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Peter leans forward over the table, brown eyes focused ahead. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Hm?”
“The parallel universe version of you, the one we call the Evil Clone? In a way, you liked learning about him, didn’t you? He showed you what you were capable of if you put your mind to something.”
Foggy pauses. He doesn’t want to respond just yet.
In a dark alley, a different Daredevil drops down from a fire escape and slams a different Foggy Nelson to the wall. “It was you! You’re the Kingpin!”
Other Foggy gasps for air, then spends some time rubbing his throat once Daredevil lets him go. Some fear shows up in his face, but mostly contempt.
“Quite possibly,” he says drily, “but I doubt you have anything you can prove in a court of law.”
“You little—”
“Matt. You’ve just attacked the District Attorney. Try not to rack up too many assault charges in one night.”
Other Matt Murdock reels back, as if slapped. “This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”
He gets a sad sigh in answer. “What isn’t over, Matt? Your righteous crusade against my alleged iron grip on the crime in New York City? An alleged grip that someone could only possibly achieve if they were to allegedly work countless hours setting up backroom immunity deals with sorts like The Dogs of Hell and the Stokes Syndicate, turning them against one another? My presumed super-villain activities, which have correlated with a historic drop in civilian causalities? Is that what’s not over?”
In the dark, the vigilante in red seems to shrink, and the man in the business suit begins to loom.
“Matt. You’re doing more harm than good, no matter what you tell yourself. You live in an attic and have no friends; I had Jones investigate. You can’t stop yourself from going at night to hurt people, and what’s more, you don’t want to stop. You. Like. Hurting. People. So much, in fact, you couldn’t keep your normal lawyer life up anymore. At best, you’re a step from criminally insane. At worst, you’re a sadist and no better than Cornell Stokes.”
He pauses for breath.
“My advice? Bow out gracefully. Think about what New York genuinely needs—someone like Castiglione, or Jones, or Cage. Stable people with public faces. Not Daredevil.”
The man in black offers Daredevil a bottle of pills. “It’ll be as easy as falling asleep. No more pain.”
Wordlessly, Daredevil takes it and disappears into the shadows.
“Yeah,” Foggy finally says. “I did find him inspiring in his own way. Powerful.”
Peter nods. “No webs, no fists…just words.”