Chapter 8
13th January 2015, Rose's Apartment - Hell's Kitchen, NYC
The soft tap on her window came just after midnight. Rose looked up from her laptop. She recognized the familiar silhouette against the night sky—Matt in his black mask.
She moved to the window and slid it open. "You know we're going to see each other tomorrow at the office, right?" she said, stepping back to let him in.
"Well, technically, you'll see me," Matt replied dryly as he climbed through. "I won't be seeing much of anything."
Rose rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a smile. "Blind jokes? Really?"
Matt's lips curved into a brief smile. "I was in the neighborhood anyway."
Rose closed the window against the January chill and studied him. Though there was no visible blood on his black outfit tonight, she could sense the tension radiating from him. His jaw was tight, his movements controlled but coiled, like a spring under pressure.
"What happened?" she asked, cutting straight to the point.
Matt removed his mask and ran a hand through his hair, leaving it slightly disheveled. "We were right," he said grimly. "The Healy case. It's rigged."
Rose gestured toward the couch, and they both sat, Matt perching on the edge like he might need to move at any moment.
"They've gotten to a juror," he continued. "A woman on the panel. Her heart was pounding when I was in court today. Then I sensed him—that same man who came to our office. The expensive watch with that distinctive tick, the same cologne. He was in the gallery, and when he entered, the juror's heart rate spiked. She was terrified."
Rose leaned forward. "So he's not just representing some investment group. He's personally invested in the outcome."
Matt nodded. "After court, I followed the juror. She met with someone else on the street." His hands clenched into fists. "This man was threatening her. They have something on her. A tape from when she was younger. They're using it to blackmail her into delivering the verdict they want."
"Bastards," Rose muttered, rising to pace across the room. "Did you get anything from this guy?"
"Nothing concrete." Matt's frustration was evident in the tight line of his shoulders. "When I confronted him, he claimed he doesn't know who he works for. Said he gets assignments when 'a light's on in a window.' It's all compartmentalized."
"Strategic. Keeps everyone insulated." Rose stopped pacing and turned to face him. "What did you do to him?"
A dangerous grin crossed his face. "I convinced him it would be in everyone's best interest if the juror excused herself from jury duty. Personal reasons."
"And if she doesn't?"
"She will." The certainty in Matt's voice sent a small shiver down Rose's spine. "I made it clear that the alternative wouldn't be pleasant for him."
Rose nodded. "So what's our next move?"
Matt ran a hand over his face, exhaustion briefly showing through his composed exterior. "I need to figure out what happens after she recuses herself. They'll likely have contingency plans. If Healy walks tomorrow, I'll find him. Make him talk."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then we keep looking. There's always another thread to pull."
Matt rose and retrieved his mask from the coffee table. The neon lights from outside cast strange patterns across his face as he moved toward the window. He reminded her of a panther. Strength and agility in a black package of lean muscles.
"I should go," he said. "It's late, and court reconvenes early."
Rose followed him to the window. "Let me know what happens with the juror."
Matt paused, half-turned toward her. The moment stretched between them, charged with things unsaid. Slowly, he reached out, his gloved hand brushing lightly against her cheek in a gentle caress. The leather was cool against her skin, but the gesture sent warmth spreading through her.
"Be careful out there," Rose added quietly.
Matt nodded once, a slight inclination of his head. Then, with practiced efficiency, he pulled his mask back on and slipped out into the night.
Rose watched the empty space where he'd been, her fingertips unconsciously rising to touch the spot where his hand had been. Turning back to her laptop, she resumed her work.
14th January 2015, New York Bulletin Building - Hell's Kitchen, NYC
Rose stood outside the imposing glass doors of the New York Bulletin, clutching a folder to her chest. The confidence that had carried her here from Nelson and Murdock's office was rapidly evaporating. What was she doing? These people had already killed Daniel and Daria without hesitation. They'd threatened Mrs. Fisher and Tommy. And now she was about to walk into a major newspaper and potentially put another person in danger.
For a moment, she considered turning around and leaving. But then Daniel's face flashed in her mind—his earnest expression when he'd first come to her office, desperate to find justice for a woman no one else seemed to care about.
Rose took a deep breath and pushed through the doors.
The lobby bustled with activity—reporters rushing in and out, phones ringing, the steady hum of a news organization at work. Rose walked through the entrance, noting that security was minimal, just a bored-looking man sitting at a small desk in the corner of the lobby, more focused on his crossword puzzle than on screening visitors.
She walked confidently toward the bank of elevators, glancing at the directory on the wall. Finding Urich's name among the list of reporters, she made a mental note of his floor number and stepped into an open elevator.
