The Invisible String: Matt Murdock/ Daredevil

5

Knocking her head against the window board, Annalise stumbled back, landing on her hands against the rough floor. She winced slightly.

"Matt," she whispered.

Scrambling back to the window not a moment later, she was met with nothing but empty space. Her eyes darted up. There—he was slipping through the window above her.

She froze, watching for any sign she had imagined it. Resting her forearms on the window sill, she waited. A sudden shock pulsed through the board beneath her—he was moving. Uneven footsteps thudded overhead, then paused. Then again—back down.

She hurried, grabbing her small medical kit and climbing carefully out onto the fire escape. Her heart pounded. Whatever she was walking into, it wasn't going to be simple.

The window was still open. She slipped inside, eyes adjusting to the dim apartment. There, collapsed on the floor, was the man she had seen. His shirt and tie were discarded, his body sprawled out in a heap, unconscious.

The prison had been unbearable. The noise alone was enough to shatter sanity—the constant shouting, the metal doors clanging, the stench of sweat and fear. Then came the drug. Injected straight into his hand, leaving him dazed, unbalanced. Deafened.

He could barely tell what was real anymore.

The Albanians had pulled him out—only because of the deal. A promise to help them return Fisk to the hellhole he belonged in. The escape was chaos. A cab. Blacking out. A plunge into cold water. And then, crawling his way back to Hell's Kitchen. Back home.

He reached the fire escape just before collapsing. The drug was still in his system, his hearing distorted. Everything was spinning. He couldn't tell what was blood or just lake water.

A window opened somewhere nearby. A voice. It rang in his ears, but he couldn't focus on it. Couldn't even hear his own heartbeat over the pressure in his head. He climbed the stairs, barely able to move, rolled through the window without shutting it, and stumbled toward the staircase.

The shirt clung to his back, soaked. He yanked it off, pain radiating from his side. He collapsed before he could reach the bedroom, his back hitting the floor with a final, jarring thud.

Annalise knelt beside him, unsure what to do. His skin was ice cold, but the scent of blood was overwhelming. She hovered for a moment. Ambulance? She hesitated. Something told her that was a bad idea.

She stepped closer and crouched. He was still breathing, but the injuries were extensive. Two fractured ribs, a deep gash below them, a stab wound to his upper arm. Countless minor cuts across his chest and face. Not to mention the old scars—ones that looked long healed.

His discarded clothes were still damp. She gently pressed a towel over the bleeding wound on his side. Suddenly, his phone buzzed on the floor near her. The screen lit up.

Foggy Foggy Foggy

She blinked. It had to be the same Foggy she had met earlier. She silenced the phone and tucked it aside.

The stitching took her twenty minutes. Her hands worked with practiced focus. Every few seconds, she glanced at his face, watching for signs of movement. Nothing. Worry crept into her chest. Was he worse off than she thought?

She was applying the last piece of dressing when his hand shot out and latched onto her wrist.

She gasped and flinched.

His eyes opened, unfocused, darting wildly around the room.

"What happened?" he rasped, his voice dry and rough.

She didn't realize she had been holding her breath until now.

"You tell me. You climbed in here bleeding to death."

Her voice was careful, uncertain.

His grip eased. His hand slid away, and he pressed his palm against the unfamiliar stitching along his side. He tried to sit up, wincing as pain flared through his body.

He gave up halfway and slumped back down. She stayed on her knees, medical gauze still in hand.

"Who... who are you?" he asked again. His eyes didn't land on her; they flicked around the room, as if searching.

"I'm someone trying to help you," she answered softly, dodging the question.

He tilted his head back against the floor, jaw tight.

"They'll come for me," he muttered. "I need to leave."

Her eyebrows drew together.

"Come for you? Who's they?" she asked.

He didn't answer. Instead, he rolled to his side and forced himself upright. He staggered toward a cupboard across the room and yanked out a duffel bag. His pants were soaked, dripping onto the floor with every step. Annalise remained still, leaning on the couch for support.

What was she doing here? Why hadn't she walked away?

Because if this was Matt... she couldn't.

"Where do you plan on going?" she asked. "You're not exactly in hiking condition."

He paused in the hallway.

"I'll figure it out. Thank you—for everything."

He disappeared into the next room. She stayed where she was, feeling the vibrations of movement through the floor. She always wondered if it was creepy, sensing what people were doing from rooms away, buildings away, if she focused hard enough. She wondered if he ever felt the same. Surely, he knew someone was listening to him—someone like him.

"Why are you grabbing sticks?" she whispered into the air.

A distinct click—baton against baton.

His footsteps halted. Then returned.

He stepped back into view, standing at the edge of the room, water dripping from his clothes, blood crusted along his temple.

Her eyes met his.

"Who are you?" he asked again, this time more certain, more grounded.