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The rhythmic, dry tapping of his braille writer was usually the most grounding sound in the office, but today, Matt Murdock was struggling to focus.
It was 2:15 PM on a damp Thursday, and the Nelson & Murdock office was quiet. Foggy was down at the courthouse dealing with a stubborn prosecutor, Karen was out chasing a lead, and Matt was left alone with a mountain of pro-bono case files. He reached for his lukewarm mug of coffee, taking a slow sip, letting the bitter, cheap roast wake up his senses.
And then, he heard it.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
It was three blocks away, but it was unmistakable. It was a pressurized, hyper-dense, double-tempo heartbeat that sounded like a radioactive hummingbird.
Matt slowly set his coffee mug back down on the desk. His hand froze over his case files.
No, Matt thought, a faint, preemptive headache blooming behind his temples. It is the middle of the afternoon. Why is he in Manhattan?
He listened closely as the heartbeat rapidly approached Clinton Hill. The kid wasn't walking on the sidewalk. Matt heard the high-frequency thwip of pressurized synthetic fluid, followed by the heavy, elastic stretch of high-tensile webbing catching on a brick chimney. Then came the soft, incredibly light landing of rubber-soled boots on the roof of the brownstone across the alley.
The kid was in his suit. He was playing Spider-Man.
For a second, Matt hoped the boy was just passing through. But those hyper-fast lungs exhaled a nervous, shaky breath, and the heartbeat began moving downward—not by swinging, but by awkwardly climbing down the fire escape directly outside the Nelson & Murdock office window.
Matt leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his chest. He didn't move. He didn't blink.
A shadow blocked the dim afternoon light filtering through the frosted glass window. There was a soft, hesitant knock on the glass.
"Come in," Matt called out calmly, keeping his voice strictly in his professional, mild-mannered "blind attorney" register.
The window slid open with a screech of old wood, and a rush of damp city air flooded the room, carrying the distinct scent of spandex, rain-slicked brick, and a very cheap, sweet-smelling body spray.
With a clumsy rustle of fabric, Spider-Man squeezed himself through the window frame. He landed on the linoleum floor, trying to make it look graceful, but his foot caught on Foggy's wastebasket, sending a pile of discarded legal pads scattering across the floor.
"Oh, shoot—sorry! I am so sorry, I didn't mean to—" the kid squeaked, his voice muffled by the thick fabric of his mask. He scrambled to pick up the trash, his knees knocking against Foggy's desk.
"It's fine," Matt said smoothly, tilting his head slightly.
Through his radar sense, Matt mapped the boy's outline. The kid was wearing his high-tech, form-fitting suit, the fabric humming slightly with whatever micro-electronics Tony Stark had stuffed into it. But beneath the mask, Matt could hear the kid's throat swallowing nervously. The kid had absolutely no idea.
Spider-Man stood up, adjusting his mask, and cleared his throat in a desperate attempt to sound deep, professional, and adult.
"Mr. Murdock?" the kid asked, his voice pitching down a full octave into a hilariously forced, gravelly tone. "My name is Spider-Man. I... uh... I was told you're a very good lawyer. And I think I need some legal advice."
Matt kept his face perfectly composed, though behind his dark glasses, his eyes closed in a silent prayer for strength. The sheer physical strain the kid was putting on his own vocal cords to maintain that ridiculous, gravelly baritone was painful to listen to. Matt could hear the larynx constricting, the vocal folds vibrating under unnatural tension, and the tiny, desperate gasps of air the kid had to take between words just to keep the pitch from breaking.
"Legal advice," Matt repeated slowly, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the desk. He took a brief sensory sweep of the room. The kid was practically radiating heat, his core temperature elevated from the swing over, and his pulse was still hovering around a frantic hundred and twenty beats per minute. "Well, Mr. Spider-Man, my door is generally open to those in need. Though usually, my clients use the stairs."
"Right. Yes. The stairs," Peter rumbled, his shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch. "I just... I thought the window was more on-brand. For, you know, the aesthetic. And the secrecy. Mostly the secrecy."
"Of course," Matt said, his tone dry enough to parch the room. He gestured toward the worn leather-and-vinyl chair on the opposite side of his desk. "Please. Have a seat."
The kid shuffled forward, his high-tech suit squeaking loudly against the leg of Foggy's desk before he awkwardly hovered over the chair. He didn't just sit; he crouched on the edge of the seat, his knees pulled up toward his chest in a classic arachnid posture that looked incredibly uncomfortable for a normal human, but apparently felt like second nature to him. The cheap vinyl of the chair groaned under his weight, releasing a puff of dust and old polyurethane that made the kid's nose twitch. Matt heard the microscopic flutter of the boy's nasal passages and braced himself.
Hah-tchoo!
The sneeze was loud, muffled by the fabric of the mask, and followed immediately by the frantic sound of the kid trying to wipe his face through the spandex.
"Sorry! Sorry, dusty chair," Peter squeaked, completely forgetting to hold the deep voice. His natural, high-pitched Queens accent cut through the office air like a siren. Realizing his mistake, he quickly cleared his throat, violently forcing his voice back down into the gravelly basement. "Ahem. Excuse me. The, uh, the elements. They affect my sinuses."
