Chapter Text
The breath that left Amara’s lungs in a lingering cloud danced with the penetrating light of the New York City skyline. Her perch next to the fire escape was not the most comfortable place to see the famous sight. But tonight, comfort was not Amara’s concern. The building to her left obscured any view she might have from the safety of the walkway under her window. But if she jumped up onto the railing—and edged just a bit to the left—then the city materialized before her in a beautiful tableau.
The breathtaking sight was interrupted by flashing images—gruesome and disturbing. Amara shook her head insistently as though to drive them out of her head.
The stone beneath her palms and thighs greedily drank the precious warmth from her body. Most of the time she remembered to at least bring a blanket when she came out here. However, the numbness she was feeling now had been present long before the cold had invaded her bones. Foresight was a luxury reserved those who cared what happened to them. A derisive scoff escaped her at the thought.
For all that it was Amara’s job to help people process their trauma, she was certainly doing a damn poor job of it herself. The therapist in her was telling her that she needed to cut herself some slack. After all, it isn’t every day that you watch your client kill himself in front of you. However, self-compassion wasn’t something she’d ever been very good at. And she had failed to stop him from pulling the trigger.
Amara finally decided to head inside when she realized that it was her, not the city, that was shaking so violently. She noticed her legs had gone to sleep when her body didn’t respond the way she expected it too. Her fingers shot out to grasp the support beam to her right as her body pitched forward towards the darkness below. She caught herself, and her heart rushed into her throat as her eyes tracked traitorously downwards. A low whine whittled its way past her lips as she stared at her blood-stained shoes and the nothingness underneath them.
Clumsily, she dragged herself back to safety.
———
Daredevil tilted his head. From below him he heard two men leave the warehouse that he’d been surveilling the last four nights. Tracking down all the rats that had scattered after he had taken down Fisk had not been idle work. Each time he felt that he was reaching the end of the rope, a new thread would branch off. Most recently he’d uncovered that the famous talent agency—the Lotus Group—had somehow gotten into the business of kidnapping vulnerable young women.
The four nights he had spent huddled in the dark listening intently for any indication of the women’s whereabouts had left him restless. This sort of surveillance wasn’t in his nature. The Devil lurking just under the surface of his skin, was urging him to do something. He felt it everywhere in his body. His jaw had begun to ache from the effort it took to keep his patience. However, the Lotus Group had an unnerving proclivity for not saying anything important when he was within earshot. So, he waited and listened and hoped to God that his inaction wasn’t costing anyone their lives.
“I don’t understand what the issue is, Mikey!” One of the men said, “Carter is dead. The way I see it, he did us a favour. The guy gave me the creeps.”
A car door opened.
The other man, Mikey presumably, replied, “He popped himself in front of a shrink, Ernie. Makes the boss think he had a guilty conscious. Dying confessions and all that. If he told the lady something she’s a threat to the business.”
The other car door opened. There was the distinct sound of cloth rasping over cloth, then the creaking of leather as the men found their seats. The next words that left Ernie’s mouth were swallowed by the interior of the car.
“I just don’t like killin’ women, ya know? Feels wrong.”
Mikey snorted, “You’ve killed plenty of women.”
“Don’t mean I like it.”
Daredevil stopped listening. He’d heard enough. The wind whispered past his ears like a sigh of relief as he sprang into action. It wasn’t the first time he had chased a car through the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. God, he hoped it wouldn’t be the last. His heart beat in tandem with the pounding of his feet on concrete. His body rushed with sweet adrenaline as he vaulted over the lip of a building. Gravel bit into his skin through his suit as he rolled onto the roof of the next, each nerve ending coming alight with profound sensation.
His ears tracked the low roar of the car’s engine. Left on 8th—Daredevil’s body shifted course almost unconsciously.
Mikey turned on the radio. The slight static pricked at the Devil’s spine as the melodic sound of jazz filtered through the thick city air. Daredevil gritted his teeth and pushed himself harder.
