The rain came down in sheets over Hell's Kitchen, turning the streets into mirrors of neon and shadow. It was the kind of night that made honest people hurry home and left the rest to conduct their business in the dark.

Y/n had known Matt Murdock for years — long before the world learned his secret, long before the devil of Hell's Kitchen became a headline. They'd met as civilians. Shared coffee. Shared silences. Shared something unspoken that neither of them had ever quite put into words.

But lately, Matt had been pulling away. Late nights. Missed dinners. Excuses that never held up. Y/n didn't know the half of it.

What Y/n didn't know at all was that someone else had been watching. Across the city, through crosshairs and shadows, a pair of cold eyes had taken an interest in the vigilante who moved through the Kitchen like they owned it. Bullseye had seen them fight. Seen them bleed. Seen them win. And he was... fascinated.

Tonight, the storm offered cover. And in the heart of the Kitchen, three paths were about to collide.

Y/n stood under the flickering awning of a closed bodega, soaked to the bone, phone in hand. The last message from Matt was three hours old: Running late. Don't wait up.

A block away, a scream cut through the rain.