He wasn't interested in her.

Yes, he was attracted, but that was just biology. Pheromones and synapses and chemistry.

Completely involuntary.

And given his over-developed senses, not something that he could turn off. He couldn't block her scent from penetrating his defences. He couldn't control the way it affected him, distracted him, aroused him....but he rendered it a background pleasure. Like a piece of art on the wall. A beautiful bit of decoration in his spartan world.

But nothing more.

He diligently ignored the fragments of noise that would spill from her apartment as he passed by her door. He stopped straining to hear hints of the life she was living behind those four walls.

He stopped following her trails as she left the building; stopped trying to collect puzzle pieces.

He didn't engage her in conversation - even the time they ended up in the same elevator together.

The old Matt - the one from a few years ago - would have pursued her without reservation. He would have succumbed to the attraction, flirted, asked her out. Seduced her into his bed.

But there were so many reasons why this Matt was staying clear.

Unfortunately, one night - about a week after Foggy's warning - he slipped.

He was returning back to his rooftop after a particularly brutal night roaming the streets as Daredevil. It was a night that once would have sent him down a nihilistic spiral, where he would wonder if any of it - the pain, the sacrifices, the lies and the danger - was worth it. If he was making a difference at all, or if the city was doomed to suffer under the weight of the corruption and evil that permeated it.

He was beyond those kinds of existential crises now. He'd come to terms with the fact that the city he loved was violent. And dark. And that it would probably never change.

But he was compelled to try.

And he would keep trying, no matter what.

That resolve didn't stop the despair he sometimes felt though.

Like tonight.

Whilst standing vigil over the city, a series of faintly whispered pleas and choked gasps had reached him on the wind. Responding to the sounds, he'd dashed across the skyline searching for the woman in distress. He'd eventually spotted her, teetering on the roof of one of the newly developed high rise apartment buildings on 52nd. As he raced closer, he could hear her panicked breaths and the thundering pulse of her heart. He could also detect a familiar scent in the air around her - the acrid organic compound that he'd first detected from the thugs in the bar.

He found an extra gear and put on a burst of speed... but he was too late. Before he could get within speaking distance, before he could call out for her to 'stop', she launched herself over the edge and plummeted 30 stories to the ground.

Matt had skidded to a stop, shocked at what he'd just witnessed. At the sudden, senseless loss of life. And as he'd made his way back across the city, grief burned the back of his sightless eyes. It leadened his joints and pressed down on his shoulders like a vice. It made him yearn for the few comforts of his home - the warm shower; the silk sheets on his bed; the soft sweats he wore against his bruised skin.

The scent drifting from next door...

The weight of his failure, and the sorrow sinking into his bones rendered him helpless to resist when he saw her again on the rooftop.

He slid down to rest against the air vent behind him and just...watched.

Instead of a painting on the wall, to be enjoyed just in passing, she became a masterpiece in a gallery. And he sat in reverence, soaking in the beauty.

She paced slowly across the concrete landscape, her movements graceful and precise. Her hair lifted in the breeze and she tucked a strand behind her ear, only for it fly loose moments later. The action sent a wave of that berries and sea salt scent across to him, and he breathed it in deeply.

Just as she did the first night he found her on this rooftop, she lifted her head to gaze at the night sky. As if soothed by the vista only she could see, her heart slowed further. And the gentle steady cadence soothed him in return.

Just as the aura of loneliness that surrounded her called to his own.

———

He saw her on the roof twice more.

And each time, her presence pulled him back from the pit of violence and darkness and pain that he skirted when he gave in to the Devil and roamed the city at night.

She acted like a reminder of all the goodness, and beauty and life that existed outside the hell of Hell's Kitchen. She reminded him of why he fought. Why he struggled.

And she made it easier to make the switch between devil and man. She was the check at the door, the stop signal that lulled his id into submission, allowing his ego to regain control and reassert his humanity.

She calmed something within him.

But then he touched her for the first time - and that calm deserted him.

He was walking home from the office - only a few yards away from his destination - when the sound of her motorcycle engine roared passed him, then spluttered into silence as she pulled the bike to a stop just ahead of him. She flicked out the kickstand with her booted foot and swung her long leg over the seat to dismount. She jogged up the steps to the apartment building and disappeared from sight just as he reached her parked bike.

He followed her inside and found her collecting her mail. Several packages were stacked on top of the mailboxes, and they must have belonged to her, because she tried to lift them down all at once. The smallest one slipped off the pile and clattered to the floor. Matt's took a step forward, intending to pick up the fallen parcel, and that step placed him just behind her.

