"Hello, this is Nelson & Murdock Law Offices. I'm sorry, we're closed right now, but if you have any business, you can call back tomorrow morning..." The voice on the other end was flustered and a bit shaky, like she had just knocked over a cup of hot tea, spilled papers across her desk, and was now sniffling to cover up her panic. The long silence from the caller made Karen Page nervous. She stammered softly, "Hello...?"
"Are you the blonde one?" the voice asked, completely out of the blue.
"Y-Yes, may I ask who's—" she faltered, startled by the tone on the other end.
"I figured you were the blonde." The voice suddenly became cheerful. "Tell Murdock I've got a file for him."
"A file?"
"That's right, the one we talked about." Solomon shoved a thick stack of documents into the rusted metal mailbox of the crumbling tenement building that housed the Nelson & Murdock law firm. The ancient box groaned under the strain. "I also included a bonus file. I think he'll be interested in that one, too."
"May I ask what it's about? And who are you?"
"I'm Solomon Damonet. I brought Wilson Fisk's criminal records—the ones Matt asked me to help collect. This is just the index. The full files are too numerous. The other is a dossier on the Irish Catholic Church's abuse of young boys in New York. You know, those cases never seem to receive proper justice. I heard Matt Murdock grew up in the Irish Catholic Church, so I figured he'd have an interest."
Solomon, now irritated, gave the mailbox a solid punch, finally forcing the thick files inside. The resulting metallic thud echoed through the building, making Karen Page jump. She'd been investigating Fisk's childhood and his mother's stay at a nursing home, even uncovering the truth of his patricide—but she hadn't told anyone. And she lived in fear that Fisk might find her first.
"What are you afraid of?" Solomon asked.
"N-Nothing," Karen sniffled. "Just… a cockroach."
"This place is too damp. I should carry bug spray. You wouldn't believe what I found while shoving that file into your mailbox." Like every other building in Hell's Kitchen, the apartment was ancient and poorly maintained—nothing he might have found would've surprised her.
"You're downstairs right now? I'm still in the office—you could've just brought it up," Karen offered. She opened a drawer and drew her small pistol, just in case. It was a risk, but the man on the phone sounded familiar with Matt Murdock. She figured she could trust him—at least a little. "And quit torturing that poor mailbox. We don't even use that thing anymore."
"Damn it. Sorry for my French."
"You're British?" A moment later, she heard footsteps echoing through the hallway and gripped her gun tighter.
"You could say that. If your stereotypes are accurate, I'd love a cup of tea." Solomon hung up and knocked on the door. Karen opened it to find a tall young man with striking features. His smile was disarming, and his voice was smooth. "Apologies. Took longer than expected breaking into the mailbox."
"It's fine," Karen said with a tight smile, trying to hide the pistol behind her. She had initially been intimidated by his height, but Solomon's charm soon put her at ease. Still, she felt a bit silly for being so on edge. The finely tailored evening suit and the rose pin—clearly a mark of ownership from a very particular kind of woman—made him seem completely out of place in Hell's Kitchen.
"No tea, but would you like some coffee?"
"I'd rather not. Coffee always leaves me with a guilty conscience."
"Over the laborers who harvest it in the Third World?" Karen slowly backed toward the battered office desk, discreetly sliding the pistol away.
"No!" Solomon widened his eyes in mock indignation. "Just because the coffee here is awful. Matt's been broke for ages—I'd bet his nicest suit was one I gave him!"
Solomon had a talent for closing the emotional distance between people, especially through humor and light sarcasm. Karen couldn't help but laugh. But silence crept back in quickly—two strangers, unsure what to talk about. She wanted to ask more questions but hesitated.
"How do you know Matt?" she asked as she took the two heavy leather-bound folders he handed her. She didn't open them right away—partly out of courtesy, partly out of caution. The young man might be helping, but she didn't fully trust him yet. Still, as he pulled up a chair and made himself comfortable, she didn't stop him.
He looked like he had a long story to tell.
"When I was still underage, I ran into him in an alley in Hell's Kitchen. It was Christmas. Some punks surrounded me, hoping to take something they could trade for drugs." Karen raised an eyebrow, wondering if this story was going to echo her own.
"So I beat the crap out of them. Matt happened to walk by and told me to toss the weed and the guns." Solomon shrugged, completely unfazed by how quickly the story took a turn. "I listened. I didn't need any of that junk anyway."
"And these two files?" she asked, switching topics.
"The Fisk one's what we agreed on. The other one… that's about fairness."
"What do you mean?" Karen frowned. "What fairness?"
Solomon shrugged again, declining to elaborate. In truth, Wilson Fisk had proven his worth—barely—by surviving the attack of two summoned shadow creatures. For that, Solomon kept his promise and bought him some time. He knew full well that his own Roman-style theatrics and terrifying threats had earned him a permanent spot on Fisk's hate list. Not that it mattered. The only reason Fisk was still alive was Vanessa—and Athena's friendship with her. Not because Solomon saw any actual value in him.
"Fairness for the victims," he finally said. "You've heard about the Church abuse scandals, right? It's gotten some attention lately. I figured Matt might want to take on the case—it'd help get this law firm some real traction."
"I mean… Matt's Catholic."
"You think he'd let that stop him from pursuing justice? That he'd ignore something like this just to spare his faith some shame? I don't think so." Solomon spread his hands. Karen nodded. That wasn't the Matt she knew either. Whatever else this young man was, he truly seemed interested in helping Matt—and in giving Nelson & Murdock some new clients.
"I already gave the victims his number. If he can put a few priests behind bars, you might even afford a new printer. I guarantee it."
(End of Chapter)
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