As she rode up, she rehearsed what she would say. The elevator doors opened onto a large open-plan office space, filled with desks and the rapid-fire clicking of keyboards. Rose stepped out, glancing around until she spotted a hallway to her right. Following it to the end, she found a glass-walled office with "BENJAMIN URICH" stenciled on the door.
Inside, a slender African-American man in his fifties was on the phone, his back partially turned to the door. His office was cluttered but organized, newspaper clippings and photos covering one wall in what looked like a complex investigation board. Rose noticed a framed photo on his desk of a smiling woman—his wife, she guessed.
"Shirley, thanks so much for pushing this through," Urich was saying into the phone. "I... I owe you one. Okay, thanks. Bye."
He hung up, a brief smile crossing his face before his gaze fell on a newspaper article on his desk. Even from the doorway, Rose could see it was some kind of poll result. Urich's expression hardened slightly as he studied it.
Rose took a breath and knocked on the glass door.
"Yeah," Urich called, not looking up.
Rose opened the door, stepping just inside the threshold. "Excuse me, Mr. Urich?"
Urich finally looked up, studying her with sharp, intelligent eyes. "So they tell me," he replied, rising from his chair.
Rose sighed, suddenly uncertain how to begin. "I read your article."
"About the subway line?" Urich asked, a hint of resignation in his voice suggesting he'd rather be covering something else.
"Uh, about Union Allied Construction," Rose clarified. She hesitated, then decided to be direct. "I think there's more to the story... if you're interested."
Urich glanced through the glass walls of his office at the busy newsroom beyond, then back at Rose.
He stood, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. "I was just about to grab a coffee. Care to join me?"
Rose nodded, understanding immediately. "I'd like that."
Urich led her through the newsroom, past reporters hunched over keyboards and ringing phones. In the elevator, they maintained casual small talk about the weather and recent headlines.
It wasn't until they were seated in Becky's diner three blocks from the Bulletin, tucked away in a corner booth far from other patrons, that Rose slid the folder across the table to him.
"Did you look at it?" she asked after he'd spent a few minutes examining the contents.
"Yeah, I looked at it," Urich replied, closing the folder.
"And?" Rose pressed.
"And it's a story I've heard before. Company gets caught up in a scandal, files for bankruptcy, then quietly restructures under a new name."
"They killed Daria Mason," Rose said, leaning forward. " They killed Daniel Fisher. They tried to kill me."
"I'm still a little unclear on that point." Urich tapped the folder. "You say here Rance assaulted you in Daniel's apartment. Why were you there?"
"Daniel told me where he hid the pen drive. I went to retrieve it."
He moved his glasses up his nose. "Huh… And a man in a black mask saved your life?"
"Yes, but he just..." Rose hesitated. "He came out of nowhere. And then he proposed to leave the drive at the Bulletin. Hoping you couldn't pass on such a scoop. And you didn't. You exposed them. As I hoped you would."
Urich didn't comment on that. His expression was impressively blank. "And you'd never seen him before?"
"No," Rose lied smoothly.
"Stranger things, right?" Urich asked, expression skeptical.
"Well, what about Rance?" Rose countered. "Do you really believe that he just up and hung himself in jail? That guard tried to do the same thing to me. Why don't you ask him? Farnum?"
"He's dead," Urich said bluntly. "Ate the barrel of his gun in his basement. And Daniel Fisher's old boss, McClintock? Overdosed on pills or some such." He fixed her with a serious look. "You seeing a pattern here, Miss Evans?"
"Then why isn't anyone looking into this?"
Urich sighed, looking suddenly tired. "You don't understand how lucky you are. Count the angels on the head of a pin, and move on."
"So they just shuffle some papers and all this disappears?"
"Wouldn't be the first time."
"Oh, don't bullshit me," Rose said, unable to mask her frustration. "A construction company is brick and mortar, literally. You cannot just shift cranes and trailers and office equipment like you can numbers on a page. There has to be a trail if everything is being liquidated."
Urich closed the folder and slid it back toward her. "Thanks for the coffee." He rose from his chair, clearly intent on leaving.
"What? So that's it?" Rose's voice rose slightly, drawing a glance from a nearby patron.
"Stories like this are built on sources, Miss Evans," Urich said, reaching for his coat. "Credible sources." He gave her a meaningful look. "I did some digging into your, uh... past activities."
Rose's expression hardened. "Well, I did some digging, too. I read every big story with your byline. The VA kickbacks, toxic runoff, the Teachers Union scandal. Hell, you pretty much brought down the Italian mob back when I was in diapers." She leaned forward. "What ever happened to that reporter, Mr. Urich?"
Urich paused, something flickering behind his eyes. "He got old. And a hell of a lot less stupid." And with that said, he left the diner without looking back.
