LEFT FOOT.

RIGHT FOOT.

LEFT FOOT.

RIGHT FOOT.

These two phrases were the only thoughts racing through the hunted woman's mind. Scratch that - those were the only two coherent thoughts running through her mind. There were plenty of little fragments dancing through her skull that couldn't quite piece themselves together in a way that made sense.

shot
bleeding
following
target
RUN

God, she needed them to make sense.

The pain radiating from her shoulder was excruciating. Every time the wind decided to blow it felt like someone was holding a lighter to her torn open flesh. Every nerve ending was reignited with each bumbling step, but she couldn't stop - not now. That would be like laying down on track tracks or sticking a fork into a toaster. It was a death sentence.

She should have felt grateful that the bullet penetrated her shoulder instead of her calf. If the shot would have nestled into her leg, she would have been limping like a newborn fawn. The wolf that hunted her would have already torn her throat out.

Augusta was pressing the heel of her palm into her wound and allowing her legs to carry her as swiftly as they could manage. She ran awkwardly; all her limbs felt like heavy lead. Adrenaline worked wonders for the injured woman. She zigged and zagged as she ran down alleyway after alleyway, praying to whatever God would listen for a safe escape.

A bullet off its mark pinged off a nearby trashcan, alerting her that the chase wasn't over. A cry for help escaped her chapped lips, but it sounded like another disembodied voice to her. It seemed that there were no Gods in Hell's Kitchen tonight for Augusta Van Wyler.

Dread was the only feeling in her gut. She knew it was only a matter of time before the bullet took her down for good. The escapee had been defying the odds for too long; her good fortune would run short and the marksman would steady his shot.

Augusta turned the corner and noticed a difference in her path. The space in front of her wasn't another dark, brick alleyway - it was a public street! She could see people walking along the sidewalk and hope gave her newfound strength. As Augusta paused to look at the sight, the Marksman took aim. A gust of wind blew his eager sight off his target's head, but he still pulled the trigger. The bullet lodged deep into Augusta's upper thigh.

Instantly, she went down like a sack of bricks. She screamed and clawed at her injured leg with shaking, bloody hands. It felt like someone had stuck a branding iron into her flesh. Blood pulsed out of the entrance wound like a demented fountain and wet the ground around her with sticky crimson. Augusta couldn't run anymore.

But...she could crawl. She was so damned close to the street - she wasn't going to die here in this alleyway fifteen yards from safety.

Augusta propped herself up on her elbow and started crawling. The task felt impossible, but the adrenaline was coursing through her veins. She knew that the killing blow could come at any second, and she was helpless to it.

Her hands shook terribly as she dragged herself forwards. The breath that escaped her lungs was shaky and ragged. A little whimper escaped her lips every time she moved. The street looked so far away. It was like one of those dreams where you were running towards something but your target kept getting farther and farther away.

Meanwhile, on a rooftop above, The Punisher took aim. He was too good of a marksman to miss this easy headshot. He raised his gun, checked his sight, and pulled the trigger.

———————

"There's no way that this guy in Hell's Kitchen has mind control," Foggy Nelson slurred loudly through a incredulous grin, his eyes flickering between his two closest friends. After a long night of drinking at Josie's, the three office dwellers were walking along the sidewalk on their way to their respective apartments. They had began debating the legitimacy of the Kilgrave incident, a common point of argument in Hell's Kitchen lately.

Karen Page was always the one to stick up for the masked and different. Ever since her run in with the Man in the Mask several months ago, she held a soft spot for the weirder residents of Hell's Kitchen. "You think mind control is impossible when there's a hundred year old dude in star-spangled spandex running around?" The blonde beauty challenged her partner quizzically, knowing she made a good point.

Foggy opened his mouth, sputtered a bit, and failed to produce a proper response.

"You think a lawyer would be better at defending his point," Matt chimed in with a wiry grin. He was unable to resist any opportunity to poke fun at his college best friend. The trio broke out into drunken laughter.

"Well, what do you think the truth is? You'll be our deciding vote!" Karen urged, patting Matt's hand that rested in the crook of her elbow as she guided him down the sidewalk.

Matt paused to configure his response. Did he personally believe it? Yeah, no doubt. The Devil of Hell's kitchen had been keeping tabs on the whole thing, but a certain individual seemed to have it all under control. "I think it's ignorant of us to assume we know what is and isn't capable in this world," Matt chose his words carefully, his brows raising slightly as he digressed. "Especially when there's a hundred year old dude in star-spangled spandex running around."

More laughter from the drunken trio. "Leave it to Matt Murdock to always side with the pretty woman," Foggy teased as Karen patted Matt's hand with a hearty laugh.