"Naturally," Matt murmured, adjusting his red-tinted glasses. It was taking every ounce of his training with Stick to keep from laughing. "So, what seems to be the trouble? Are we talking about property damage liability? Trademark infringement? Or did the city threaten to fine you for attaching unauthorized web-lines to public transit vehicles again?"
"No, nothing like that," Peter said, leaning forward. The scent of sweet, cheap body spray drifted across the desk again, mingling with the metallic odor of the kid's web-shooters. "It's... well, it’s actually a civil rights issue. I think. Or maybe harassment? Possibly a localized dictatorship."
Matt raised an eyebrow. "A localized dictatorship. In Manhattan?"
"Yes! Exactly!" Peter’s voice cracked again, the gravelly facade slipping further the more passionate he got. "Okay, so, hypothetically speaking. If a legal citizen of New York—who may or may not be a teenager, but that's not important—is minding his own business, walking on a public sidewalk in Hell's Kitchen at night. And this... this individual in red leather, who thinks he owns the place just because he has a matching color scheme, physically grabs said citizen."
Matt’s jaw tightened slightly, but he kept his expression perfectly neutral. "Grabs them?"
"Yes! Manhandles them!" Peter flailed his arms, the synthetic fabric of his suit whirring softly as his hands cut through the air. "Just scoops them up! Like a sack of laundry! And carries them across 8th Avenue, drops them on the pavement, and tells them they're in timeout! Hypothetically, of course. Is that legal? Because it feels like a major violation of the freedom of movement. I’m pretty sure the Constitution has a whole thing about not being forcibly relocated by a guy dressed like a devil."
Matt slowly picked up his pen, tapping the blunt end against his legal pad in a slow, rhythmic beat. He had to hand it to the kid; Peter's sheer, stubborn dedication to being offended was almost admirable.
"Well," Matt began, his voice smooth, professional, and entirely devoid of the smug satisfaction currently blooming in his chest. "Legally speaking, the freedom of movement is protected under the Privileges and Immunities Clause. However, that generally applies to state-actor interference. A private citizen—even one operating as a vigilante—cannot technically violate your constitutional rights in the same manner as a police officer."
Peter slumped, the fabric of his mask wrinkling as his jaw dropped. "So... you're saying the red wizard can just get away with it?"
"The... red wizard?" Matt asked, letting a genuine touch of bewilderment slip into his voice.
"Daredevil," Peter clarified, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper. "The local demon. The guy who bouncers the neighborhood. I mean, hypothetically, if this citizen was just trying to buy vintage synthesizer parts at eleven o'clock on a Tuesday, does he have any legal recourse? Can we file a restraining order?"
Matt leaned back in his chair, letting out a soft, patient sigh. "Mr. Spider-Man, let me ask you a question. Hypothetically... did this citizen have a curfew?"
Peter froze. Matt heard the kid's heart skip a beat, followed by a rapid, guilty pitter-patter.
"I... I mean, curfews are highly subjective," Peter stammered, his fingers nervously rolling the hem of his spandex sleeve. "And legally non-binding if you're, like, saving the world or whatever."
"And was this neighborhood particularly safe at eleven o'clock on a Tuesday?" Matt continued, his voice dropping into a gentler, yet unyielding tone. "Because from what I understand of Hell's Kitchen, the local syndicates do not particularly care about the Privileges and Immunities Clause. If a young civilian—even one with a very high-tech backpack—were to wander into the middle of a turf war, the outcome would be significantly worse than being escorted back to the subway."
Peter went quiet. Matt could hear the kid's breathing slow down, his heartbeat settling into a softer, slightly defensive rhythm. The boy shifted on the vinyl chair, the material squeaking as he lowered his knees.
"He's just really annoying," Peter muttered, his voice finally abandoning the fake deep tone entirely, sounding tired and genuinely exasperated. "He doesn't even listen. He just... picks me up. I fought space aliens, Mr. Murdock. I helped save the universe. And I'm getting bullied by a guy who probably doesn't even pay taxes."
"I assure you, vigilantes rarely file their taxes under their alter egos," Matt said dryly, a small, genuine smile finally tugging at the corner of his mouth. He set his pen down. "But as a lawyer, my professional advice to your... hypothetical friend? Stay on the east side of 8th Avenue after dark. The defense rests on that point. And quite frankly, so should your friend. It sounds like he needs some sleep."
Peter let out a long, defeated sigh, but he couldn't help but smile behind his mask. There was something intensely grounding about having a normal, blind lawyer treat his superhero life like a mild zoning dispute.
"Yeah," Peter murmured, standing up and finally heading for the office door instead of the window. "I guess he does. Thanks, Mr. Murdock."
Matt listened to the heavy glass door click shut, followed by the quiet, steady retreat of the kid's double-tempo heartbeat down the stairs. Left alone in the quiet office, Matt picked up his coffee mug, took another sip of the lukewarm brew, and finally let a broad, genuine grin spread across his face.
It was going to be a very interesting patrol tonight.