14th January 2015, Rose's Apartment - Hell's Kitchen, NYC
Rose sat at her desk, staring at the blinking cursor on her laptop screen. She had been researching Union Allied for hours, trying to find a connection—any connection—to whoever might be behind their operations. Her eyes burned from staring at the screen too long, and her lower back ached from sitting in the same position for hours. She stretched her arms above her head with a soft groan.
The soft tap on her window made her jump.
She turned to see Matt once again perched on her fire escape. Even with his face partially hidden, she could tell by the slight hunch of his shoulders that something was wrong.
Rose moved to the window and slid it open. The biting January air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of blood and sweat.
"You've been busy," she observed, stepping back to let him in.
"Yeah," Matt replied, climbing through the window with a practiced movement despite his injuries.
Rose retrieved her medical kit from underneath the coffee table. "Chair," she instructed, pointing to the wooden one by her small dining table.
Matt took off his mask and moved to the chair, peeling off his shirt with a grimace. Rose tried—and failed—not to stare. His body was a contradiction: beautifully sculpted but marred by violence. Fresh bruises bloomed across his ribs, joining older ones in various stages of healing. Scars, some still pink and new, others faded to silver, mapped a history of pain across his skin. Her eyes traced the definition of his abdomen, the broad planes of his chest, the strong line of his shoulders.
She became acutely aware that her heart was hammering in her chest, her breathing quickening almost imperceptibly. Heat rose to her cheeks.
A knowing smirk appeared on Matt's face. "Your heartbeat just spiked," he observed, his voice tinged with amusement. "Something wrong?"
Rose rolled her eyes. "I'm just cataloging your injuries," she said, forcing her voice to remain steady as she began cleaning a deep cut on his forearm. "There are... a lot of them."
"Ow," he winced as the antiseptic made contact with raw flesh.
"Sorry," Rose said automatically, though she was being as gentle as possible. "So, how's that working out for you?"
Matt's lips curved in a fleeting smile. "You should see the other guys."
"I've heard about them," Rose replied dryly, carefully threading a needle to stitch the deepest gash. "My friend at Metro-General says the one you threw off the roof? He's in a coma. Did you know that?"
"Yeah, I heard." There was no remorse in his voice, just a flat acknowledgment of fact.
Rose studied him. "How do you feel about that?"
"I'll live." A crooked smile crossed his face, a casual dismissal that suggested an almost disturbing indifference to the fact he'd put a man in a coma.
Rose frowned slightly, not buying his cavalier attitude. She knew he cared more than he was letting on.
She could feel his attention following her movements as she worked. She didn't mind. It was strangely comforting to know he was tracking her, even if it wasn't with his eyes.
"You look like you've been through a meat grinder," she said, carefully cleaning another wound. "You really need to get some kind of body armor or something."
"It would slow me down too much." He flinched as the needle pierced his skin, the first stitch pulling the edges of a deep gash together.
"So will a bullet," Rose countered, her hands steady despite his reaction.
"You're worried about me?" Matt asked, a hint of playfulness in his tone despite his obvious pain.
Rose paused, alcohol-soaked gauze hovering over a particularly nasty cut across his ribs. "What if I were?"
"I would tell you I'm a big boy, and not to be."
"Right," she scoffed, gently cleaning the wound. "That's why you keep ending up here."
Matt's lips curved into that crooked smile that did funny things to her insides. "Well, maybe I just like the sound of your voice."
She felt her cheeks warm, knowing full well he could sense the heat of her blush despite his blindness. "What happened to keeping things professional, Counselor?"
His smile widened. "We're not at the office right now."
"Convenient distinction," Rose said with another eye-roll as she tied off a stitch.
"I tried talking to Ben Urich today," she said after a moment.
"The reporter from the New York Bulletin? The one who ran the Union Allied story?"
"Yes. I thought he might be able to help us dig deeper, find more connections."
"And?"
"He brushed me off," Rose replied, unable to keep the frustration from her voice. "He acknowledged the pattern—corrupt companies restructuring after scandals—but didn't want to pursue it further. Told me I was lucky I walked away. Like all this is just... business as usual."
"Maybe he's right," Matt said quietly. "Maybe it's better this way."
Rose stiffened, anger flaring hot and sudden. "Better? People are dead, Matt. Daniel, Daria. Who knows how many others. And what, we just move on with our lives?"
"That's not what I meant—"
"Then what did you mean?" Rose started pacing across the small living room. "Because it sounds like you think I should back down. Let whoever is behind this continue whatever they're planning for Hell's Kitchen."
"I meant maybe it's better if the journalist stays out of it," Matt clarified, his voice maddeningly calm. "The fewer people involved, the fewer targets."
