It started a while ago. I can't sleep at night. Can't go to Stuyvesant, because Clint is away in some extremely amazing and secretive S.H.I.E.L.D mission. I look outside my window, towards Stark Tower and the Baxter Building. The first tier of super heroes, right in the heart of Manhattan. And yet, their relationships seem to be taken from a soap opera.

Then, after trying to watch some movie or eating a midnight snack, I give up and I suit up. With my quiver full of trick arrows that I won't need in the end, I hop on the service stairs and climb up.

I start running, feeling the air on my bare face. I pull up my hoodie and start doing my round.

I've thought about asking Daredevil for info and directions, so I can do something around Hell's Kitchen without him feeling attacked. Male ego, it is. I wonder how this became a thing. After my detective stint in California and the final showdown with the Bro Mafia, I was planning to get a job, getting even to the point I was willing to ask for an internship. College isn't so plausible, as I'm now financially independent. A fancy word to express how broke I actually am. Barton offered me his sofa, but I'd rather go there when I have no other option. For no, I rely on some savings I made back when I was a teenager and my dad kindly offered me a couple thousands for surprise emergencies. That was it.

I end up in the other side of Central Park, and I deal with a couple of muggers that were trying to steal a mossy handbag from an old lady. She looked at me, as terrified as seconds ago: "new" vigilantes are frowned upon until their worthiness is proved.

Wait, am I a vigilante now?

You could say so, yeah. I run around in the middle of the night, trying to save this city one petty crime at a time.

It feels like a reflection of my feelings: I feel lost, betrayed, lonely, yearning for something I can't quite figure out, and sometimes taking a sip from a cup full of painful memories. Heck, I've even started reliving the assault, over and over. While days are nice and I can get over them, the nights seem endless, tangling one after the other. Running around and trying to do good is helping so far, but who knows if it is going to help tomorrow?

So I promise myself that I'm going to seek help, I'm going to ring my psychologist (hold up, I can't even pay her). Scratch that: I'm going to ring Jessica Jones, and then look for a job. I've many things to do in the morning.

But I can't stop running yet.