Z

"What is this?" His voice is different now. Less threat, more... something else. Tired, maybe. Wary.

"Insurance." You pull up the ghost list—all twenty-seven names now, with locations and current activities. "Fisk's insurance. Or his army. Depends on how you look at it."

The Devil moves closer. You watch him read, his head tilting slightly as he processes. The mask hides his expression, but you see his hands tighten at his sides when he reaches Judge Chen's file.

"These people are dead."

"They're not. They're just... remade. Like De— like Poindexter." You correct, not wanting to sound too familiar. You pull up the clinic records, the surgical files, the financial trail leading back to shell companies that lead back to Fisk. "Fisk’s been building this for a while now. People who owe him their lives. People who can move through the world without suspicion because the world thinks they're buried six feet under."

The Devil is very still. You've seen that kind of stillness before—in Dex, right before he moves. But the Devil's stillness is different. It's the calm before a storm instead of the calm before a strike.

"How long have you known about this?"

"A few weeks. Dex came to me when he found out. We've been... investigating."

"We." The word lands like a judgment.

"He pays me for information. That's how this started. But then things got complicated." You pull up the footage of Greco in the FBI building. "This is from a week ago. Greco—one of Fisk's enforcers, supposedly killed by Dex eighteen months ago—walking into the New York field office like he owns the place. Using credentials from an agent named Rankin."

The Devil watches the loop. Once. Twice. Three times.

"Rankin’s in the FBI organized crime division. Clean record. Family man. Either he's dirty or someone's using his access without his knowledge."

"Or both."

You nod. "That's part of what we're trying to figure out. But it's slow going."

The Devil is quiet for a long moment. Then he does something unexpected. He sits—not on the loveseat that Dex had occupied the last few times he was here, but on the floor. His back against the wall, armored legs stretched out. It's such a human movement, so casual and unguarded, that for a second you forget how powerful he is.

"Tell me everything," he says. "From the beginning."

So you do.

You talk for an hour. Maybe longer. The words spill out of you—the late-night diner meetings, the files you pulled, the money that seemed too good to question. Dex breaking in through your window. The basement apartment. The ghosts. All of it.

The Devil listens. Doesn't interrupt, doesn't judge, just... listens. Sometimes he asks a question—clarifying a date, a name, a connection. Mostly he just sits there in the glow of your monitors, absorbing until dawn.

He’s moved to your fire escape after your long explanation, sitting with his back against the brick, watching the sky lighten over Hell's Kitchen. You bring him coffee at some point, because it seems like the right thing to do. He takes it.

You sit in your wheelchair by the open window, the cold air biting at your cheeks, and watch the city wake up with him.

"What happens now?" you ask.

The Devil sips his coffee. "Now I look into this with what you said. The clinic, the ghosts, Rankin. If Fisk is building something, I need to know what it is."

"And Dex?"

A long pause. "Poindexter and I have a long history."

You think about the files you've pulled over the past year and a half. The names, the faces, the locations. You never asked what Dex did with them, but you’re not stupid. You know.

"But he's been going after Fisk's operation," the Devil continues. "Taking out enforcers, disrupting supply lines, making noise. Whether he knows it or not, he's been doing some of my job for me. And if Fisk's been feeding him targets while protecting the real threats…” he trails off and sighs. “Poindexter's not the only one who's been played."

"So you'll help him?"

The Devil looks at you. In the growing light, you can see more of him—the strong jaw, the hint of stubble, the eyes that hold more exhaustion than you'd expect from someone who dresses like a demon.

"I'll help stop Fisk," he corrects. "I don’t kill, and I don’t want Poindexter doing it near me. But whether our actions help each other is… incidental."

But you hear what he's not saying. There's history there. But there's also something else. Something that might become an alliance.

"That's good enough," you say. "Right?"

The Devil says nothing, but he finishes his coffee. He stands, stretches in a way that makes his back pop, and turns to go.

"One thing," he says, pausing at the edge of the fire escape. "If Poindexter comes back, and he will, tell him something."

"What's that?"

"Tell him Matt says hello."

And then he's gone, dropping off the fire escape into the alley below, swallowed by the city before you can even process what he said.

You stare at the empty space where he was for a long time. Then you wheel back to your office, pull up a search window, and start typing.

Dex shows up at noon.

You're half-asleep on the couch, Thinkpad balanced on your stomach, when you hear the buzzer. 1024. You drag yourself to the door and open it.

"You're alive," he says. Flat affect, but you think you hear something underneath it. Relief, maybe.

"So are you." You limp backward to let him in. "We're both very alive. It's a whole theme. Nice theme."

Dex follows you inside. He stops in the living room, looking around like he's checking for changes. His eyes land on the empty coffee mug on the fire escape railing.

