The Invisible String: Matt Murdock/ Daredevil

4

Looking at the time on her alarm clock, a flicker of anxiety crept in. Six p.m. Why the hell did she agree to this? It was going to be awkward—of course it was. She cursed under her breath as she walked over to the minimal pile of clothing in her wardrobe.

"Okay... jeans. You can't go wrong with jeans. And... black long-sleeve shirt," she mumbled to herself, pulling the basic outfit from the hangers. Nothing special, but there was no way she was showing up in a frilly dress.

She straightened her hair and fixed her makeup, then headed out. As she exited the building, she waved at Mary, who returned the gesture with a warm smile. It had only been a day, and Annalise already found herself growing fond of her.

The temperature had dropped drastically. She immediately regretted not wearing something warmer, but the cold had a strange comfort to it. It reminded her of walking home after late-night rooftop adventures—of better times.

She tried to brush off the sharp ache forming in her chest as she approached the bar down the street, her pace brisk. The moment she opened the door, the blast of warmth, sound, and movement hit her like a wave. The bar was alive. The energy of bodies packed together, the vibration of music pulsing through the floors, the collective hum of conversation—it all made her head spin.

Foggy appeared out of nowhere, two drinks in hand, thrusting one toward her with a grin.

"Just in time! Told you top shelf. I may have lied, but here we are."

They clinked glasses. She brought the drink to her lips and downed it in one go. It tasted like cheap beer and regret. Foggy blinked at her, impressed.

"Okay, I definitely like you now. You need to teach Karen that move—she needs pointers."

"Karen?" she echoed, raising an eyebrow. Apparently, he hadn't realized she had no clue who his girlfriend was.

"Right! Come on," he said quickly, waving her along toward a nearby table.

A tall blonde woman sat there, nursing a drink. She looked up with bright eyes and smiled warmly as they approached.

The music was nearly deafening. But oddly, her senses started to settle. Maybe it was the alcohol.

"Another round?" Foggy asked, already halfway up from his seat.

"Yes, please!" Karen chirped, nearly hopping off her stool.

"No chance. We've been over this. If you want to order whatever the hell a 'Sex on the Beach' is, either I can demonstrate, or you can order it yourself."

Karen groaned and stomped toward the bar in a way that suggested this wasn't the first time he'd made that joke.

Annalise laughed, trying (and failing) to hold it back.

"Lightweight?" she asked, watching Karen's slightly wobbly walk.

"Actually, no. Heavy drinker, apparently," Foggy replied with a soft, sad smile.

That change in energy was immediate. Annalise felt it ripple through him like a wave—grief just barely contained.

"What happened?" she asked gently, tilting her head slightly.

Foggy glanced away, cleared his throat, then looked down at the table.

"Our friend. His name was... well, is—sort of. Matt. He was declared dead not long ago. Karen hasn't taken it well."

There it was again. That twist in her stomach, the knot pulling tighter. His words said one thing, but his heartbeat told her something else. He was lying. Not entirely—but something was off. Could it be her Matt? No. It couldn't be. The timing, the location—it would be too cruel.

Tears stung her eyes, uninvited. She tensed, forcing herself to blink them back.

"You okay?" Foggy's brows knit together with concern.

"Yeah. I'm fine. Sorry for asking. Anyway..."

The night moved on, and the drinks kept coming—more than she could count on two hands. Her senses dulled, and for a little while, it felt nice. Peaceful, even.

By midnight, her head was swimming. Thank God she wasn't working tomorrow; she could feel the hangover already blooming behind her eyes. Her stomach ached faintly, the tightness in her chest a constant pressure. She kept circling back to what Foggy said—Matt was dead. But something about it didn't feel right. She couldn't accept it, not yet.

Still, despite everything, she had fun. Foggy was hilarious, confident, and one of the kindest people she'd met in a long time. Karen had her own spark—charming, sarcastic, and clearly the type who could make anyone feel welcome. Together, they were something special.

As they said their goodbyes outside the bar, Annalise spent a full ten minutes convincing them she was perfectly capable of walking home alone. She was nearly ready to give up when Karen, half-laughing, handed her a small pocketknife and whispered, "Please be careful."

She finally made it back to her apartment and slipped inside as quietly as possible, making sure Mary didn't catch her in her current state. No way was she letting that sweet woman see her absolutely plastered.

Once inside, she headed straight for the fridge and chugged a bottle of water in one go, praying it might ward off tomorrow's hangover. As she stood there, she felt it—a familiar tremor in the ground as a train passed beneath. The vibration shot through her and made her hunch over, clutching the oven handle for support.

It passed quickly, but the moment of calm that followed was empty, and heavy.

Eyes closed, she leaned against the kitchen door, that hollow feeling inside her expanding again. She'd lost everything—her friends, her peace, the only people who ever made her feel loved. The Sister who made her feel seen. And him. Her best friend. The one who made her believe that home wasn't a place, but a person.

As the dull ache began to harden into something angrier, something colder, another wave hit her.

Metal.

She pushed herself to her feet and moved toward the window, sliding it open.

"Could you knock it off, please?"

Her voice was steady, but the irritation was barely contained.

Above her, one story up, a figure leaned against the fire escape railing.

He was tall and broad, his arms stretched back along the rails for support. He was breathing heavily—each inhale sharp, strained. He looked like he had sprinted for miles. A dark suit clung to his body, soaked in water and blood. His face was battered. Wounds covered his skin, his shirt—was it white? red?—was stained beyond recognition.

His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that echoed through her.

Then he tilted his head toward her.

That small, familiar gesture sent a jolt through her spine.

His body swayed like he was going to collapse. His eyes didn't quite focus, darting across the sky. Confusion and pain twisted across his face—and in that moment, her heart cracked.

She knew that face.

She knew that heartbeat.

She knew that blood.

"Matt?"