Prologue
The city was loud tonight.
The atmosphere was strange, too. As if the city vibrated itself back to life after the events of the past couple of weeks when the aliens descended upon the Big Apple, thrusting everyone into the reality that not everything they once believed or trusted would ever be quite the same again. It felt as though it was simply just trying to keep going in the hopes that it didn't collapse inwards like a pop-up child's book.
For the inhabitants of Hell's Kitchen, a new threat loomed in the distance, biding its time until the most unexpected moment. As Wilson Fisk stood at his floor to ceiling window, overlooking all the little people that kept the city alive, a place he once belonged, he knew it wouldn't be long until the city he called home would be truly his. He, himself, almost buzzed with anticipation which was unlike him. His own childhood was lacking of true love from the one man he wanted to look up to, and whilst his mother tried to fill both roles, he had learned to shut himself down in order to protect himself and his beloved mother. He became numb, shutting the true Wilson away in the deepest and darkest crevice of his heart where the boy he always wanted to be—carefree and loved—thrived without a care in the world.
He knew he became displaced when he bashed his father's skull in, that his personality broke apart in fragments. His personality was hot and cold, but mostly neutral. He never raised his voice, but his voice was heard and respected. It helped that his own body morphed into a man even his own father would be afraid of and wouldn't mess with; tall, imposing and whose mere presence was enough to bring the room he entered to a standstill. He thrived on that fact and had hoped in the smallest of moments that his father was still alive to witness the sheer terror in their eyes but also the respect he received. But the ghost of his father was never that far away, and always in his peripheral, belittling him with his mere gaze, the sadistic grin forever stuck on his face.
It was a demon he had to fight every single day of his life, but he was sure as hell not going down easy.
On the other side of Hell's Kitchen, crouched low on the rooftop of a brownstone with its inhabitants sleeping soundly in their beds below him, was Daredevil. A lawyer by day, the Masked Man by night, he watched over those who were always pushed down to the ground by the big dogs that tormented the city that had always been his home. With a mask covering his sightless eyes, he listened to the noises the city made around him: people heading home from a much-needed night out where they were finally able to let off steam after the revelation and just breathe again, or where people headed home, aware of the dangers that night brought, and whose presence he was more aware of to ensure that they made it home safe. The city was and always had been his home; his father's stomping ground, it was an honour to walk the same streets as his father when he was no longer able to do so.
He held the city close to his heart. He protected the city and its people with pride. Sure, he often fell through the window to his apartment injured more often than not but he kept adorning the mask and the black attire for a reason. Bruises and cuts would fade but his love and need to protect the city would never fade. It was petty crimes to begin with; the aliens had caused quite a stir with the city people, and they took it upon themselves to voice their opinions through the only way they knew how, and, in a way, they knew would be heard: riots. But he wasn't expecting the rise of powerful names to come to the surface with the promise to return the city to how it once was, in the hopes of them gaining more than just publicity with their name being mentioned in the newspapers and being hailed as good Samaritans who loved their city, but who never wanted to help before everything happened. Like hellhounds, they clawed at the doors of the city, hiding in the darkness until the perfect opportunity to strike. He could hear them, but he couldn't find them. Not yet anyway. He lifted his masked face to the black sky, aware of the lightness radiating from the full moon that tickled the only unmasked part of his face and made a promise: he would protect the city until his own dying breath.
There was another person who was awake that night, tormented by their own thoughts. With her face illuminated by the glowing screen of her laptop, Ruby Calloway tapped away at the keyboard unaware of just how late it was and oblivious to the fact that she would need to get up and ready for work in less than four hours. But she needed to get everything that felt scrambled in her mind down on the document. She wasn't sure why she felt so compelled to write that evening, but she had noticed something at work that she needed to voice, to document, in order to prevent her doubting herself. Alarms rang out on the street below her but she was too engrossed in her writing to even notice, despite them waking her often throughout the night. She typed her final word and sat back in her chair, her eyes scanning the screen as she read everything back. Fear rattled in her chest, and she turned towards the window beside her, the full moon illuminating the world around her, and took a deep breath.
But if there was ever a time she doubted herself, it wasn't this moment. She'd heard it with her own ears, she'd seen it with her own eyes, and knew it was something. She was going to find answers and thrust a spotlight on the on the backwards dealings within the city she called home.