out.
Probably Matt. And then he'd beat the shit out of everyone and maybe let you hit them too with that stupid rusty vent panel you'd ripped out of the wall until every last one of them got tetanus.
"Hey, kid. You soundin' a little fucked up over there. You ok?"
"Yeah." The word slipped out scratchier than intended after the rough bark of laughter you'd let out, and you swallowed around a dry throat before you tried again. "Yeah, just… don't like cells is all."
"Tell me about it. Guess you heard we got breakfast, huh?"
"Yeah." Instead of curling up again in the corner, you settled yourself down on the ground, dragging your jacket under your head with a sigh. You'd been right earlier. You were dehydrated thanks to last night's activities, there was no question now, and that meant you needed to be even more cautious. The cement beneath you was cool, a blessing you could take advantage of. You shifted until the low vent was above your head, your eyes locked onto the narrow band of light leaking in under the cell door. If food or water came through the slot, you wouldn't miss it, no matter how much you wanted to spit it back in someone's face. "Mine's not… not here yet, I guess."
A confused grunt echoed through the vent. "They usually feed us pretty regularly. 'M sure yours is comin', kid."
Until that meal arrived, maybe you'd sleep again, just for a little while. It wasn't much different from when you were small. Back then, the scientists had trapped you in darkness to see if your second sight would grow stronger without your physical eyes there to fuck things up. Now, you were here so you couldn't alert Fisk to whatever the hell these people were up to. In either case, your theory was the same: if you slept long enough, someone would show up to let you out. Eventually you drifted off again.
You dreamed of a murky creek that carried two currents, one above and one below. Try as you might, you could never quite reach the shadow of the man who swam along the bottom, turning over stones.
-x-
Foggy ran a hand down his face, pacing restlessly, while Karen chewed on the plastic pen she'd used to take notes, running back over what she'd written in neat shorthand. Matt meanwhile sat stiffly in front of his laptop, quickly running his fingers back and forth over the refreshable braille display as it processed last night's police reports on the screen into something he could read. Even after hours of discussion, urgent phone calls to potential witnesses, and a search of public records, the list of clues they had to go off of was far too short.
"So," Karen said, fiddling with the pen. "We know she told them it was a bad time on the phone, but they offered her money, which she accepted. She came by their apartment around 2:30A.M., and then she left to go track down the cat. That's the last time anyone saw her. Another man showed up at their house at 4:45A.M., dropped off the cat, and said Jane sent him to return it. She won't return anyone's calls, and she hasn't talked to her partner."
"So I'm going to be the first one to say it, even though I hate it," Foggy said, the rhythm of his steps pausing as he turned to face the table. His heavy sigh stirred the papers on the table minutely. "I think we have to consider that she might have just—"
"No." Matt's voice was sharp and clear, his fingers pausing in their movements. "She didn't run."
Foggy shook his head, floorboards creaking as he shifted back and forth on his feet. "Matt, she told us she had people after her. She used a fake name. I know you liked her, and we did too but—"
"She didn't run," he repeated, refusing to budge so much as an inch, his jaw clenching. "There's too much that doesn't fit."
"There are a few things here that are weird, Foggy," Karen agreed slowly, frowning down at the paper and tapping her pen against it meaningfully. "Why take the job for the money and then not come back to take it?"
"And why send someone else?" Matt pointed out, following Karen's line of thought. "She generally works alone. She doesn't use partners when she's out looking for something." Except for himself, but as far as he knew, he was the only one you'd ever allowed to tag along. There'd never been anyone else you'd let get close enough, not that he'd sensed. This stranger, whoever he was, was a sharp deviation from your usual pattern.
Foggy's footsteps slowed to a more pensive stride. "Alright, so let's play this out. You're her. You're using a false identity and you take a job for money. You really like money, because it makes you feel safe. You rarely turn down a chance at more. So, what could stop you from coming back to get it?"
"Something threatening that safety," Karen said, thinking out loud and leaning back in her chair. "If she's trying to make money to be safe, then that money being unsafe could stop her."
