The Invisible String: Matt Murdock/ Daredevil

1.

Annalise was ten years old when Sister Margaret first found her.

She had been sleeping on one of the old wooden benches in the church, curled up in a ball as rain lashed against the stained-glass windows. The orphanage she was meant to call home was no refuge—its leader had been drinking more than usual, and she knew exactly what that meant. She wasn't strong enough to face it again. Not tonight.

A dim light glowed from within the chapel. She'd slipped inside, soaked to the bone, praying no one would notice.

She didn't hear Sister Margaret until the soft creak of her shoes echoed through the silence. The nun knelt gently before her as the child stirred.

"Are you alright, sweet child?"

Annalise sat up, startled. Her eyes darted to the door.

"Yes... um, I'm sorry. I saw light inside—"

"It's alright, dear. Can I get you anything?"

Panic gripped her chest. Her mind screamed to run. She scrambled to her feet, backing away.

"N-no, I'm okay. Thank you."

And just like that, she fled. The storm outside howled louder than before, flooding the streets and splashing across her ankles as she ran. Home—if she could call it that—was fifteen minutes away. She knew the route by heart, alternating between running and walking to avoid making too much noise.

But the silence was shattered as soon as she reached the window.

Glass crunched under her shoe. The pane had been shattered. Her bed flipped. A hole—ripped through the drywall—exposed tangled wires, sparking faintly in the dark.

She froze.

Slowly, carefully, she climbed through the broken window, tiptoeing around the creaky floorboard beneath it. She made for the corner of her room—her usual hiding spot—just as heavy, furious footsteps echoed down the hall.

The door slammed open.

"Where the fuck have you been?"

The voice was cold, slurred, but sharp enough to pierce her heart. She winced as a hand grabbed her by the collar, yanking her off the ground.

"I'm sorry! I—I'll never leave again! Please—"

But the fists were already falling.

"You stupid. Little. Bitch!"

Each word punctuated with a blow. Her head snapped back. Her knees buckled. She crashed to the floor, then was hauled up again and thrown.

The wall cracked.

Something sharp burned through her back.

Wires.

Her scream died in her throat as a jolt of pain surged through every nerve in her body. Muscles seized. Her vision blurred. Her limbs twisted involuntarily as electricity danced through her bones.

And then—nothing.

Just black.

God, she hated the dark.

She was vaguely aware of being dragged, her limbs limp, the distant curses of the woman who called herself a carer. But soon, the world slipped away entirely.

She awoke to vibration. Not sound—vibration.

It pulsed through her spine, her fingertips, her teeth. She clutched her ears and sat up with a gasp. Something felt wrong. Terribly wrong.

The ground felt... sharp?

She looked down. Concrete. But not just rough—it felt like she was lying on a bed of nails. Her nerves screamed.

She staggered to her feet, disoriented. The low hum of a streetlight above throbbed like a drumbeat against her temples. She could feel it vibrating through the metal pole, into the concrete, up through her legs.

Why could she feel that?

The world buzzed around her, too loud, too fast, too alive.

A car passed a few streets away—and she sensed it before she saw it. The tires on asphalt, the pressure waves moving through the road like ripples in water.

She wasn't hearing these things. She was feeling them.

She stumbled forward, her shoes slapping the pavement too hard. Each step was agony, like she was pounding her bones into the street. The vibrations traveled through her legs, up her spine. She could feel every tiny imperfection in the ground beneath her.

The church. She had to get to the church.

She saw it up ahead—its tall frame lit from within. The old doors loomed before her. She reached for them, but the wood stung her fingers like sandpaper. She recoiled with a hiss.

Using her jacket sleeve as a barrier, she shoved the door open and fell inside, tears stinging her eyes as the smooth stone floor now felt jagged beneath her palms.

"Are you alright, child?"

That voice again.

Sister Margaret stood at the altar, a soft glow around her like a painting come to life.

"I... I don't know," Annalise whimpered. "Something's wrong with me."

Her own voice echoed back in distorted waves—too loud, too delayed. She cried out, stumbling forward—

And collapsed.

She woke on a bed.

The white sheets were coarse, like sand against her skin. A large wooden cross hung above her. A candle burned softly in the corner.

She sat up.

Maybe it had all been a nightmare—

Then the waves hit.

Thousands of micro-vibrations radiated from every surface. Heat. Energy. Light. Sound. All of it coursed through her like electricity through copper.

She ran to the candle and blew it out.

The smoke danced toward her in slow-motion waves. She dropped to the floor, covering her head, shivering as cars, footsteps, conversations buzzed through the walls and floor.

She screamed.

Or tried to.

Something metal clattered beside her—a small candle snuffer had been knocked from the table. She braced herself for the sound, for the pain—

But a hand caught it.

She looked up.

A boy, maybe a few years older than her, stood in the doorway.

"Hi," he said gently. "Um... I'm Mathew."