The Invisible String: Matt Murdock/ Daredevil

8.

The morning sun pinpointed directly into her line of vision. She sat up quickly, looking over the edge of the bed to see a neat stack of pillows and blankets. He wasn't there. Panic settled in as she shrugged off the blanket and hurried toward the kitchen. No one was in sight. Rolling up the sleeves of her shirt, she laid flat on her back against the hard wood floor. Palms pressed firmly against the surface, she concentrated hard, searching for Matt's familiar frequency.

Outside, the streets were noisy—cars honking, people chatting as they passed her building, dogs barking at nothing important. A harsh, repeated thud echoed from a boxing bag nearby. She sighed and stood, walking toward the bathroom. Matt was going to get himself killed, she thought as she stepped into the shower. Warm water cascaded over her shoulders, washing away some of her worries, its heat comforting and steady.

After brushing her teeth, she changed into loose leggings and a grey t-shirt, grabbed her bag and a black hair tie, and took a brisk walk to the small gym on the corner.

This was his father's gym, as they called it. It contained a medium-sized ring used for boxing matches, and a large poster of his father wearing boxing gloves hung prominently on the wall. He was and still is a champion. Matt had a deep attachment to this place—he'd always come here as a child and now as an adult.

She opened the door and saw Matt repeatedly hitting the bag, groaning slightly with each strike. He stopped, panting, and turned to face her. His black shirt clung to his arms, soaked with sweat, matched by black sweatpants. She took a moment to look at him. His hair was a darker brown, curling slightly. Harsh muscles rippled across his arms, hands locked in tight fists—a position he was clearly accustomed to. His posture was strong and steady, back straight and head cocked to the side.

Yes, he was her best friend—emphasis on friend—but she had to admit he was certainly attractive. She shook her head quickly, cutting the thought off.

"Avoiding the plan for today or me?" she asked pointedly, hurt that he had left without telling her.

"Anne, like I said, you can't be involved in this. It'll get you hurt or killed. I can't let that happen."

"I can make that decision for myself, Matt. You're acting like I can't take care of myself, and you're doing the same thing to Foggy and Karen. If I want to be involved, that's my choice, not yours."

Her voice faltered as a young man entered. She didn't recognize him—tall, clearly on some kind of steroids, and most noticeable, a large jagged scar draped across his eye.

"I booked this area out today," he said with a sneer. "Take it up the street, lovebirds."

Her face scrunched in disgust. Why were so many people rude here?

"You need the whole area to practice?" she retorted, rolling her eyes as he turned to glare at her.

"No, but you're on the ring. So unless you want to step inside with me, get out."

Matt looked visibly annoyed by the man's attitude. She realized she was sitting on the edge of the ring. She sighed and slid underneath the ropes into the square.

"I'm not gonna hit a pathetic girl," the man snickered, shooting her a foul look. Was 'pathetic' everyone's go-to insult in this city, or just for her? She was starting to take it personally.

"Sure you're not just nervous you won't be able to land a hit?" she shot back.

The man threw his bag on the bench and hurried into the ring, dropping low into a fighting stance. Matt stepped forward, ready to intervene.

"Back off, Matt," she whispered.

He clenched his jaw and halted. She was pissed.

"How long do you think it'll take me to get you down? Four? Five seconds?" she laughed, walking toward the center of the square. The man's confidence was overwhelming—she almost felt guilty. His posture was upright, a failed attempt to make himself look bigger. He was angry, clearly offended that she accepted his threat so casually. He wanted to be feared, and this was wounding him.