Matt Murdock POV
It was mid-afternoon, and the familiar, pulsating hum of Hell's Kitchen surrounded me as I returned home. My mood was a familiar shade of resigned frustration after yet another fruitless interview at a lawyer's agency. It wasn't surprising, of course; the polite dismissals, the thinly veiled doubts, the unspoken assumption that my blindness was a disability rather than a different way of seeing – they were all part of the routine. Not many firms were willing to take a chance on a blind lawyer, even one with my… unique capabilities. The idea of starting my own agency constantly buzzed in my ear, but with my current lack of funds, a non-existent reputation, and the sheer uphill battle of building a practice from scratch, just making ends meet felt like an insurmountable challenge. Every bill, every cheap meal, was a stark reminder of the financial tightrope I walked.
While navigating the urban symphony of car horns, distant sirens, and the endless shuffle of footsteps, I decided to take an alleyway shortcut. It was a familiar path, usually offering a brief, slightly quieter reprieve from the city's ceaseless cacophony. But today that reprieve was shattered when three distinct presences, young and radiating aggression, abruptly blocked my way. Their heart rates were elevated, their breathing shallow and rapid—classic signs of low-level criminals trying to project toughness. They were clearly attempting to extort me. Then, the tell-tale shing of metal, followed by the faint, almost imperceptible shift in air pressure, announced the presence of a knife. What an idiot. A blind man isn't intimidated by what he can't see.
I was already mentally strategizing how to deal with them, running through various scenarios. The simplest and least confrontational plan was to calmly show them my empty wallet, a common tactic for such small-time thugs. Just as I was about to execute it, I heard a faint mutter, the single word 'stupid' hanging in the air, barely a ripple in the street noise. Instinctively, my enhanced senses honed in on the source of the sound. It was a child, unmistakably—their smaller frame, higher pitched voice, and the lighter, quicker thump of their heart. As the other voices, the thugs', followed my lead and turned their attention to the boy, I realized my mistake in reacting; I had inadvertently drawn their focus away from myself and onto the kid.
Just as I prepared to intervene, to pull myself into the unfolding drama and protect the innocent bystander, the boy emerged from his hiding place. What followed was completely unexpected, and frankly, quite amusing. He didn't scream or run. Instead, he began to verbally dissect the thugs' amateurish attempts at intimidation, highlighting their pathetic lack of foresight and rudimentary grasp of criminal enterprise. His voice was surprisingly confident, almost lecturing, as he pointed out the obvious flaw in threatening a blind man with a knife. The absurdity of the situation, explained so matter-of-factly by a child, was truly a sight to behold, or rather, to hear.
In just a moment, the situation escalated. Their leader, a volatile mixture of wounded pride and genuine confusion, decided to attack the boy. Seeing him in immediate, undeniable danger, I decided not to hold back any longer. My senses painted a clear picture: the rapid footsteps of the approaching thug, the swish of the knife. While maintaining my primary focus on the child's safety, ready to interpose myself if necessary, I swiftly, almost silently, took out the other two men who were foolishly still blocking my path. A quick, precise strike to a pressure point for each, and they dropped, their bodies hitting the grimy concrete with muffled thuds, unconscious before they knew what hit them.
It turned out I'd worried for nothing, though. The boy took care of their leader even faster than I had dealt with his companions. The audible thwack and immediate, agonizing gasp of the leader indicated a direct and rather... effective hit. Though, punching him in the nuts was a mean move, undoubtedly effective, but I couldn't deny it was a justified act of self-defense given the knife. The guttural whimper that followed settled the fight.
As I listened to the leader's whimpers subside, becoming faint, choked sounds, and the sudden, profound silence reclaim the alley, the boy turned towards me. "You are good," he stated, his voice calm and clear amidst the quiet, the hint of admiration unmistakable.
Was that a compliment? From a kid who just incapacitated a grown man with a single, brutal blow? Interesting. "You too," I replied, a slight, almost imperceptible smile forming on my lips.
"Though," I continued, testing the waters, a flicker of professional curiosity guiding my words, "it was a mean punch."
"It was justified self-defense, he had a knife," the boy retorted immediately, no trace of regret or hesitation in his voice, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world.
I have a strong feeling he could've won that fight without resorting to such a direct and impactful tactic. His movements were quick, efficient, almost trained. But then again, 'not my nuts, not my problem.'