Chapter 1

At the last moment, the landing turned into a forward roll.

Coming to his feet on the barren rooftop, Matt rubbed at the faint ache in his left knee. It had been niggling at him all night - for the last couple of nights, if he was honest - and he didn't think a harsh, two-footed touchdown after that jump from the other building would have done it any favours.

So he'd softened the impact. Tucked his body, and allowed his momentum to carry him forward in a roll across the hard, damp concrete.

He was learning to accommodate for the toll the years of parkour, jiu jitsu and general wear and tear had taken on his joints.

It was ironic. Now that his mind and soul were relatively at peace with what he did when he put on this suit, it was his body that was turning on him.

He'd spent so long wrestling with his conscience over this double life - the morality of it; the legality of it; the secrets he had to tell; the brushes with darkness when he gave into his rage. But he was finally at a place of equilibrium, and his last encounter with Wilson Fisk had helped get him there.

Because he'd left him alive.

At the height of his rage, and in a state of complete frustration and disillusionment...he hadn't killed Fisk. He had tip-toed up to the edge of his moral red line, but he hadn't crossed it.

Though calling it a line was a massive understatement. It wasn't just some mark in the sand. It was a cliff. A jagged rock face overhanging a dark, turbulent sea. He'd peered over that cliff, stared down into the pitch-black roiling waves below and had contemplated jumping. He had convinced himself that the means justified the ends, and that he could handle the fall.

But he'd been kidding himself.

He never would have survived the landing. He would have been consumed by those waves, forever struggling to catch his breath as he was battered by the churning mass of his guilt.

His friends knew that. Father Lantom knew it. Even Fisk knew it - he'd goaded him on towards the end, as he'd knelt bloody and defiant on the floor of his penthouse. Fisk had wanted to bring him down to his level, to corrupt him completely in one last act of vengeful cruelty.

But it hadn't worked.

And now Matt knew, deep within his heart, that he wasn't capable of taking another person's life. If he couldn't kill Fisk - the monster who had tormented his city and murdered with impunity and threatened his friends - then he couldn't kill anyone.

The knowledge was liberating, in a way.

Of course, the devil still resided in his soul; the beast that was formed of rage, that craved violence with a gnawing intensity, still lurked within him. But it was not a murderous beast. Embracing that side of himself would not lead to the ultimate corruption of his soul. Which meant Matt was now free to don his devilish persona. He didn't have to sublimate it. He didn't have to lock away his urges and impulses just like he'd once locked away his suit.

And he didn't have to let it define him either. After surviving the building collapse, he'd indulged that baser aspect of soul, becoming nothing more than the devil, misguided in the belief that it was his only way to succeed in his mission.

But he'd been wrong. He'd been left lonely and unfulfilled...and ultimately ineffective.

He needed a balance between the two. Between Matt Murdock and the Devil.

And it felt like he was finally finding it.

Which is why it was so annoying that his body was starting to let him down.

He sighed and brushed the moisture from his suit. A late summer shower had drenched the city - and him - earlier that night. Between the damp, the ache in his knee, and the long day he'd spent in the office before heading out to patrol, he was wiped. He just wanted to get back to his apartment, dry off, then sleep for roughly a million years.

Though he'd settle for a solid fours hours these days. Despite the hard-won acceptance of his fate and his nature, and despite being in a good place with work and his friends...he wasn't sleeping well.

It was like his subconscious and his body were tag-teaming it in their quest to thwart his newly-found peace.

He jogged across the rooftop - avoiding the puddles on the ground - and leapt over the narrow alleyway to reach the building on the other side.

Just one more to go...

Before the thought had finished forming, he came to an abrupt stop and crouched down behind the brick parapet.

There was someone on his rooftop.

He eased away from the edge and sank into the shadows, observing the stranger. The unique way he 'saw' the world - the sensorial information that painted the landscape in flames - gave him the impression of long hair that swirled in the breeze, and a tall, lithe figure wrapped in a thick cardigan.

It was a woman.

She faced away from him, her gaze locked on the jagged outlines of high rises apartments, water towers and construction sites that made up Hell's Kitchen. Then she tipped her head back and stared at the vast sky above.