"Have we looked at her clients?" Foggy asked, directing his question to Matt.
Matt nodded. He'd spoken with Maya earlier. "Jane's partner knows them. The cat's something of an escape artist, but the family's always checked out. She vouched for them."
"Ok, so if it's not them, what else makes you walk away from that kind of money if you're her?"
"Whoever's chasing her could be here in the city." Karen glanced guiltily at Matt, her heartbeat skipping in concern before she said, even more quietly, "or if she… um, couldn't come back. For some reason."
He ground his teeth together. He couldn't pretend he hadn't considered the thought himself as he'd hunted for you last night, the idea that someone had snatched you up and prevented you from returning to your apartment or calling for help. If that were true, then that only made him more determined to find you, no matter who he had to go through to do it. And if those people had hurt you...
He dropped his hands under the table so no one could see the way they clenched into fists.
"So someone could have spooked her, or caught her." Foggy blew out a heavy breath, rolling his head back to relieve the strain in his neck with a dull pop. "Do we know if she'd been back to her apartment?"
"She didn't come back after the case," Matt said, his mind racing for an excuse as the two of them turned to look at him curiously. "I-uh, we-we were supposed to meet at her apartment early this morning, and she wasn't there. Her neighbor said she hadn't been back either before I got there. I waited for as long as I could, but..." Karen set a kind hand on Matt's shoulder and squeezed before she went back to her notes, adding the extra detail as Matt continued. "I've… I've been in her apartment. She told me she has things there she wouldn't leave if she had to run."
"So we're back to: something stopped her, or someone spooked her so bad she had to leave everything behind." Foggy went back to pacing.
"But if someone did grab her," Matt said, tilting his head, "then why send someone to return the cat?"
They all sat with that for a moment, puzzled. Matt ran a heavy hand through his hair, thinking. The news that you'd sent someone to return the cat, someone who hadn't collected the reward, had only complicated things. You weren't someone to turn down the money, and you definitely weren't someone who'd send another to do your own job. It was a point of pride. If you'd been spooked, you wouldn't have bothered to find someone to return the cat. And if you'd been captured, why would your captors send someone else to return a cat? Was it to avoid arousing any suspicions?
"We need to know who this guy is so we can talk to him." Karen dragged her pen across the paper, the smell of ink strong where she'd just underlined, 'stranger returning cat'. "He seems like he's the last person to have seen her."
Matt nodded, standing and letting his hands give the appearance of helping him navigate around the table. "I can go and talk to her clients, see if they have anything to say." If nothing else there was a chance he could catch your scent nearby, or the scent of the man who'd come to return to the cat. Even if the street was busy and he had to dig, it wouldn't be impossible. And then maybe, just maybe, he could use what he found to track down you or the stranger.
Foggy rapped his knuckles against the table, less tense now that they had a plan. "And I'll call a couple guys who live around there, check if they've seen her. Some of them keep pretty late hours."
"I'll help," Karen said quickly, gathering up her notes. "Maybe somewhere there's a, um, convenience store or something? We might be able to see her on a camera somewhere."
As Matt gathered up his things out front and shut the door behind him, he tried to ignore the conversation they started up in hushed, dejected tones once he'd left.
"I'll... call the hospitals, too. And the morgues. See if... if anyone came in that matches her description."
"Thank you. I didn't want to bring it up with him here. At least one of us deserves to have a little hope right now."
-x-
You couldn't tell if it was night yet. There was nothing inside your cell you could use to track time but at least you were getting caught up on your sleep. You tried not to worry, instead focusing on conserving your energy. Every once in a while you'd shift along the floor to a new spot, somewhere your body hadn't yet warmed the concrete. Jason still hadn't shown, and you weren't sure why. Things weren't dire yet, you told yourself. You refused to think that way, at least until your neighbor got his dinner. Then… maybe then you'd allow yourself to freak out a little.
