When Aldrich Killian realized that the fearless hero standing before him was, like himself, a man living with a disability, genuine surprise flickered across his face. For a moment, admiration replaced hostility. To be blind, yet still fight on the front lines as a hero defending others—such courage was rare, even among the extraordinary.
"Forgive my earlier outburst," Killian said, spreading his glowing hands in a gesture of peace. His tone softened, his words persuasive. "You, of all people, understand the pain of living in darkness. Every day, trapped in a broken body—helpless, limited. Everything I've done, all my work, it's been for people like us. We're not enemies, Daredevil. We're the same. We should be allies."
Daredevil used his staff to pull himself upright. The burnt remnants of his mask clung to his face, and he wiped away the charred fabric covering his ruined eyes. His voice was cold and steady.
"No. If seeing again means spilling innocent blood—then I'll stay blind forever."
The words had barely left his mouth when he lunged forward, swinging his staff in a blur toward Killian's temple. The heavy weapon cut through the air with a sharp, explosive whistle before it connected solidly against the side of Killian's skull.
A sickening crack echoed through the darkness—a sound that usually meant the end of a fight.
"Pity," Killian said, his voice disturbingly calm.
Daredevil froze. Killian stood tall, completely unfazed, though his head hung crookedly from the impact. With a single twist of his neck, the bones snapped back into place. Then his hand shot out, seizing Daredevil's staff. The skin of his palm glowed molten red, and smoke curled up between his fingers.
Daredevil tried to wrench his weapon free, but Killian's grip was iron. The heat radiating through the staff grew unbearable, forcing the hero to release it. Burnt flesh peeled from his palms as he stumbled backward.
Killian let the weapon drop with a hiss, leaving blackened fingerprints branded into the metal.
Even so, Daredevil did not retreat. With both hands bleeding and trembling, he stepped forward and struck with his fists. One clean hit connected with Killian's jaw, twisting his face aside. The vigilante pressed on, landing blow after blow—left, right, left, like a furious boxer punishing a training bag.
His father had once been a boxer too—until the mob took his life.
"Are you done?" Killian asked coolly after taking another punch square in the nose. He straightened his head slowly, letting the next hit glance off his cheek.
Only then did Daredevil realize—Killian hadn't moved. Not once.
Before he could react, Killian's foot slammed into his chest like a battering ram. The blind hero flew backward, crashing through piles of garbage before hitting the ground with a thud.
He gasped for air, struggling to rise, when his own staff came hurtling toward him—thrown like a spear. It sliced across his cheek and buried itself deep in the concrete wall behind him, the metal glowing cherry red.
"Now do you understand?" Killian's voice echoed across the ruined factory. "This is the power of the Extremis Virus! With it, we—the broken, the unwanted—no longer have to beg for help or pity. We don't need fake sympathy or false equality. We'll take respect by force—and reclaim what was stolen from us!"
Daredevil, half-kneeling amid the debris, stared back with a bloodied grin. "What you're earning isn't respect," he said hoarsely. "It's fear."
"Fear is still better than pity!" Killian roared, his expression twisting with fury. He pointed at Daredevil's lifeless eyes, his voice rising to a feverish pitch.
"Don't you want to see again? To look at the woman you love—not with your hands, but with your eyes? Don't you long to stand atop the world and watch the city spread beneath your feet instead of hearing it whisper in the dark? Do you know what it means to open your eyes after a lifetime of blindness?"
"Yes," Daredevil murmured softly. "There's no greater joy in the world."
Even he couldn't deny it. For a man born into endless night, that was the most beautiful dream imaginable. But he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to rise once more from the reeking trash.
Grasping the molten-hot staff embedded in the wall, he burned his palms black just to hold it again. The air filled with the sickening stench of scorched flesh.
"But that kind of happiness," he said, pulling the weapon free, "isn't something I ever asked for!"
With a fierce roar, Daredevil thrust the glowing staff forward like a lance. The red-hot metal pierced straight through Killian's chest, lifting him clean off the ground and slamming him against a nearby concrete pillar.
Without pause, Daredevil grabbed broken steel rods scattered across the floor and drove them into Killian's limbs—one after another—pinning him in place like a crucified figure.
Only then did he stop, leaning heavily against another pillar, breathing hard. His hands were ruined—flesh charred black, fingers barely moving—but there was no regret in his expression. From the moment he'd donned the mask, he'd accepted pain and death as the cost of justice.
"I'll make the same choice," he whispered, "no matter how many times fate repeats itself."
"You truly are blind, Daredevil," Killian rasped, his voice low and hollow. "You can't see what really matters."
"No," Daredevil answered, gripping his staff once more. "I can still see—justice."
"That's exactly why you're blind!"
With a snarl, Killian's entire body ignited. Flames erupted from his wounds, melting the steel that held him. The staff in his chest liquefied into glowing metal that dripped onto the floor.
Daredevil barely had time to brace himself before Killian struck again. A blazing hand smashed across his face, sending him sprawling to the ground. His strength finally gave out. His body refused to move.
Killian loomed over him, breathing hard, molten veins glowing beneath his skin. From his belt, he pulled out an empty syringe and drove the needle into his own arm, drawing a vial of bright, orange-red blood.
Then, with a flick of his wrist, he plunged it into Daredevil's neck.
"Only when you feel the Extremis running through your veins," Killian said darkly, "will you understand just how precious it truly is—for people like us."
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