"For nothing is hidden that will not be made manifest, nor is anything secret that will not be known and come to light." Luke 8:17

Matt Murdock glided his fingers over the refreshable Braille display. The text-to-speech reader narrated the legal documents that he listened through an earphone that was connected to his laptop.

He heard the approaching footsteps of Foggy and Karen. Foggy stuck his head in, seeing Matt deeply absorbed in his work.

"Yo, Matt," he said. "Karen and I are going to lunch to the deli up the street. You wanna come?"

"Thank you, but no," Matt responded. "I'm still going over these contracts for the Engle case."

"You want us to bring back anything?" Karen asked.

"Oh I know exactly what he wants," Foggy said with a grin. "Your usual, Matt?"

"Yes, please," Matt said, smiling warmly. "Enjoy yourselves."

Once they had left, Matt would normally appreciate the quiet and solitude. But unfortunately that wasn't so since his heightened senses picked up everything in Hell's Kitchen: the cheerful conversation between Karen and Foggy while they walked down the street together. A fight between a couple just three blocks away. An elderly lady coughing while watching The Price is Right further up the street. The rumbling and screeching of the subway. Taxi cabs and cars honking. Sirens from police cars and ambulances. The blaring air horns from fire trucks. The barking and panting of dogs being walked. The jabber of street vendors trying to sell fake products to tourists. People on their cellphones. The smells of the city: garbage trucks collecting today's trash. The salty, smoky air of the city. The greasy aroma from the food carts, the aromatic coffee, the fresh pastries and saccharine smells of sweets in the bakeries. Burnt rubber from the tires of cars and bicyclists.

It was overwhelming, yet Matt blocked it out by focusing on his work: the raised pins of the Braille display beneath his fingertips. Listening to the text-to-speech reader drone on his laptop while it read the legal language. It usually helped if he focused on the task at hand.

A few minutes after his colleagues had left, he stilled because he sensed someone approaching. While he would recognize footsteps to those who worked in the building (including Foggy and Karen), these were new. Before they had even set foot in the office building, he heard the Converse sneakers mounting the creaky stairs. The rapid heartbeat. The smell of sweat and coffee with a lot of caramel creamer.

Yet the familiar aroma of green apple shampoo with sage-citrus body soap caught the lawyers' nose. It was exactly the same one he smelled from last night. There was no doubt in his mind that this was the person who had witnessed his vigilante activity.

No matter. He wouldn't let them know about his secret. Nobody knew about it-including Foggy and Karen. And he intended to keep it that way until he took his last breath.

For Matt Murdock—he was a lawyer by day, vigilante by night.

Matt continued to listen to the client's approach. The footsteps eventually stopped. A knock came at the door. He winced as he stood up; he was still sore from last night's patrol. It was hard to balance his double life sometimes. He made his way over to the door to welcome the client.

Sheila assessed the atmosphere of the building: it was grubby on the inside as the outside. She mounted the worn stairs, which creaked underneath her feet. Her heart pounded with each mounting step. Once she reached the hallway at the top, she noted a few offices. Dim light passed through the door windows and their sidelights. On the opposite wall of the stairwell was another small window.

She looked at the card that Rick had given her, squinting at the address. There were several offices at the top stairs. Eventually she spotted the office of Nelson & Murdock on the left, about three paces from the stairs. It gave her a shifty impression when she observed the handwritten paper sign taped on the window of the door. The paint was a grimy white. The crystal doorknob glinted weakly in the feeble light. Swallowing, she hoped that this was not some kind of scam. She heard about scam artists who lived in such buildings and conned gullible people, then disappeared the next day. But Rick wouldn't lie to her about this law firm. Sure, he played poker and pool with some rough, sketchy-looking people, but he definitely wouldn't put her in any danger.

Deciding to throw caution to the wind, she raised her fist to knock on the door. Pausing for a moment, it occurred to her that maybe they were appointments only. Great! She hoped they wouldn't turn her away. She really needed a lawyer. She could lose everything: her nursing career, her license, her reputation. She had to protect herself.

