The room was dim, quiet except for the faint beeping of medical equipment and the soft clicking of a keyboard. Nathan stood over the table, his eyes locked on the unconscious figure of the man known as Daredevil—Matthew Murdock. He had just completed a full physiological scan, recording everything from brain activity to muscular response.
Nathan now had a detailed understanding of Daredevil's body. The enhanced auditory cortex, the tension in his nervous system, the residual traces of the chemical that altered his senses—it was all laid out in front of him like a digital blueprint.
As the last lines of data streamed across the screen, Daredevil began to stir.
His brows furrowed, his body tensed, and then—a wave of pain surged through his body.
His head throbbed, like someone had driven a hammer through his skull, and his ears felt as if they were being sliced open. He gritted his teeth as sweat poured down his face.
Nathan's voice came calmly, "How do you feel? Can you bear it?"
Daredevil forced a smile, the corners of his mouth twitching. "It's... within my limits."
Of course, he wouldn't admit it was unbearable. Daredevil was the type to chew broken glass before showing weakness. Still, the strain in his voice betrayed him.
"This experiment wasn't easy," he muttered. "The difficulty… is really high."
"Is that so?" Nathan's tone sharpened with curiosity. "Tell me—do you remember the chemical that caused your blindness? That radioactive substance?"
Daredevil shook his head weakly. "No. I only remember trying to save an old man from getting hit by a truck. Next thing I knew, I was in the hospital. That truck carried some kind of radioactive chemical. I never learned what it was."
Nathan folded his arms. "Did you never try to investigate what changed you? What gave you these powers?"
"I studied law," Daredevil said awkwardly. "My knowledge outside that field is pretty limited. I was curious… but I didn't have the tools or resources to understand it."
Nathan nodded slowly. That made sense—but it frustrated him. Without understanding the original compound, he couldn't reconstruct the mutation or reproduce its effects.
"Do you remember which company owned the truck?" Nathan pressed.
Daredevil's brow furrowed. "No… it's all so blurry. But there should be records at the police station. It was a traffic accident. I'm sure they took photos, drew diagrams, collected evidence…"
That was the breakthrough Nathan needed.
"There should be records of me, the driver, the scene," Daredevil continued. "If you're looking for answers, that's your best bet."
Nathan's fingers flew over the keyboard. Within moments, he had hacked into the city's police database. "Which precinct handled your case?" he asked.
"Hell's Kitchen," Daredevil answered.
Nathan accessed their system immediately and searched: Matthew Murdock, accident report, approximate age, and date.
Nothing came up.
"There's no record of your statement," he muttered.
Daredevil sat up straighter, surprised. "That's impossible. I remember it clearly. We gave statements. They investigated the scene."
Then another voice spoke up—Daniel Grant, who had been listening nearby.
"I know what happened!" he exclaimed. "Back then, records weren't digital yet. Most were still in physical form. Handwritten reports, typed statements—probably all in paper archives."
Nathan nodded. "So I need to go in person."
He turned to Daniel. "Rest for today. We'll continue tomorrow."
Daniel's body stiffened. Tomorrow? More pain? He forced a smile. "Right. Tomorrow."
Nathan escorted him to the street and hailed a taxi. After Daniel left, Nathan turned toward the precinct.
Hell's Kitchen District Police Station.
Even at night, the building was lit like a Christmas tree. Criminals were being processed, officers shouted across desks, phones rang off the hook.
This was Hell's Kitchen, after all—New York's beating heart of chaos.
From the rooftop across the street, Nathan scanned the scene. "Too many people. Even at night. These criminals never rest…"
He pulled up the building's blueprints—sent by Emily, his remote support partner—and studied the layout.
The archives were in the front section of the fifth floor. No windows. No access from the outside. He'd have to sneak through the corridors inside—high risk.
Nathan leaped from the rooftop into a patch of trees and sprinted to the back. He climbed swiftly to the fifth floor and slipped through a narrow restroom window.
Just as he landed—the toilet flushed.
Heart racing, Nathan pressed himself flat against the ceiling. A police officer walked out, grumbling to himself, and exited.
Nathan exhaled—but then froze again.
The door opened again. Two more officers entered.
"George, anything on the harbor massacre?" one asked casually.
George sighed. "Only that the victims were gangsters. Those ninja-like attackers? Total mystery. Probably illegal immigrants. No ID, nothing."
George's phone rang. "Hi honey, I'm still working. Grab whatever food you want. Be safe."
The other officer laughed. "You're lucky. My kid's a nightmare."
"They'll grow out of it," George chuckled.
Eventually, they left.
Nathan dropped down silently and crept to the door. Outside, the corridor was busy—officers moving between rooms, chatting, carrying files.
He couldn't risk walking in the open.
He darted toward a utility closet, opened the panel, and flipped the switch.
The fifth floor went pitch black.
Confusion exploded:
"What the hell?!"
"Who turned off the lights?!"
Only emergency lighting remained.
Nathan moved like a shadow, crawling across the ceiling toward the archives.
He reached the barred room just as a flashlight flicked on below.
A grumpy officer stood outside the archive cage. "Ugh! I lost all my work! Damn power!"
The man cursed as he walked out. The moment he was gone, Nathan dropped silently into the room.
He raced through the aisles, scanning file drawers until—
He found it. A file marked "Matthew Murdock."
His fingers flew across the pages.
"Truck carrying hazardous material…"
His eyes landed on a note: "No. 7 Artificial Radioactive Chemical Substance."
Nathan's breath caught. That was it.
This was the compound.
This is what altered Daredevil's brain chemistry, enhancing his hearing to supernatural levels.
But what the hell was "No. 7"? Who created it?
No company was named, but there was a driver listed.
If he found that driver, he could trace the compound's origin.
He memorized the data, tucked the file back, and slipped out.
As he reached the restroom—
The lights flicked back on.
A police officer stood directly in front of him.
They locked eyes.
Silence.
"…What are you doing here?" the officer asked.
"Looking for something," Nathan replied honestly.
"…What? You want help, or are you doing it yourself?"
"I'm leaving," Nathan answered and turned.
The officer narrowed his eyes. "I've never seen someone this arrogant in a police station."
He reached for his handcuffs.
Nathan struck instantly— a precise blow to the neck.
The officer collapsed.
Nathan dragged him into a stall and exited quietly.
As he stepped into the hallway—
Spider Telepathy activated.
A tingle in his skull.
A tearing sound in the air.
A voice shouted: "WHO ARE YOU?! Why did you infiltrate the precinct?!"
To be continued…
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