He fought the urge to scream in frustration when he realized the men were headed south. They were crossing a major tourist vein where the buildings were too far apart for Daredevil to jump between. His only option was to find his way to street level and blend into the dense Friday night crowds. That would be extraordinary difficult to do dressed as he was. The last thing he needed right now was more publicity.
Quickly checking to make sure there were no witnesses, he scaled down the side of a building into the dank alley below. The sounds of the car’s engine grew ever more distant. Cursing, he scrambled wildly for some sort of plan. Just as he decided his best option was to run for it and damn the consequences, salvation arrived in the form of a stumbling drunk.
Daredevil moved.
He had the man pressed between himself and the wall before the man could so much as blink, a hand over his mouth to prevent him from screaming.
“Do you know who I am?”
The drunk nodded frantically. Daredevil’s nose wrinkled as the movement stirred up a pungent wave of whisky and vomit.
“If I let go, will you scream?”
The man shook his head.
“Good. I need your hoodie.”
———
Amara’s fingers finally found the bottom edge of the window that led back into her living room. Though she was exhausted, her body was still pulsing with a terrible clarity that only came from the sharp edge of fear. The sensation was all too familiar today. Just as she moved to let herself back into her small, tidy apartment—she heard something that gave her pause.
It almost sounded like someone was in her kitchen.
But that couldn’t be right. She lived alone.
“Check the bedroom.” Came a thickly accented voice.
"Go check yourself. I’m not your lapdog.”
Without thinking, Amara ducked. She pressed her back to the rough brick façade of her building, making herself as small as she could. Before she could stop it, a hysterical giggle bubbled out of her chest. She clamped a hand over her mouth. As if this day could get any worse.
“What was that?” Asked the voice from the kitchen. The other man replied in a voice that was higher, and less accented. “What was what? You’re hearing things, Mikey."
“Whatever.”
Amara listened intently to the sound of heavy foot fall and creaking floorboards as she worked on her breathing. Irrationally, she was convinced that if she didn’t, that they’d be able to hear the ragged gasps tearing through her throat. Each moment stretched out over years. She found herself praying quietly in her head as she listened to them rummage through her things. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw herself with a gun held to her temple, a blindfold over her eyes and her hands bound behind her back. Her eyes burned with the sheer effort of keeping them open.
“It don’t make sense, Ernie. Her phones here, but she ain’t. Who goes anywhere without their phone anymore?”
Amara went hot and cold all at once. She suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to vomit. How long would it take before they thought to check the fire escape?
“She got any texts or anything?”
“My ears must be deceiving me.” The one with the deeper voice said. “It almost sounded like you just asked something smart.”
“Just look at the phone, Mikey.”
“Got a text here from one, ‘Marsha Wallace’ checking after her wellbeing. Telling her that she’ll be needing to come in tomorrow to review her statement.”
“Griffin ain’t gunna be happy if—“
The man was cut off with a resounding crash.
Amara tasted copper. Startled, she realized she’d bitten her lip so hard that she’d drawn blood. The unmistakable sounds of a fight flooded out of her apartment. Had the men turned on each other? Was there someone else in there?
She so desperately wanted to know what the hell was going on, but she wasn’t about to betray her hiding spot to satisfy her curiosity. Smashing, grunting and the nauseating sound of fist to flesh were enough for her to know that she needed to get out of here—and fast. Amara didn’t allow herself to hope that whoever instigated the fight was here to help her. Instead, she fought sluggishly against her own mind to try to work out a way out. The obvious answer was down the fire escape. But did she have enough control over her own limbs to get up and start running? And what if they heard her?
Gathering a few heaving breaths, she made her decision. She would not sit there and wait to die. As quietly as she could manage while still moving quickly, she crawled towards the steps. It wasn’t until she reached the bottom of the first flight that she allowed herself to fully stand. Giving up on quiet, she moved with as much speed as she could muster.
She made it down two more flights before the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen appeared in front of her.