She reacted to his movement in an instant; the other boxes tumbled from her hold as she grabbed his outstretched arm with her left hand. She yanked it forward as she spun, pulling him into range for her right hand which was flying forward an open-hand strike. He whipped his right forearm up to knock her hand out of the way before it could impact his chest, then grabbed her wrist, stopping any counter-move.

The whole encounter took less than a second, her moves just as quick and practiced as his.

They both froze, locked close together, his left arm trapped by her left hand; his right hand wrapped around her right wrist. His grip fully enclosed the delicate bones of her forearm, but the tension in her frame spoke of a deceptive strength.

And her moves spoke of training. She'd opted for a palm strike, knowing a closed-fisted punch to his sternum risked damaging her knuckles; it would have also given her the option of a quick follow-up - grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him in range for a raised knee to the groin. He could sense that her weight now rested on her left leg, her right leg ready to deliver that crippling blow.

She'd had a lot of training.

Matt processed all this in the span of a heartbeat, before quickly loosening his grip and stepping back. "I'm so sorry," he stuttered, adopting his hapless blind-guy persona. "Are you okay?"

She dropped his wrist as if it burned and shook her head as if to clear it. Then she crouched down to collect the fallen boxes, shying away from any eye contact. "Yes. I'm sorry too. I was...startled."

"Well, I'm sorry for that too."

She straightened up, her arms filled with her deliveries, her eyes still avoiding his.

"Do you need some help with those? It sounded like there were a lot when they fell. I can carry a few - we're headed in the same direction, after all."

He could hear her tongue swipe nervously across her lips. She seemed really rattled - so different from the cooly assessing woman he'd met on his doorstep. And from the poised, serene woman from the rooftop.

Not to mention the dispassionate, efficient fighter from a few moments ago.

He remembered Foggy's assessment too - of a young, naive innocent.

Which version was the real Calina?

He needed to know. This went beyond curiosity about a beautiful woman. He needed to put aside his attraction and evaluate her as a potential threat.

He tried again for an opening. "I may be blind but my arms work just fine."

"Um, okay. Thank you." She handed him one of the larger boxes, and he fitted it under his left arm. He grabbed hold of his cane - which luckily still hung from his wrist by the strap - and followed her to the elevator.

"How are you settling in?" he asked as they waited for the car to arrive.

"Fine, thank you."

"How long have you been in New York?"

"Only a few weeks. I just moved here."

"What brought you to Hell's Kitchen?" Matt winced internally. He was aiming for polite, semi-interested small talk, but to his ears, the one-sided conversation was starting to sound like an inquisition.

She seemed to agree. "You ask a lot of questions," she remarked.

He forced out a laugh as they both stepped into the elevator. "Occupational hazard."

"You're a lawyer, right?"

"Yes. Defence attorney. I spend my days cross-examining witnesses, and it can be hard to turn off the interrogation-mode sometimes."

He felt her smile. She seemed more at ease now, the hint of nerves from before now gone. "Your friend mentioned you have your own practice. That must be nice."

"It can be. Its good to be my own boss," he answered as they reached floor 6. The doors opened and he gestured for her to exit first. "We're a small firm, but we're building a good reputation. Slowly."

"That's good," she replied. "I'll keep you guys in mind if I ever need help. "

They reached her apartment, and she balanced her cargo on one hip as she unlocked the door. She took the box he carried, stepped through the doorway, and turned back to face him. "Thank you for the help."

"No problem."

She paused for a fraction of a second. He opened his mouth to keep the conversation going, but she cut him off. "Bye, Matthew."

"Um, bye."

She closed the door gently behind her and Matt made his way to his own apartment. As he hung up his cane on the coat rack, he went back over their encounter in his head. He paused, and huffed out a surprised laugh as he realised what had happened.

She'd somehow managed to turn the conversation around on him - until she was the one asking questions...and he was still left knowing nothing about her.

———

"Calina Balashova. And 'Calina' is with a 'C'."

Foggy groaned. "Do I even want to know how you found out her last name?"

"No, you don't," Matt replied. It had involved the use of his lawyer credentials and some very unethical lying to the co-op board of his building - so the less his partner knew the better.

"I thought we agreed you were gonna leave this girl alone."

"That was before she showed off her martial arts skills and avoided all my questions afterwards."

"So this is, what? Just some due diligence on a new neighbour? Come on, Matt."