When you weren't asleep, you listened, laying yourself out near the door and pressing yourself close to the open crack along the bottom. The hallway outside the room containing your cells was rarely used based on how often you heard someone pass by. Whoever was on watch didn't pay much attention to the cell doors, either: you'd tracked the scuffing of their footsteps when they got up to stretch or move around, but they never came towards the cells.
The other muffled noises you could hear took up most of your attention. Every once in a while people would speak loudly enough to be understood as they moved down the hallway, and you caught snatches of conversation. Generally it was the usual inane chatter between coworkers—weather, sports, weird news stories about body snatchers in Miami and Mothman sightings in Virginia. Sometimes though, they talked about their boss's hurry to leave. That was of far more interest to you. Whoever was in charge here was a small fry compared to the Russian Mob and Fisk, and that little fish wanted out as quickly and quietly as possible.
When someone mentioned the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, you couldn't help but grin just a little.
That moment of satisfaction was quickly washed away by a wave of anxiety and no small amount of guilt. You'd tried to get a message to him but even if it had been received, even if he'd known what it meant, why would he bother to track you down? You'd slammed that door soundly in his face, knowing what it would do to him. Hell, even before you'd seen that thread, you'd been planning to run. If he'd gone by your apartment while searching for you, he'd have sensed your bags, packed and ready as you prepared to abandon ship. You may not have stuck the intended knife into his back, but you'd sucker-punched him hard enough to leave a mark. You curled up tighter, your breath hitching.
No. He'll come. He wouldn't leave me here.
If there was one thing you knew about Matt Murdock, it was that he was always, always too ready to help. It wouldn't matter what you'd said, or that you'd been planning to abandon him. You'd… asked for his help. And he'd give it, no matter how much it hurt him to do so.
You didn't even notice the familiar rhythm your fingers had begun to drum on the floor.
Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap.
Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap.
Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap.
-x-
The scent of you outside your clients' ground-level apartment may have been faint, but it was there, buried beneath the tangle of other scents that always flowed down a busy city street. It was easy to lose track of your path on the sidewalk where foot traffic was heavier, but up near the front door there had been fewer people passing directly over your trail. He parted his lips, drawing the air across his tongue until he could taste you.
You'd definitely been here, though not for long. You'd been stressed, your scent dripping cortisol, and you'd also been tired, your footsteps leaving scuffs where they'd dragged across the pavement as you'd climbed the three steps leading to the front door. The natural oil from your hands marred the handrail when normally you'd have left it untouched, and you'd leaned against the door for a moment to rest.
The man with the cat that had along come after you—young, healthy, a few grams of coke in his pocket—had been nervous, the sour ripeness of adrenaline lingering as he knocked on the door, leaving a trace of gunpowder. He'd been armed at some point. The man's pheromones were stronger, more recent than yours, but… he'd definitely brought your scent with him. He hadn't just seen you: he'd touched you, enough for the smell of your skin to transfer from you to him… and you'd been scared.
His hands tightened into a white-knuckled grip on his cane. This only confirmed for him what he'd already suspected. You may have been planning to run. There was no mistaking your packed bags and the letter he'd read in your apartment. But something had interfered with your plans, and had prevented you from carrying them out. He knew you well enough to know it would have to be something serious. You were in trouble.
Where are you?
He wasted precious hours trying to track your scent. His efforts met some success initially as he followed your trail, sorting through stimuli and following the little clues you'd unknowingly left behind: a brush of your hand against a crosswalk button here, a scuff of your boot there. That success only lasted a few blocks until he came within range of the nearby construction site where they'd just begun to lay down a hot layer of asphalt. Whatever trace of you remained was quickly overwhelmed by the pungent, burning stench of petroleum and he was forced to retreat. He tried to circle the area, eating up more time as he worked his way methodically outwards but wherever your trail reappeared, he couldn't seem to find it.