"We need allies, Matt. We can't do this alone."
"We're not alone," he said. "We have each other."
The simple statement stopped her in her tracks. She turned to look at him, this man who'd crashed into her life so unexpectedly. Sitting there, bruised and battered, yet somehow undefeated.
"So, tell me," she said, partly just to change the subject. "What happened with Healy?"
Matt's jaw tightened. "They got to another juror."
"Another one?"
"Same as before. The heart rate, the nervous behavior."
Rose's hands stilled briefly, then resumed their work. "And Healy? He was acquitted?"
Matt nodded, his expression grim. "I couldn't just let him walk. So, I followed him."
"Of course, you did," Rose muttered, but there was no heat in her words.
"I confronted him, made him talk," Matt continued. His voice dropped lower. "He gave me a name."
Rose's eyes snapped to his face. "A name? Whose?"
"Wilson Fisk."
"Fisk?" Rose repeated. "I've never heard of him."
"That's the thing," Matt said, frustration evident in his tone. "Neither has anyone else. It's like he doesn't exist. No public record, nothing online. Not one mention."
"Maybe whoever gave you his name was lying," Rose suggested.
Matt shook his head. "I would have known if he was."
"Right," Rose said. "Heartbeat."
"After Healy gave up Fisk's name—" Matt's voice faltered. "He killed himself. Impaled his own head on a metal spike."
Rose inhaled sharply. "Why would he—"
"He was terrified," Matt explained. "Said Fisk would find him, make an example of him. Then find everyone he'd ever cared about and do the same to them." His hands clenched into fists. "He said I should have just killed him."
Rose finished bandaging the last of his wounds in silence, absorbing this information. She stripped off the gloves and leaned against the edge of her desk, facing him. "Let me help. With this Fisk guy."
"How?"
"I'm a P.I., remember? Finding people is what I do." She reached for her laptop. "And I have contacts, access to databases that aren't available to the public."
"You'd do that?"
"Of course, I would." She paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. "What are partners for?"
A small smile curved Matt's lips. "Partners?"
"Isn't that what we are?" Rose asked. "Or do you just show up at my window when you need patching up?"
"Maybe I just like the company," he admitted, his voice dropping to that low register that sent a shiver down her spine.
Rose forced herself to focus on the screen, typing "Wilson Fisk" into a search engine. "So, what, you're just going to go out there punching whoever you can, hoping to find somebody who knows this Fisk guy?"
"Well, apply enough pressure, someone will break," Matt replied. "Sooner or later."
"There's nothing immediate on Fisk," she reported, scrolling through the results. "But that in itself is strange. Most people leave some kind of digital footprint these days."
"Maybe he's careful," Matt suggested. "Or has the resources to hide himself."
"Nobody can hide completely," Rose said. "Everyone leaves traces. You just have to know where to look." She closed her laptop and turned toward him. "I'll dig deeper tomorrow. Use some of my less conventional methods."
Matt nodded, expression grateful. "Thank you."
"In the meantime," Rose said, her tone turning stern, "you should rest. And seriously consider some kind of protection. Your black pajamas aren't cutting it."
"They're not—" Matt began, then sighed. "It's a work in progress."
"Progress faster," Rose insisted. "Before you get yourself killed."
Matt reached into a pocket of his black outfit and pulled out a small, cheap flip phone. "Here."
"Um, you shouldn't have," Rose said, taking the phone with a raised eyebrow.
"I didn't," Matt replied with a hint of a smile. "The burner's for me. Memorize the number, put yours in. Next time I need to come by, I'll call."
"By 'come by,' do you mean stumble in, bleeding half to death?" Rose asked dryly.
"Yeah, something like that."
Rose pulled open her desk drawer and took out a similar no-frills phone. "Good thinking," she said. "I have one too." She dialed the number of the phone Matt had just given her.
His burner phone vibrated in his hand. "Now you have my number," she said.
Matt nodded, his fingers moving over the keypad to save the contact. He pressed a few additional buttons. "Speed dial one," he explained. "Now we both have a secure line."
He stood up, a bit steadier now that his wounds had been tended. "I should go." He put his mask back on and moved to the window.
Rose didn't try to stop him, though part of her wanted to. Wanted him to stay, to rest, to heal properly before throwing himself back into the fray. But she knew he wouldn't. His mission was too important to him.
As he was already with a leg dangling out, Rose called out, "Matt?"
He paused, half-turned toward her.
"Be careful out there."
The corner of his mouth lifted in that crooked smile she was beginning to know too well. "Always am."
"Liar," she said, but returned his smile.
He slipped out into the night, a shadow among shadows.