He echoed her movement, tilting his sightless eyes upwards, wondering what she could see. The pinprick lights of a million stars? Or just a blanket of rain-swollen grey clouds. His senses could never perceive the detail of the sky, and it was one of the things he missed the most.

After a few still moments of contemplation, she eventually moved. She wrapped her cardigan tightly around her slim frame, and ducked through the roof access door.

As he landed on the now deserted rooftop, the wind brought him the remnants of her soft sigh and the scent of her skin.

She tasted of strawberries and sea salt.

———

Matt woke the next morning with traces of ripe sweetness and ocean spray on his tongue.

The intriguing combination lingered, even after brushing his teeth and downing his morning cup of coffee. He thought he was imagining the way the molecules seemed to hang in the air around him as he dressed for work, engulfing him in a potent haze.

It felt like his brain's way of reminding him he hadn't been with a woman in a while.

But as he opened his apartment door to leave, he realised the haunting scent was no trick of his celibate mind - it was stronger out in the hallway. He froze on the doorstep, head tilted, lips parted, trying to pinpoint the source. It wasn't surprising that the woman from the rooftop would live in this building.

It was a slight surprise that she lived directly opposite him.

Apartment 6B.

But it was unmistakable. The air around that door was thick with salt and sweetness, and he could sense more beyond. There was also a trail in the corridor, and Matt followed it to the elevator, closing his eyes as the doors shut and enclosed him in with the ghost of her.

Trapped in the confined space, he sifted through the more subtle notes that made up her fragrance. The strawberries and sea salt was a perfume, a clean, organic one, devoid of the harsh chemicals that usually turned Matt off. But beneath that, he could detect...her. Her natural scent.

And it was just as intoxicating.

To most people, beauty was a function of colour and shape.

The curve of a smile, the arch of a cheekbone, the angle of a jaw.

Red hair, blond, brunette.

Blue eyes, hazel or green.

Those details were lost to Matt. He could perceive so much with his heightened senses, but subtleties like that were lost in a world formed of fire.

Instead, to him, beauty began with scent and taste.

And this woman - whoever she was - was beautiful.

The doors opened on the ground floor and he reluctantly exited and walked away from the concentrated dose of her.

But luckily the trail continued.

She had walked this route just a couple of hours before him. Had paused in front of the bulletin board on the wall. Smoothed the curled edge of the flyer advertising yoga classes. She'd ran her fingers over the embossed '6B' that signified her mailbox. Then she'd pushed open the main door and jogged down the steps. And...disappeared.

Matt paused on the streets, a still figure amidst the bustle of the foot traffic as the denizens of Hell's Kitchen walked to work. He only got one disgruntled "Hey-!" from a passerby, before they saw his cane and dark glasses and cut off the rest of their rant. He ignored it all, concentrating on the clues the sidewalk was offering. He smelled motor oil. The earthiness of leather. An exhaust - but not from a large engine...

A motorbike.

She'd driven away on a motorbike.

Satisfied that he'd solved that little mystery - and added more pieces to the mental picture he was building of his new neighbour - Matt headed off to his office.

———

If scent was the spark of his attraction...sound was the catalyst for his curiosity.

He first heard her that night.

He'd returned home late in the evening, after celebrating a win with Foggy and Karen. Today had been the culmination of weeks of hard work, the day they'd faced off against a platoon of expensive, high-powered lawyers in arbitration. Their client had come to them with a wrongful dismissal claim against one of the leading investment firms in the city, and they'd managed to clear his name and win him a large compensation package.

A very large compensation package.

Yeah, today had been a good day for Nelson, Murdock and Page. Their little firm was slowly re-building the reputation that Matt had tarnished. They were starting to provide a real service to the community. Fighting for the underdogs. Battling greed and corruption with integrity.

They were seen as the place to come, when hope seemed lost.

It was everything he'd always dreamed of.

And every day that he entered the office, passing the plaque that signalled their commitment to each other, Matt felt grateful to his friends that they'd agreed to give him another chance.

They were - each of them - a little less idealistic. A little more jaded. Scarred by the trials of the past few years. But they were together.