He didn't have any luck with the man's scent, either. That trail began and ended at the curb in front of the apartment, tinted with the smell of gasoline, old leather seats, and one very angry cat. The man had brought his own car, though you hadn't been in it. Which meant the man had found you elsewhere, and had left you there. It wasn't much, but at least now he had something he could use to identify who this man was.
That was fortunate, since your client had little to share, though he did his best. The physical description was unhelpful to Matt, but potentially valuable to Foggy and Karen. The stranger had also, apparently, been very emphatic that his returning the cat had been at your direction.
"Did he say anything else? Maybe about Ms. Hind?"
The client, David, shook his head. He was seated in his wheelchair, broken leg propped up in a heavy cast. Beyond the faint traces of you in the doorway, there was no indication you'd been inside, and David's heart rate was steady and smooth, if slightly elevated in his concern. He'd had nothing to do with this. "Just that she was sorry she couldn't return Anya herself. She'd looked pretty exhausted when she showed up here earlier, but it was late and we were both grateful she'd shown up at all, so it didn't seem that unusual. We tried to call her to thank her, but she didn't pick up. That was why we called Maya this morning. I'm sorry I can't tell you more."
He'd found a few more clues, but still not enough, nowhere near enough to find you. He was running out of options, short of hunting until he found your scent somewhere beyond the fumes of the construction site. That could take hours at street level, and he grit his teeth at the thought of more wasted time.
Maybe later tonight, he could climb up to the rooftops and see if you'd done something similar. Up there, above the burn of asphalt and the cacophony of noise, the fresh breeze could easily carry a part of you to him. One of the few commonalities between your after-dark activities was the matching penchant for climbing up high to get a lay of the land. It was how this had all started, how he had first approached you, back when you'd been carrying a little wooden duck. You were always scrambling up fire escapes to the rooftops, trying to estimate where you were going to end up. Surely you'd done the same thing last night.
Except… you'd also been tired, your client had said, and that kind of climbing was a lot of work, especially with how hot it had been. No, if you'd climbed up onto a roof last night, it would only have been to catch the cat. You'd have stayed on the street whenever possible, and your trail indicated you'd chosen to remain on foot instead of taking a cab.
Eventually he started walking again, taking a wide berth around the construction site, his cane tapping rapidly as he moved. Your trail had to start up again on the other side somewhere. Even if your path led downwind, eventually the scent of asphalt would dissipate enough that he could find you again. He tried to contain his growing frustration as he searched, on the alert for any trace of you, but it quickly became obvious there was too much ground to cover, even for him. He growled and turned back towards his office. If he was lucky, Foggy and Karen would have something.
It was by sheer luck he passed down the street he did.
That scent, not yours but the stranger's, was all over the brick exterior of a local dry cleaner's. Matt jerked to a halt, ignoring the mumbled curses of those who now had to dodge around him. He turned his head, tracking the path from the wall to the street.
The stranger had stopped here, and had left his car, though it had long since been towed away. Why?
The scent of the man was strongest up against the brick wall, and Matt hovered near it, picking up notes of copper, sweat, and adrenaline. There was a small smear of blood there on one of the bricks where the man had been shoved against the wall, his feet kicked wide until they'd scuffed the pavement. The trail proceeded to the curb where it disappeared again, this time into an altogether different vehicle. That, combined with the unique scent of gunpowder, city-issued handcuffs, and latex gloves told Matt all he needed to know.
The man, whoever he was, had been arrested. You hadn't been with him in the car. Matt still didn't know where you were, or what had happened. But this… this was promising. If the stranger had been arrested, then there was a possibility he was somewhere in lockup right now. That, combined with the description your client had given, vastly narrowed the field.
He was about to call Foggy when his phone rang, and he quickly lifted it to his ear.
"Foggy, I found something."
"So did I. You're never gonna guess who called wanting our legal expertise. Tell me, my dear Matthew: when were you going to mention you were getting married?"
-x-
Your mouth was dry, and you were getting tired of the dark.
