Robert returned once again to the open field outside the city to test the power of his newly enhanced ammunition.
The results?
Extremely satisfying.
As he made his way back through the abandoned construction site, he noticed the father-daughter duo were nowhere to be seen. Not that he blamed them—surely it wasn't his fault. He had a friendly face.
Then again... why did he keep bumping into anti-heroes?
Wade. Frank. Mindy. Big Daddy.
Every one of them was a walking, talking warning label. None of them could be called "good people" in the traditional sense.
Robert couldn't help but feel like a fluffy little lamb lost in a den of wolves.
If this kept up, he'd have no choice but to join the pack himself. He could already feel his "kind little kitty" personality being slowly corrupted by these so-called "allies of justice."
Back in Brooklyn, stomach growling, Robert passed by a cozy-looking restaurant and decided to finally get himself a proper meal.
He'd been living off fast food for days while tinkering with grenades and gun mods—and even though American fast food was cheap and filling, there's only so many soggy burgers and super-salty fries one man could eat before he cracked.
Inside, the restaurant was bustling. Almost every table was full.
A friendly waiter approached. "Table for one, sir?"
"Yeah."
The waiter gave a polite, professional smile. "I'm sorry, we're almost full right now. But if you don't mind sharing a table, we can seat you right away."
"No problem," Robert said with a shrug. "Food's food."
Moments later, the waiter returned. "Right this way. Two guests agreed to share their table."
Robert followed him toward the back corner and stopped in front of a table with two men already seated.
One was a stocky guy with curly hair and a bright smile.
The other wore sunglasses and held a white cane. A third chair sat empty between them.
Robert hesitated.
Something about this setup made him instinctively alert. Still, he pushed the feeling down and took a seat.
As he sat, he noticed the subtle shift in the man with the cane. His posture, the tilt of his head—it was subtle, but clearly observant.
Robert chalked it up to nerves.
"Looks like we're not eating alone tonight!" the curly-haired guy said, laughing warmly.
Robert cracked a small smile. "With two of you here, it's a squad. I'm just the solo queue player."
That earned a laugh, even if the guy clearly didn't get the reference.
"I'm Foggy Nelson," the man said, extending a business card across the table. "This is Matt Murdock, my partner. We run a law firm—Nelson and Murdock. New firm, not a lot of cases yet. If you ever need legal help, we're your guys."
Robert accepted the card politely, giving it a quick glance. Then his gaze lifted toward the quiet man next to Foggy.
The man named Matt didn't speak. His face remained neutral, his sunglasses unmoving—but Robert could feel the scrutiny.
Matt Murdock.
The name clicked immediately. He knew that name. He should know that name.
A blind man.
A lawyer by day.
A vigilante by night.
The Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Daredevil.
Of course. That's why Robert had felt off the moment he sat down.
Matt was scanning him. Not with his eyes, but with the superhuman senses gifted by his accident. The scent of gunpowder still lingered faintly on Robert's jacket. Even if no one else could smell it, Matt could.
Robert felt a chill crawl up his spine.
Time to act normal, he told himself.
Bullet time, engage.
---
Meanwhile...
Matt Murdock—alias Daredevil—was enjoying a rare evening of peace.
Foggy had dragged him to dinner to celebrate their law firm's launch. Good food, good company, no thugs to fight. For once, things were simple.
That is, until the waiter came over and asked if they'd mind sharing their table.
"Sure," Matt had replied, smiling politely. "Go ahead."
But as the new guest approached, Matt's senses tingled. An acrid scent clung to the man—gunpowder. Recent. Concentrated. Not a faint whiff from a shooting range visit days ago.
Matt's hearing kicked in next.
The stranger's heart rate was fast—very fast. But not panicked. Not anxious. Controlled.
Strange.
Matt honed in further.
The rhythm was steady, not erratic. This wasn't fear. This was just... how this guy ticked?
But then something changed.
The man's heart rate began to climb.
160 bpm. 180. 200...
Matt's brow furrowed.
Was this a medical emergency? Was the guy having a heart attack?
Then, just as suddenly—it dropped.
Down to 80 bpm.
Then climbed again.
Boom-boom-boom!
The sound filled Matt's ears like a drumline.
230... 300... 400 bpm!?
Matt nearly stood up in alarm. He clutched his chest instinctively.
The man's pulse was fluctuating with almost musical rhythm—up, down, up, down. It was like...
Like someone was conducting a symphony inside their chest.
The sound was so precise, so measured, that Matt—one of the most sensitive auditory observers on the planet—was struck dumb.
This man's heartbeat... was music.
"Matt?" Foggy whispered. "You good?"
Matt didn't answer.
He was locked in place, expression dazed, hand over his heart.
In his ears, the rhythm pulsed like destiny.
And then—without even realizing it—he whispered:
"Symphony of Fate...?"
--------------
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