Pushing her thoughts aside, she raised her fist and knocked on the door. Soon there were approaching footsteps coming from inside the office. A shadow appeared through the ground glass window. When the door opened, her green eyes widened when she observed a man standing in the doorway.

He was tall, dark, and ruggedly handsome. His skin was pale, but he seemed to have a healthy appearance. He had a stoic air with a serious expression on his face. His eyes were shielded by a pair of round, dark red sunglasses. The thick eyebrows were slightly visible over the rims. The nose was large, yet aesthetically pleasing; it was slightly crooked that it gave the impression of a boxer. The ears were large and stuck out slightly. A light stubble decorated the chiseled jaw and chin, which expressed stubborn determination. The lips were plump and sinfully perfect. The brown hair was slightly tousled like he combed it in a hurry and hoped for the best. He wore a gray suit with a white dress shirt and a black tie hanging from the collar. Encircling his narrow waist was a black leather belt. His black shoes had a worn look with a dull sheen.

Clearing his throat, Matt focused his enhanced senses in order to discern the client's presence. The scent told him they were possibly a woman. In his experience, most women used floral or fruity scented shampoo. Foggy would often joke about how spooky it was that Matt seemed to attract all the beautiful ladies in New York. Matt would insist he couldn't tell if a woman was beautiful or not. Although the only women he interacted with were Karen, clients or the occasional one-night stand.

He also picked up on faint scents of rubbing alcohol, hand sanitizer, antibacterial soap, pill dust, IV saline, nitrile gloves, gauze, medical tape. The client worked in a hospital since Claire Temple smelled exactly the same. Cocking his head, he faced the client's direction the hallway. He could sense the change in temperature, the rapid heartbeat, and light sweat. The client was definitely nervous.

"Can I help you?" he spoke.

His deep voice had a soothing timbre that one would describe it as the softest velvet to the ear. The warm and gentle quality seemed to put Sheila at ease. The thick brows furrowed behind his sunglasses with an inquisitive expression. Sheila was about to address the man, but she was unsure which one he was.

"Yes," Sheila replied. "A colleague of mine recommended your law firm, sir. He said that Nelson & Murdock were very reputable and affordable defense attorneys in Hell's Kitchen. And-I'm looking for a lawyer."

Matt could tell the client was a woman based on her voice: it was husky, sweet and thick like honey. While her voice spoke with composure, her rapidly beating heart spoke the loudest. It was not uncommon since most clients were nervous about hiring lawyers, considering the population he worked with was mostly lower to working middle class.

"Well, you've come to the right place," he responded politely. "I'm Matt Murdock."

The attorney held out his hand, giving a very warm smile. Laugh lines creased on his face; a dimple appeared on his left cheek. He lit up when he smiled despite his hidden eyes, giving off a warm, inviting air.

Sheila shook his hand. It was firm, yet gentle and warm. The hand was calloused, which seemed out of place for a lawyer. Then again, who knew what Matt Murdock did outside of work?

"Sheila Donovan," she answered.

Matt could feel the strength in Sheila's arm: it was strong and muscular. It spoke to him that she was used to lifting heavy burdens. The hand was worn and calloused, yet there was a gentle touch. The skin was dry and cracked. There was a faint smell of antibacterial soap and nail polish. It had been a while since she painted her nails. He smiled upon hearing her introduce herself to him.

"Pleased to meet you, Miss Donovan," he replied.

"Listen, I'm sorry to just show up without an appointment," Sheila said. "But my life is sort of turned upside down right now."

Matt was never one to turn down a client in need. He always had strong morals and a sense of justice. He always wanted to help those who believed were wrongly accused. It was always his calling ever since his father was murdered when he was a child. While Foggy wanted to earn more money, Matt believed in helping the innocent.