Without daylight or a way to keep track of how long you'd slept, you didn't have much hope of telling the time. You didn't know if it was late or early, or if the sun had set. They hadn't served dinner in the next cell yet, so you suspected it wasn't quite evening at the very least. The blackness inside the cell also made your occasional trips over to the hole in the ground a little awkward.
Sometimes you thought you saw things there in the dark—shadows within shadows—when you allowed your mind to drift, so you tried to keep your mind busy, gathering more information. You listened to the passersby outside, and had a few whispered conversations with the captive in the next cell. He seemed nice enough, at least, and he was open to conversation, to just talking as you listened, drifting in and out, safe in the knowledge you weren't completely alone here.
The three guards watching over the cells worked in shifts, according to your neighbor. You'd been listening for the shift change, waiting as patiently as you could in hopes that you might overhear some mention of the time. That would give you a better sense of just how many hours it had been since you'd been tossed in here. The guard currently outside was clearly growing bored, and you could hear the tinkle and chime of what you presumed was his phone as he played some sort of game. Every once in a while he'd greet someone, though, and now and then one of the other captives would get a visitor, the harsh squeal of rusted doors opening on their hinges setting you on alert.
Your door, however, remained closed.
Time passed, slow and fluid as you pressed your face to the small crack of light under the door and listened. Sometimes you imagined you could taste the cleaner air, parting your lips to breathe it down. It may not have smelled like roses in the room beyond yours, but it was better than here, where the air was stagnant and unmoving outside the rare, blessed moments when the vent in the ceiling kicked on.
Dinner came, and went.
The shift changed.
You remained alone.
And now… now you were starting to freak out a little, panic finally ripping free from its binds. You couldn't help it, the way your heart began to race, your breathing coming faster and faster. And that was bad, because you'd been working very hard not to waste any energy or use up the water in your body you did have. You tried to slow your breathing, pressing your face against the crack in the door again, but it wasn't helping like before, because now it was just pressure on your face and you began to claw with frantic, bloodied fingertips at the bottom of the door and then at the slat that opened from the other side because you couldn't get enough air—
It wasn't a surprise, really, that your third eye opened.
The sudden explosion of color after hours in the dark would have knocked you on your ass had you been standing. Instead it stunned you into silence as you rolled backwards, away from the door and the crack of light that lined the bottom of it.
Now this… this was just as familiar as the old cell.
You knew your physical eyes were seeing nothing. You knew that, logically, and yet… with the overlay of threads across the floor, some of the darkness seemed to recede. Being underground limited the amount of threads that passed through your cell, but they were still there, filling what had once been an empty void with warmth, color, and light. That included the ones coming out of your chest. You reached out trembling fingers and ran them over the threads that were now visible.
Quite intentionally, there weren't many to be found. While you appreciated money, you'd become fairly non-materialistic over the years—it came with the territory when most of your possessions amounted to nothing more than props and set pieces you were forced to leave behind. That left little room for blue threads, and you had only a few that you knew would lead to the contents of a small box, tucked away inside your escape bag. Green threads you did have, though far fewer than Matt did, since your chosen defense was generally to keep people at arm's length from day one. It made it easier to leave, in the end. Still, you had… people in your past you hadn't been able to avoid developing an affection for, people you'd had to cut yourself free from.
There was no white, no black that you could see against the dark of the cell; a few trails of yellow, though, shimmering lines of buttery gold. There was also a pale, peach-orange thread, sparkling cheerfully like the early afternoon sun. That was probably Foggy. He'd made no secret that he was open to a real friendship with you, the door thrown wide for you to enter at your leisure. You wondered, absently, if Matt had told him you were missing. It was possible Jason, if he'd even bothered to call Nelson and Murdock, had gotten Foggy instead. A touch to the thread brought to mind memories of hearty laughter and the victorious taste of cheap drinks shared with friends. Distant worry and determination shivered along beneath it, a faint hint of his mental state.
