James Wesley slumped against the cold concrete floor, dust clinging to his glasses as shredded currency drifted around him like green ash.
He stared blankly at the wreckage.
Footsteps approached.
Daredevil crouched beside him.
Wesley barely had time to react before his wrist was seized in an iron grip.
"Ugh—!"
Pain flared up his arm, snapping him back to awareness.
"I ask. You answer."
Daredevil's voice was low, controlled — not angry, not emotional, but immovable.
He twisted Wesley's wrist just enough to make the tendons strain.
Wesley gasped.
"I am not here to hurt you," Daredevil said quietly, leaning closer.
"But I will break something if you lie to me."
He released the pressure.
Wesley sucked in air.
Daredevil's hand hovered near his fingers — not striking, not snapping — but close enough that the threat was unmistakable.
"Does Fisk have another operation tonight?"
"N–no…" Wesley stammered.
Daredevil tilted his head slightly.
To him, the world was rhythm.
Breath cadence.
Pulse tempo.
Micro-tremors in muscle tension.
Wesley's heartbeat spiked.
Lie.
The pressure returned to his wrist — precise, escalating.
Wesley's composure cracked.
"I'll talk! I'll talk!"
His voice collapsed into ragged breaths.
Joren walked along the deserted street leading away from the docks.
The sea breeze tugged at the hem of his coat, carrying away the smell of gunpowder and oil.
He wanted to go home.
Shower.
Change clothes.
Sit quietly on the sofa and watch a documentary about humpback whale migration.
Peace.
Just peace.
A dark red figure landed silently atop a streetlight ahead of him.
Daredevil.
He looked down.
"What are your thoughts?"
Joren stopped and looked up, expression unchanged beneath the brim of his hat.
"Nothing."
Daredevil dropped lightly to the pavement in front of him.
"You destroyed Kingpin's shipment."
"You crippled his men."
"You issued threats in front of his lieutenant."
He paused.
"Do you think he will ignore that?"
Joren said nothing.
At this moment, the man in the red suit felt more troublesome than the armed thugs.
"I don't want to be a guardian," Joren said finally, impatience creeping into his voice.
"This world already has Iron Man. It has you. It has that Spider-Man swinging around the city."
"There are enough heroes."
"I just want a peaceful life."
Daredevil listened.
Joren's heartbeat remained steady.
No deception.
No bravado.
He meant it.
A quiet, self-aware chuckle escaped Daredevil.
"A peaceful life?"
He tilted his head, studying him.
"Your peaceful life ended the moment Fisk's men targeted you."
He stepped closer and gestured toward Joren.
"Look at you."
"A hat permanently fused to your skull."
He pointed to Joren's collar.
"That gold chain on your coat."
His gaze dropped.
"And two belts."
He shook his head faintly.
"Tell me, Joren Joestar… does anyone dressed like this truly want to live quietly?"
Joren's brow twitched beneath the brim.
"Yare yare."
"None of your business."
"You should change identities," Daredevil continued. "Wear something less… memorable."
Joren's eyes drifted over Daredevil's dark red suit.
They lingered briefly on the horned mask.
An indescribable sense of secondhand embarrassment rose inside him.
Run around the city dressed like that?
He would rather demolish Stark Tower.
Absolutely impossible.
Daredevil seemed to sense the silent refusal and let the subject drop.
"My name is Matt Murdock," he said.
"A lawyer."
Joren looked mildly surprised.
Matt handed him a simple business card — name and phone number only.
"If you run into legal trouble," Matt said, "call me."
Joren slipped the card into his pocket.
Matt's expression grew serious again.
"I learned more from Wesley."
"There's another transaction tonight — weapons, not cash. Kingpin's people are meeting with a man called Hammerhead."
Joren paused.
Then—
"And Bullseye has been discharged."
Joren stopped walking.
A cold glint flickered beneath the streetlight in his turquoise eyes.
"Bullseye?"
Matt nodded.
"Fisk moved him quietly. Private care. Experimental reconstruction and accelerated trauma treatment."
"Reinforced braces. Internal supports. Pain suppressants."
"Enough to put him back in the field."
Yare.
Like a ghost that refuses burial.
Sixty percent of his bones shattered… yet already moving again.
Either medical science here was outrageous,
or that man's body defied reason.
Either way—
trouble had just escalated.
Matt continued:
"The weapons in tonight's deal are prototype systems leaked from Oscorp."
"High-yield, compact, unstable."
"If a madman like Hammerhead gets them, Hell's Kitchen becomes a war zone."
He turned to Joren.
"I need your help."
A second invitation.
"Will you come?"