"That's what Nelson & Murdock are here for, Miss Donovan," Matt replied. "Please come in. Just let me get settled in my office."

Stepping inside, her gaze surveyed the law office. It was in desperate need of cleaning and a paint job. It was dim in some places despite the windows. The walls were a boring grey, stained with grime in some places. The outdated shades were dusty with a few holes in them. There were cast-iron radiators that reminded Sheila of the apartment she lived in Detroit during her childhood. Boxes and debris scattered in various corners. She noted that most of the furniture and office equipment was second-hand.

The reception area had a secretary desk littered with papers, a pen and pencil cup, a small laptop and phone. Metal folding chairs were off to the side of the desk. In one opposite corner were large metal filing cabinets with more papers and boxes resting on top of it. There was a used copy machine to the left of the reception desk.

To the right of the reception was a break room: a coffee maker, a few cabinets and shelves with containers of snacks, a microwave and a refrigerator. The conference room was on the left with a table and chairs.

As she followed Matt further inside, she saw two offices in opposite corners: she could only assume one belonged to Nelson. Matt led her to his office, which was on the left.

"Sorry about the mess," Matt apologized. "We're still going through a lot of things at the moment."

"Oh, it's not that bad," she said. "It looks better than my apartment."

"Oh?" Matt responded with concern.

"Trust me when I say the whole building is practically crumbling," Sheila answered.

This made the attorney frown. Perhaps Sheila had come to him with a concern regarding the state of her building. There were plenty of clients who wanted to sue their landlords for not maintaining the upkeep of the building. It was a common thing in Hell's Kitchen since the Incident. Something Matt wouldn't forget: the sounds of the screams and destruction that occurred. While he was grateful for the Avengers saving New York, he just wasn't a fan of them. The Incident left ruin in Hell's Kitchen: crime and corruption had gone up. It was the reason he had resorted to his vigilante life.

"I see," Matt said. "So the landlord isn't maintaining the upkeep?"

"That's an understatement," she answered dry. "But that's not why I'm here, Mr Murdock."

"Noted, Miss Donovan."

Upon entering Matt's office, Sheila surveilled the atmosphere. The word practical came to mind. The desk was neat with some folders to the right of the desk. His laptop was on the left with an earphone attached to the audio input. Nearby was what looked like a small silver object with a black display that showed small round pins that were raised on the display. Sheila couldn't read it though. There were lots of papers scattered on the desks with a few folders, yet the papers appeared to be blank. A window was to the left of the desk, which showed buildings under construction. Behind him was a bookcase with some books-they appeared to be mostly law books.

"We were cleaning the office," Matt explained. "My colleagues, Karen and Foggy, just stepped out get lunch. They'll be back shortly."

"Foggy?" Sheila asked with a furrowed brow.

"He's my law partner," he answered, making his way to his desk. "His real name is Franklin. He said his family called him that because he sounded like a foghorn when he snored. And he sure proved that when we were roommates back in college."

"I can only imagine that drove you crazy," she remarked, chuckling. "I probably would've smothered my roommate if she snored that loud."

Matt chuckled as he took a seat, forcing himself to smile as to mask his discomfort from the night before. He had to make sure this client didn't notice anything.

"I had to wear earmuffs to block out the noise," he said.

Eventually, Matt folded his hands on his desk. It was now time to get serious. He intended to listen very carefully to his potential client and investigate this case she was bringing to him.

"So...Miss Donovan," Matt began. "Since you're here seeking legal services, how can we help you?"

"I'm here because I need a lawyer," she began. "This has to do with a dispute between my roommate."

Clearing his throat, the lawyer nodded before reaching into his desk to grab a tape recorder.

"Do you mind if I record our conversation?" he asked. "Mainly this can help us investigate your case."

Sheila's heart rate spiked slightly. Shifting in the chair, she felt like a child who was sent to the principal's office for her misbehavior. She didn't want to tell him that she was the one who caused this whole mess.