And that was enough for Matt.

He'd learned the hard way that he couldn't save this city - protect the people who gave it life - as Daredevil alone. He also needed to be out in the light, fighting with the law as his weapon, and not just his fists. He needed to seek justice within the confines of system, just as much as he delivered it out on the streets when it failed.

And he needed his friends.

He needed people around him who could talk him off the edge when he became too obsessed. Who could give him the insight and perspective he sometimes lacked. Who cared if something happened to him. And who understood his need to be both the vigilante and the lawyer.

Tonight the three of them had celebrated their victory over a round of beers at Josie's, just like old times. But unlike old times, when Matt had gotten up to leave, he hadn't needed to resort to lies or excuses. Foggy and Karen knew where he was going and what he would be doing. They'd simply asked him to be safe, and waved as he'd walked away.

As he travelled in the elevator to his floor, Matt marvelled at how lucky he'd gotten....and wondered if he would ever deserve his good fortune.

His mind occupied by those thoughts, he almost forgot about his new neighbour. The mystery woman.

Almost.

But that scent was hard to ignore. It swirled around him as he exited the elevator and headed down the narrow corridor to his apartment. It grew stronger and stronger, as he approached his door, gentle tendrils of it wrapping around him, welcoming him home.

Beckoning him closer.

This time, when he paused on the threshold of his apartment to savour the undiluted scent, he picked up something new.

A sound.

Footsteps.

Her footsteps.

She was home. Just a few feet away.

The temptation to eavesdrop was one he usually tried to avoid. His abilities were intrusive, he knew that. The things he could detect were....private. Intimate. Mood, emotions, hormones...arousal. Things that he had no right to could be accessed with little effort on his part. So he reigned in those urges out of respect.

But he was only human.

He couldn't resist a taste - metaphorically speaking - of this woman. So he cocked his head, closed his eyes...and listened.

This first thing he heard was the steady, slow strum of her heartbeat.

The low resting heart-rate told him she was in good shape - more pieces to the puzzle - and that she was relaxed. At peace.

Footsteps again - muffled on the hardwood floors. She was wearing thick socks. She wasn't cold, so she must like the feel of the fabric.

A click, and a song filled the air. Slightly tinny - from laptop speakers rather than a stereo.

He heard a rustle as she got comfortable on her couch, ready to enjoy the music. It was a fast, thumping tune from an indie band he remembered hearing in bars in college...but it soon cut off with another click.

Now Elvis was singing about hound dogs.

Another click.

A wordless techno beat.

Another click.

A boyband from the 90s.

Click.

A rapper, spitting out lyrics at double pace.

Click.

A synth-heavy song from the 80s.

Click.

Click.

Click.

She cycled through songs, sometimes barely allowing a few bars to play before skipping to the next. Between each click he could hear the scribble of a pen against paper, and he could hear her heart rate notching up by degrees and the cadence of her breathing falter.

What was she doing?

And why was it distressing her?

Click.

Click.

Click.

The soulful, raw voice of Nina Simone filtered through the door.

Her heart-rate plateaued.

Her breathing evened out...

And she let the song play in full.

———

He heard her voice a few days later.

He was in the shower washing off the sweat and grime from the night before, moving gingerly in the small space to avoid aggravating his broken rib. He'd run across a group of baseball-bat wielding maniacs on a destruction spree. They'd been terrorising the patrons of a bar by the docks, smashing up the joint, picking fights, and barring anyone from leaving. Matt had broken up the melee but had taken a bat to the chest in the process, the lucky swing managing to do damage despite his armour.

He ducked his head, hand cradling the bruised area over his chest, and planned out his day. Foggy would be arriving soon; they were meeting here while the new office was being painted, and would strategise their new case before heading off to a plea hearing for one of their other clients. Then Matt planned to speak to a couple of his contacts at the police department and Metro General, to see if there was a new drug circulating the city. Those thugs from last night had smelled...wrong. A harsh, caustic scent had seeped from their pores, and combined with their erratic behaviour and the way they'd fought him, it felt very much like a drug high.

Just not one he was familiar with.