"I just need to know that she checks out. You know I've had some dealing with the Russian mafia-"

"You think she's Russian mafia?" Foggy exclaimed in disbelief.

"I think that a mysterious woman with a very Russian name just moved in across from me, and I'm being cautious. You're always telling me to be more careful."

"That's more in the context of not jumping off tall buildings or taking on criminal masterminds when you're full of stab wounds. Now you're just sounding paranoid."

"Just because you're paranoid-"

"Doesn't mean they're not out to get you," Foggy finished. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. So what do you need?"

Matt joined him at the conference table, Foggy's laptop open in front of them. "A social media search. I tried Google, but there's no hits on her name. I need you to have a look at the photos on Facebook or Instagram, or whatever, and see if you can find her profile."

Matt heard Foggy sigh - one last wordless protest - before the clacking of keys filled the room.

It was the night after his encounter with Calina. He'd been replaying their interaction over and over in his mind the whole day, and both Foggy and Karen had noticed his distraction. He'd told Karen he was just pre-occupied by their latest case, and hoped she believed him. He told Foggy the truth, and then begged him for his help.

"I think I've found a hit on Facebook," Foggy said after several minutes of searching. "And its an open profile. That's good."

"What does it say?" Matt asked, leaning forward.

He could hear the slight flicker as Foggy's eyes skimmed over the information on the page. "Let's see...well, it looks like she is older than she looks. According to this date of birth, she turned 26 at the beginning of the year."

"What else?"

"She graduated from some community college in Illinois a few years ago. There's some vacation snaps in front of the Eiffel tower...some photos of her with a puppy...and not much else. She doesn't post often."

Matt slumped back in his chair and fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve, trying to add the new information to the picture of her in his mind.

"What were you expecting?" Foggy asked, closing the laptop over. "Pics of her posing with a bunch of mobsters, waving guns around?"

Matt gave him a small smile. "Not exactly. I guess I just wanted to see if she...existed. I don't know."

"Well, she definitely exists. She's not a figment of both our imaginations. I think you're overthinking this, pal. Not everyone has a secret identity like you. For most of us, what you see is what you get."

"I don't see anything, remember?"

"Ha, ha. You know what I mean."

What you see is what you get.

Matt used his walk home to mull over that concept.

The route from his office to his apartment - through the heart of Hell's Kitchen - took him thirteen minutes. It was 3 streets, 9 blocks and 1043 steps - give or take. He knew every inch of the pavement. Every facade that he passed. He knew the smells that would drift out of the Mexican restaurant on the corner. He knew the whisper of paws from the cat that stalked the aisles of the bodega. The squeaky hinge on the cashier's till in the second hand bookstore. The buzz of the neon sign over the 24-hour diner.

He knew the people, too; the busker on 48th street. The single mother with the pushchair who walked to the park every day. The beat cop on patrol, and the kid practicing his skateboard tricks by the library.

And what he saw was what he got. They were kind and funny, and stressed and impatient. Caring and indifferent. Petty and charitable.

They contained multitudes.

So maybe Calina did too. Maybe she was just a midwestern college grad trying to make it in the big city. A beautiful woman who knew some self-defence and didn't like being interrogated by nosy lawyers.

It was...possible

Plausible, even.

So maybe he was over-reacting, like Foggy said.

But it was hard not to.

Hard not to be suspicious and cynical about people after everything he'd been through in the past year. He'd discovered that the people closest to him - his priest, his mother, his lover, his mentor - they'd all lied to him at various points in his life.

Repeatedly, and for years.

They'd hidden their identities and intentions from him, in ways that had fundamentally shaped the course of his life. And discovering those various deceits had altered him further.

And whilst he'd come to terms with the path his life had taken, he was left more jaded than before. More distrustful. More suspicious.

And those traits were influencing how he viewed Calina.

He didn't want to be like this. He wanted to see the good in people again. He wanted to regain some of the idealism that he used to have about the world and its inhabitants. The idealism that had driven him to open a practice in Hell's Kitchen and fight for the underdogs of society.

He wanted to believe that Calina was who she said she was.

As he reached his apartment building and spied her motorcycle parked outside, he resolved to do just that.

He would put aside his suspicions about her, and give her the benefit of the doubt...

...at least until she gave him cause to think otherwise.

———

Little did he know, that cause would come two weeks later.

And it would involve a lie that was somehow the truth, a stab wound...and the scent of gunpowder.