Licking her lips, she stared at Matt's face, trying to think of the best way to explain her situation. His sunglasses seemed to stare into her like empty, crimson pools in silent judgment. How was she supposed to explain everything? She didn't know where to start. Plus she heard that most lawyers required payment before even talking to them. It was common talk among the patients when they needed lawyers for whatever legal problems they had.

While Matt was setting up the tape recorder on his desk, he sensed the spike in her heartbeat. It was pretty easy to anticipate a person's behavior with the use of his abilities-this told him she was afraid. Could she be hiding something? He frowned when he didn't hear her respond.

"Miss Donovan, are you alright?" Matt asked concerned.

"Yea," she said, masking her emotions. "I'm fine. This is my first time hiring a lawyer. Should I pay you first? I know some lawyers require a retainer before even talking to them."

She paused, thinking about how much money she had to spend. Money was always something she constantly worried about. Growing up very poor, she often was scared about the next time she could eat, have new clothes or shoes. She even worried about whether she would have a roof over her head or a warm place to sleep. Now that she had very little to afford a storage space and was currently without a home, this was making her stressed.

Matt could sense distress in his client. The woman had answered so calmly-yet her beating heart spoke volumes. He wasn't fooled by her demeanor.

"If money is an issue, Ms Donovan," Matt said gently. "We can discuss payment later."

"No, it's not," Sheila answered. "I just can't pay you right now. But I promise that once I get my paycheck in two weeks, I can give you a retainer."

Matt only frowned. He knew about law firms like this. Back during his days at Landman & Zack, he was disgusted that the firm only cared about money and protecting reputations of corporations. No. He wanted to help people. He convinced Foggy to quit and open their own practice. It was the best decision of their lives.

Unfortunately, Karen would often point out that they were broke, given the bills needed to be paid. Matt always assured that they'd manage. They usually did. Most of their clients paid in food or baked goods-at least they didn't go hungry.

"That's not necessary, Miss Donovan. We can discuss finances once we've gone over your case," he said, holding a hand up.

Sheila blinked, surprised that Matt didn't want any money just yet. She still was intending on keeping her promise.

"That's fine," she answered. "But I still want to pay you. I work full-time and I make a pretty decent salary."

"Oh? What do you do?" Matt asked.

"I work at Metro-General as an ER nurse," she answered. "I love what I do—the rush, saving lives, giving people a second chance."

Matt could only smile at this. A woman who held such a high regard to her job despite having heard every story from clients about how broken the system was. She gave this impression that she was very determined.

"I always believe that people can be redeemed, Miss Donovan," Matt said. "It comes with the territory, being a lawyer."

"True," Sheila said. "I was given one in my youth. I've learned to appreciate it since then."

"That's good to hear, Miss Donovan."

She cleared her throat to resume explaining her case. She didn't really want to waste too much time with small talk.

"Anyway, Mr Murdock..." Sheila began.

"Please, call me Matt," the attorney said. "Mr Murdock is my father."

Matt let out a chuckle, a warm smile spread across his face. He figured he'd break the tension with light humor. A light laugh came from the redhead; Matt found it rather pleasing. Her heart rate seemed to slow down a bit.

"Matt," Sheila corrected.

"Would you like some coffee, Miss Donovan?" he offered. "We just put on a fresh pot."

The redhead smiled. "I could never turn down a cup of coffee," she said. "As long it's not that expensive shit. Some doctors at the hospital that bring that crap and it's really disgusting. Also if someone offers you a Kopi Luwak, turn it down. It's really shitty coffee."

Matt laughed. "I'll keep that in mind," he said.

The attorney walked towards the break room with Sheila trailing behind him. Matt reached for the mugs on the shelf next to the coffee maker.

"How would you like it?" he asked.

"Do you have coffee creamer?" she asked. "Otherwise sugar and cream are fine."