Despite your best efforts, even without Matt you had two of your own red threads, though these were pulled so tight they were only the width of your smallest finger. No wonder, when the ones tied to the other ends both lived some 3,000 miles away. You couldn't tell what your old friend and his daughter were up to, but the tiny trickles of sensation you got from the threads seemed… happy enough. Content. That was more than worth you leaving.
That left Matt's thread: a deep, rusted orange shot through with slivers of sullen red. You held it gently, drawing it closer. Did he even know what had happened? You ran a thumb over it, seeking comfort in the connection and warm memories, but like the other threads it was stretched too thin for you to get more than vague flashes of what he was feeling. There was anger there, you thought. Frustration, and… worry, more than enough that you could taste it as you rubbed the thread between your fingers. When you touched it like this, did he think of you? He'd said he'd felt it, had said—
You paused, fingers frozen.
He'd felt it. He'd felt you touch his threads, hadn't he? That was what he'd said, and that touching your threads had brought up memories. Would he feel it now? Could you get his attention, let him know you needed help?
It had been easy to connect with him when you'd been standing right in front of him. The thread had been slack and open then, with little distance to travel between the two of you. This was an altogether different matter when you were farther apart and the connection between you was stretched thin and narrow. You tried to press down mentally into the thread, attempting to recreate that sensation you'd had before when the thread had drawn you in, but you'd have had more luck squeezing your physical body into the pipe in the corner. You snarled in anger, yanking hard on the thread.
A faint puzzlement drifted to you, far away like a distant echo across a canyon.
Did he feel that?
You needed to make the thread bigger, or open it wider so you could get through to him. But how? You'd only ever seen a thread grow larger with time, or when it turned...
Red.
You pressed a hand to your face as your nose began to bleed, drops sliding free to stain the concrete below you.
If you wanted to get his attention… you'd need to remove that final, hastily erected barrier you'd placed between you. A part of you recoiled at the very thought. You'd worked too hard to keep something like this from happening. You'd left people behind, hurt them, shredded every last inch of their hearts before leaving them to sew up the bloody pieces alone. You'd been leaving New York specifically to avoid a thread like this. And yet you were surprised to find that, by and large… the idea of letting Matt in didn't provoke the horror you'd expected. Because you'd known, hadn't you? You'd sealed your fate the second you'd directed Jason towards Matt. You'd known that if Matt came for you here, you'd be staying in New York. There would be no going back, no rebuilding that wall once you'd torn it down. You'd seen that red coming, had felt it there waiting… and you'd chosen to step forward anyway, knowing what it would mean.
You could pretend it was a matter of survival, but that was only a part of it. A large part, yes, but also…
You liked him, cared about him, so very much. You didn't want to leave, longed so badly to stay here with him that you ached with it. And as much as you cared for Matt, you also liked it here in New York, liked the other people around you. You'd been looking for Matt to push you into staying, but that wasn't fair to him. This was your decision, and you needed to walk through this door of your own free will. It was your choice what happened now. You could try to escape, once you got out of here, or… you could take that leap.
You'd been running for so long. Maybe it was time to stand and fight for the life you wanted instead.
You closed your eyes, holding tight to that orange thread as you let your body go slack, your mind floating inwards. You didn't need your physical eyes to see the thread when you could feel it where it sat cradled in your hands, all soothing heat and the rush of a breeze somewhere high.
Time passed and you thought of Matt. You thought of the way he felt when he wrapped his arms around you. You thought of late nights on hot rooftops and banter over stupid things. You thought of his feral smile and how his face softened when the stoic mask was gone and he was open with you. You thought of his jokes with Foggy and Karen, and of a blinding, tragically wide white thread large enough to encompass an entire city, its roots radiating warmth even here below ground where you were tucked away.
You thought of him… and all the ways you didn't want to lose him; of all the ways you… cared about him.
The thread in your hand flickered once, twice and then deepened, a blush of dark wine-red blooming like the first blossoming flowers of spring. Not the vivid scarlet of something grown for years, perhaps, but red enough. More than enough.
Blood began to pool on the ground in front of your face as you held the red thread tight and reached.