It was gearing up to be a busy day...but he couldn't seem to find the energy to move. The warm pressure of the water sluicing over his shoulders was easing the knots in his muscles. Soothing his battered skin. The steam-filled bathroom was quiet and peaceful and he just wanted to stay in here forever.

But then he heard the elevator ping, and the familiar rhythm of his best friend's gait as he exited the car.

Foggy was early.

Or Matt had stayed in the shower longer than he'd thought.

He shut off the water and tasted the air as he reached for his towel. He could smell coffee, cinnamon and sugar - two espressos, and baked goods from the diner down the street.

Foggy had brought breakfast.

The paper cups rubbed against the cardboard carrier, and the bag holding the pastries rustled as Foggy walked down the corridor. Then his footsteps faltered, and he came to a stop a few feet from Matt's front door. Matt cocked his head, listening intently as dried himself off. He could hear Foggy's heart racing, and he picked up an inaudible gulp as he swallowed nervously. Then his voice echoed in the hallway, his wide smile curving the syllables in a distinctive way. "You're not Fran."

Matt froze, barely noticing the jolt of pain that accompanied the tensing of his muscles. The smile, the gulp, the thundering pulse, they were all signs he was familiar with after fifteen years of friendship...

Foggy was talking to a beautiful woman.

His beautiful woman.

Matt shook his head at that thought as he quickly finished drying off. She wasn't his woman. Just a woman that he was currently...curious about.

He continued getting dressed, one ear on the conversation happening outside his apartment door, intrigued to finally hear from his neighbour. She wasn't the friendliest person he'd ever come across; she never had visitors, never took any calls, and when she encountered the other residents in the hallways of the building, she never said a word. The other day, Mrs Schneider, the hunched-over octogenarian who lived in 2C, had dropped her purse on the street outside the building, and his mystery neighbour had just stood by and watched as another resident came running over to pick it up.

It would be interesting to see if Foggy's unique charm could thaw her out a bit.

"Not unless you are Fran and you've discovered the fountain of youth," Foggy joked.

A pause. And then he heard it. Her voice. "No, I'm not Fran. She moved out."

Warmer than he expected, from someone so cold and closed off.

Softer too.

A light and clear tone, that sparked a sudden desire in Matt to close his eyes and surround himself with the sound, the same way he wanted to bask in her scent.

She was like a balm to all his senses.

"Well, then welcome to the building," Foggy replied. "I'm Foggy. Foggy Nelson - one third of Nelson, Murdock and Page - the most prestigious law firm on West 49th street."

"Foggy?"

"Technically Franklin, but everyone calls me Foggy."

"It's a...nickname?"

Matt finished buttoning his shirt, his mouth curving slightly at the bafflement in her voice. In her defence, 'Foggy' was a strange name.

"Yep. Everyone should have a nickname. Where's the fun in only having one name? You don't have one?"

"No. I've never had a nickname."

He slipped his belt through the loops of his pants and fastened the buckle.

"So what do people call you?"

He grabbed his glasses and headed for the front door.

"Calina."

Calina.

It suited her. Her scent. Her voice. It was just as beautiful as the elements that formed her.

It was just a shame those elements didn't seem to match her personality.

Foggy echoed his thoughts. "Wow, that's a beautiful name."

"Um, thank you."

"Beautiful...but its three syllables long. Ca-li-na. Any name over two syllables has to have a nickname - its the law. And as a lawyer, I should know-"

Matt pulled open the door, startling his friend.

But not the woman standing in front of him. Her heartbeat never skipped a beat, as if she knew he was about to appear.

Ignoring Foggy, Matt stared at her, finally getting the chance to observe her up close. He took in her height - only a few inches shorter than him - and they way she stood, with her shoulders back and her spine straight.

Like a dancer

Or a soldier at ease.

"Ah, Matthew is here," Foggy announced. "Time to get to work. See you around, Ca-li-na."

"Goodbye."

Foggy pushed past him into the apartment, his elbow inadvertently knocking against his latest injury. A tiny huff of air escaped Matt's lips at the pain, but he never took his gaze of the woman in front of him.