Matt took out the coffee creamer from the fridge. While he could tell himself when the coffee was filled to the brim and taste the creamer when it was just right, he didn't want to give himself away.

"Can you tell me when?" he asked.

Sheila thought the request was really strange. She frowned, but decided to help him anyway.

"Just light brown."

"I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to tell what color the coffee is since I'm blind," Matt answered.

The redhead froze upon this discovery. She had no idea! This would explain the blank papers and the raised dots on the silver display on his desk. Everything was in Braille. She was no stranger to patients losing their vision due to injury or disease-all in a day's work at Metro-General.

"Oh!" she said. "I thought the sunglasses were to hide a hangover or a shiner."

Matt laughed. He supposed those were a valid reasons to wear sunglasses. Mostly he wore them to protect his eyes from the sunlight, which bothered his heightened senses. At times, he felt his eyes would be off-putting to others.

"Fair enough, Miss Donovan," Matt said.

Sheila's heart fluttered. Clearing her throat, she watched him as he poured the creamer into the paper cup.

"That's good," she said. "Thank you."

Matt stopped pouring the creamer, placing it back in the fridge. He poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Come, let's discuss your case in my office."

The two of them walked into Matt's office. She sipped her coffee, feeling much better. She observed Matt as he pressed the RECORD button on the recorder so that her lawyer could investigate her case.

"So, let's begin," Matt declared. "Please describe this dispute between you and your roommate."

Sheila cleared her throat, feeling her heart fluttering as she masked her discomfort. She was going to stick with facts. Her nurse mind had trained herself to never let emotion get to her. Speak only facts when a mistake is made. She didn't know where to begin; her heart raced.

Matt sensed her fear and guessed she was going to lie. He hoped for her own sake she wasn't. Upon hearing her non response, he decided to assure her.

"Miss Donovan, our law firm has dealt with roommate disputes before," Matt said. "I can promise you that nothing would surprise me. Can you tell me what the root cause of this dispute?"

"Lots of things, sir," Sheila said. "I've been dealing with her behavior for about three years."

The lawyer raised his eyebrows, nodding. He could tell she had done it already as her heartbeat remained steady upon mentioning this.

"I see. So what issues were there between you and-?"

"Brynn Chester," Sheila answered.

"So what issues were you dealing with Brynn?"

"Mainly that she is not paying her share of the bills, making noise when I have to sleep after working long shifts at the hospital, not cleaning up after herself, and she has no respect for any boundaries like not eating my food and touching my things. One time, she walked in on me in the shower-in a-how shall I say, compromising position, and asked if I could buy toothpaste."

Matt listened patiently and carefully to Sheila's words. And her presence.

"That is quite a list," Matt responded. "Have you addressed these issues with the landlord?"

"Mr Tully? He doesn't give a shit," Sheila answered in exasperation.

"Does this Mr Tully have a first name?"

"Yea. Armand. Armand Tully. I have written multiple emails, called and even attempted to approach him in person."

"And how did Mr Tully respond?"

"When I approached him in person, he said he was busy," Sheila said. "And ran like a fucking coward." She stopped herself. "Sorry, Matt. I'm just-it's frustrating when you can't reach your landlord."

"I understand your frustration, Miss Donovan," Matt responded. "All I can tell you is if we are going to prove your side of the case, we are going to need evidence. Do you have a copy of the lease agreement and receipts of payment?"

"Yes, I do," she answered. "I have multiple carbon copies of checks and e-mail receipts of payment from my bank."

"Excellent," Matt said with a smile. "Next, we are going to need to prove the landlord was unwilling to deal with the problem. Do you have the emails that were sent to Mr Tully?"

"Yes," Sheila said. "Do you want me to send them to you by e-mail or print them out?"

"You can email them, Miss Donovan. My team and I will look into your claims and see what we can find to convince the judge that Brynn is breaking her end of the lease agreement. Plus when you attempted to confront the landlord, he failed to follow through with your complaints."