"Matt is just smarter than you, Foggy..."

The argument continued on valiantly, but Matt was focusing on something else. Even in his drunken state, the blind man's ears never failed him. Right now, they were trying to convince his brain that the clicking noise he had just heard was the docking of a gun.

"...Matt, tell her she's being naive by assuming every super powered freak has good intentions..."

Someone's blood was in the air. He could taste the coppery hint in the air. The attacker and victim were nearby.

"Matt?"

The shot ran out, which all of them could hear. Foggy instinctively pulled Karen into his side to shield her, leaving Matt to listen to the air, his head slightly cocked as he took it all in.

He heard the scream - a woman - and smelled the sickening mixture of blood and gunpowder. And he heard the shooter reload.

"Keep Karen safe," Matt instructed Foggy over his shoulder before taking off in a jog down the sidewalk. The victim was just a couple city blocks away; Matt knew he could be there in time.

Karen stared at Matt in disbelief. He wasn't even using his stick, he was just...running. "Foggy," she mumbled, dumbfounded. "Matt is blind, isn't he?"

Foggy hesitated. He had seen Matt do this a few other times - defy what should be normal for a blind man. It was always in dangerous situations, so he just assumed it was Matt's instincts kicking in. "Yeah, he's blind as a bat," Foggy assured her. "Let's just hope that guy with a gun won't shoot a blind bastard."

Meanwhile, Matt's feet were carrying him swiftly. He was so close to the victim, he could hear her heartbeat. She had two gunshot wounds, and her heart was beating so rapidly. She was scared to death, and rightfully so. He could hear the shooter taking aim again, his finger on the trigger.

Matt reached the right alleyway, pausing briefly to take in his surroundings. The woman was on the ground, maybe fifteen yards deep into the alleyway. He could sense her attire - a dress but her feet were bare, her high heels long ago abandoned. She was crawling towards him, but she didn't call out...as if she couldn't see him.

Matt could hear the man's breathing steady. He was about to take his shot, and Matt needed to act. The blind hero ran down the alley as quickly as his legs would allow, one goal in mind.

Save this woman.

He leapt towards her as the shot rang out, pushing her out of harms way. The bullet pinged off the pavement beside them. The man on the rooftop, the marksman, cursed loudly as he fumbled to reload.

Matt's body was scratched and his suit was torn on the knees, but he had managed to save the woman. He could hear her heartbeat beside him - still fast and fluttery and panicked. Matt's presence didn't make her feel better, but she couldn't possibly feel any worse. The wounds on her shoulder and leg were beginning to take their toll on her mentally as the loss of blood became severe.

The lawyer quickly clambered back to his feet, scooping the woman up in her arms. She felt like dead weight. Her head rested against his chest and bounced with each step he took. If her head rested on his chest for more than a moment, she could faintly hear his heartbeat - steady and sure.

Matt quickly exited the alley and looked back down the street to where he had left Foggy and Karen. He couldn't hear their heartbeats anymore, so he assumed that Foggy had taken Karen to shelter when the second shot had gone off. He would have to remember to call them later and assure them that he was okay.

Luckily, Matt's apartment was right down the street. He could take her there, run up into his space and call her an ambulance. Her family was probably worried sick about her.

"Don't worry, I'll get you to the hospital," Matt assured her as he jogged towards his apartment building. He could hear the gunsman packing his shot away with audible frustration - the cursing gave his anger away.

The woman reached up and gripped his arm with whatever strength she had left. "No," she rasped forcefully. "No hospital. That's the first place he will check."

Matt knew she was right, but doubted that the shooter would have the audacity to continue his hunt at a hospital. Nevertheless, it was a risk he couldn't take. He had a friend - Claire Temple - he could call in to look at these gunshot wounds. She was used to handling discreet calls.

"Who is he?" Matt asked as he rounded the corner. His building would be coming up on the right.

There was a moment of silence. Matt could hear her swallow hard as he ascended the stairs of his apartment complex. Thankfully, he didn't hear any heartbeats in the lobby, which meant he didn't have to explain to any of his neighbors why he was carrying a bleeding woman into his apartment.

"The Punisher."

Matt pressed the elevator button with his elbow and looked down at the woman while he waited. He had heard that name - rather, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen had heard that name - and he knew his schtick. The Punisher would execute people who he believed had done wrong. It was usually gang leaders, murderers, people who had cheated the system and got away with it.

That was the first moment Matt stopped to think since he heard the first gunshot.

Who was this woman, and what had she done to get the Punisher on her tail?