He sensed the movement as she tilt her head. And furrowed her brow. "Are you alrigh-"

"It's nice to meet you," Matt said quickly, interrupting her. There was something unexpectedly...observant...about her. Her eyes roamed over his face, his shoulders, the front of his chest, before dropping to his left side where the broken rib throbbed with a dull ache.

People reacted to his blindness in different ways. Some overcompensated - staring him straight in the eyes, or where they guessed his eyes were behind his dark glasses. Others became nervous, uncertain. Their eyes would flit about, unsure where to look.

Not her.

Her gaze was intent. Evaluating. She took in his lack of sight and moved on, as if it was just one piece of information to catalogue.

It was a little disconcerting.

He tried to disarm her curiosity with a smile. "Or rather, it was nice that you met Foggy. My name is-"

"Matthew."

"Yeah. Well, Matt," he corrected, with another smile.

"Another nickname," she replied, almost to herself.

It was Matt's turn to frown at her. Calina wasn't a common name, and her strange reaction to a couple of nicknames suggested that maybe she was a foreigner. But there wasn't a hint of an accent in her voice...

What was her story...?

He stood there, trying to figure her out for a beat longer - and she appeared content to do the same to him.

But the moment was soon broken by Foggy's yell from the kitchen. "Matt, coffee's getting cold. Come on!"

"I'd better go," Matt said softly, taking a step back.

"Yes," she said, shaking her head. "Sorry. Goodbye."

She spun on her heel and took off down towards the elevator, slipping her arms into the backpack she carried. She left behind the blend of berries, salt and leather that he was fast becoming addicted to.

As well as a million questions.

All of which distilled into one core mystery:

Who was she?

———

"No," Foggy said firmly, pushing the coffee cup to the edge of the kitchen counter.

Matt swiped up the drink and took a sip, savouring the bitter hit of caffeine after his late night. "What do you mean 'No'."

Foggy pointed to the hallway. "6B. Not-Fran. The hot new neighbour. Just...no, Matt."

"She's hot?" Matt asked innocently.

Foggy rolled his eyes. "You know she is. She is one of the most stunning women I've seen in real life, so there's no way your 'beautiful woman radar' isn't pinging like crazy."

Matt hid his smile. Because Foggy wasn't wrong. Her scent, her voice...they were pushing all his buttons. But Foggy didn't need to worry this time. He wasn't looking to get involved with his new neighbour. Or with anyone, really. He was simply curious about the woman with the beguiling scent. He wanted to complete the picture of her in his mind. Fill in her outline with shade.

Render her in technicolour.

Then he could stop wondering about her so much.

"Describe her to me."

Foggy groaned. "What part of N-O don't you understand?"

"Come on, buddy. Indulge a blind man's curiosity. What's she like?"

"Fine," Foggy sighed. "She's...she's like Bambi."

"Bambi?" Matt asked sceptically.

"Big doe eyes, long limbs. And she has this innocent, baffled look on her face."

Matt frowned. That didn't fit with the cold, uncaring woman he'd observed over the last few days. Or with the sharp-eyed gaze she'd fixed him with just now.

He tried again. "In non-Disney character terms, Foggy?"

"I can only think in terms of Disney characters right now, because she's young, Matt. Hence the 'no' that I keep repeating, and you keep ignoring."

"How young?" Matt asked.

"I don't know," Foggy replied. "Fresh out of college maybe?"

Matt's frown deepened. Again, Foggy's description jarred with his impression of her. To him, she'd seemed...confident. Savvy. Not some naive youth.

He wasn't usually so off base when he assessed someone with his senses.

"She could just look young for her age..."

"Aw shit, you do like her." Foggy sat up straight and leaned forward, pointing the remnants of his cinnamon roll at him. "Remember Mel from freshman year at Columbia? And that creep boyfriend of hers - the one in his late 20s? How gross we thought that was? That'll be you, Matt, if you go after her. You'll be the creepy gross guy. Do you want to be the creepy gross guy?"

"No, of course not," Matt said. "I swear, Foggy, I'm not interested in her."

"Good," his friend replied around a mouthful of pastry. "Keep it that way."