Matt sensed there was more to this story than what he had heard. Her rapidly beating heart from earlier seemed to speak volumes to him. For now, he'd dig carefully through her claim.

"Now is there anything you need to add today?"

The rapid beating of her heart filled Matt's ears. So there was something. He wouldn't address it today. That had to be up to Sheila to tell him.

"No," she said, masking her emotions. "So what should I do in the meantime?"

"I suggest you stay with a friend for a while," Matt said. "Do you have someone you can stay with?"

"Yes," she answered. "I'm staying with my colleague. I have moved out of my apartment as well."

Matt nodded. "I see. Once we review the evidence, we will determine the next steps. Are you available to meet tomorrow?"

Sheila bit her lip. "I have to work," she replied. "Plus all my stuff is being stored at my colleagues' basement. I need to get all the necessary paperwork for you. I can meet you on Saturday—it's my day off."

"We're happy to do so," Matt said. "Anyway, I'll inform Karen to put you in for Saturday. Pleasure to meet you, Miss Donovan."

The woman stood up, shaking his hand.

"You too...Mr. Murdock," she said.

Brynn Chester came back home after a few hours. When her psycho roommate started throwing things at her, she had to do something.

But what? She couldn't go to the police. She was staying in the country on an expired travel visa. Plus the problem was Mr Tully: he stressed to her that she cannot talk to the police. It would open a whole can of worms. If she had a problem, she was to come to him. After hearing about her situation, he allowed her to stay in his building rent free—as long as she did his bidding.

Brynn went to Sheila's room, half-expecting her to be sulking, on the phone bitching to her friends or passed out drunk. Upon opening the door, she found it was quiet. She went to Sheila's room, opening the door. Everything was gone.

Brynn knew that this meant she moved out. While she would have been happy that at least she was gone, there was an inkling that pondered in the back of her mind: what if Sheila did go to the police?

Nah. If she did, she'd get herself arrested. SHE assaulted HER! SHE lost her temper and threw stuff at her.

Maybe she complained to someone. Who knew? She had to do something about it. Yet the bills were piling up. At least Tully's operation was in the dark. For now.

Armand Tully leaned over his TV stand with a line of heroin on the surface. Using a credit card, he ground it up and snorted it through a straw. His thoughts were interrupted by his cellphone ringing.

"Tully here," the landlord answered.

"I have a problem," Brynn said.

"What kind of problem?" Tully said. "Did you do the job?"

"That part is fine. It's my roommate. She moved out," Brynn said.

"Does she know anything?"

"No."

"OK. So fuck her then. You got a whole apartment to yourself. No big loss. That redheaded bitch was starting to get on my fucking nerves."

"It's not that, sir. I think she might do something about me," Brynn said.

"Like what?"

"Maybe file a complaint."

"Uh huh. And did she say that before moving out?"

"I don't think so. She was gone when I was out. She must've left after our fight."

"Uh huh," Tully answered. "OK. So what? She doesn't know shit about what's going on."

"That's what I'm saying," Brynn pointed out. "She could find a lawyer or something because I have not been paying rent."

Now Tully was concerned. He assured that the one the suits called "Employer" that the operation would be conducted in the best manner. All Tully had to do was his job. The Suit who visited him when needed wouldn't like this news. The Suit was a well refined man—he spoke many languages. He was well dressed, soft spoken and calm. He claimed he spoke for the boss—whom he referred to as the Employer. There were whispers that the Employer was called Fisk. But nobody was allowed to say his name out loud. Otherwise there would be deadly repercussions. Tully knew this would be a problem.

"I'll take care of it," he said. "In the meantime, keep your mouth shut. Don't talk to anyone. If you get a summons, let me know."

Tully hung up the phone. That fucking redheaded bitch! He was going to make sure she didn't talk. He dialed a number in his burner phone.

"Yea. I got a job for you," he said. "Just rough up this one person and make sure she's scared enough not to talk."