"Someone was here."

"Yeah." You settle back on the couch, pull your laptop back onto your stomach. "The Devil, actually. He stopped by for a visit. He was very polite."

Dex goes very still. You watch his hand twitch toward his side—that reaching motion—before he forces it down.

"Did he—"

"He didn't hurt me. We talked. I showed him the files." You meet his eyes. "He knows about the ghosts. About the clinic. About Fisk using you."

Dex processes this. You can almost see the gears turning behind his eyes, calculating threats and opportunities and all the ways this could go wrong.

"What did he say?"

"He said to tell you Matt says hello."

The name lands like a punch. Dex actually takes a half-step back, his jaw tightening. He's still processing, still adjusting to this new information. You give him a minute, then continue.

"He's going to look into the stuff I told him. He said if Fisk's been playing both of you, then you're not the only one who feels used."

Dex's eyes snap back to you. "Both of us?"

"You and him. Maybe more? Apparently you've been doing some of his job for him, uh, taking out Fisk's people. And it sounded like he’d be open to work together."

Something shifts in Dex's expression. It's small—a slight relaxation of his jaw, a drop in his shoulders—but you notice it. You notice everything about him now, the way you notice the windows in a room or the exits in a crowd.

"He's not going to try to get rid of me?"

"I don't think so." You pause. "You're useful, Dex. To stopping Fisk. That had to count for something."

Dex looks at you for a long moment. Then he does something you've never seen him do before. He sits on the floor—not the couch, not the loveseat, but the floor, his back against your bookshelf in almost exactly the same spot Murdock occupied hours earlier.

"I don't know how to do this," he says quietly.

"Do what?"

"Trust people. Work with them. Not be..." He trails off, gesturing vaguely.

You watch his hand twitch. "A weapon?"

He nods.

You think about it. About the year and a half of midnight meetings and careful distance. About the basement apartment and the alley and the way he opened your window without being asked. About all the small moments that added up to something you still can't quite name.

"You're learning," you say finally. "Slowly. But you're learning."

Dex looks up at you. In the afternoon light filtering through your curtains, his eyes look almost human.

"So are you," he says.

And for some reason, that hits you harder than anything else he could have said.

The next few days pass in a blur of work and waiting.

Dex comes and goes, gathering information, following leads, staying one step ahead of whoever might be looking for him. You stay in your apartment, running Saberfind around the clock, pulling threads that lead to more threads that lead to more names.

The ghost list grows. Thirty-one now. Thirty-two. Thirty-five.

Each name comes with a story. A death that wasn't. A life borrowed from the grave. People who owe everything to Wilson Fisk, and who will pay that debt however he asks.

You find children too. Not ghosts—they were never dead—but kids who've been funneled through Judge Chen's courtroom into foster homes controlled by Fisk's people. Kids who are being raised to be loyal, to be grateful, to be whatever their benefactor needs them to be when they grow up.

It's horrifying. It's also the most damning evidence you've ever compiled.

The Devil— or Matt, if you’re judging Dex’s reaction correctly— comes back three nights after you've made the list bigger.

This time he uses the door. This time you offer him coffee and he accepts. This time Dex is there, sitting on the loveseat with his hands resting on his thighs, watching the vigilante like he might explode.

You're at your desk, monitors glowing, the ghost list ready to show. Matt-Devil stands by the furthest wall from both of you.

"You've been busy," he says, looking at the backs of the monitors.

"Someone has to be." You pull up the full file. "Thirty-five confirmed ghosts. Another twelve possibles we're still verifying. Plus the foster kids—at least twenty that we've traced so far, probably more. Judge Chen is the linchpin there, but there are others. Social workers, case managers, even a few cops who look the other way."

Matt is quiet.

“That’s bigger than I thought.”

"Can you do something with it?" Dex asks. His voice is flat, but you hear the edge underneath. The desperate hope that maybe, finally, this could end.

Matt looks at him. Really looks, in that way that makes you feel like he's seeing past your skin.

"I can try. But it won't be quick. Fisk has layers of protection. People in his pocket everywhere. Even with this..." He gestures at the screens. "It could take months. Years."

Dex's jaw tightens.

“Don’t give me that look,” Matt says without even turning to Dex. “You think I don't know what that feels like? I've been fighting him for years. I've lost people. Good people. People who mattered.”

The silence stretches. Dex's hands curl into fists on his thighs. You watch the muscles in his jaw work.

"Then what do you suggest?" he asks finally.

Matt leans back. For a moment he looks almost tired—the weight of everything he's carrying visible in the set of his shoulders.

"We keep fighting. We keep gathering evidence. We keep chipping away at his empire until there's nothing left to hold onto. And we protect the people who matter while we do it."

His eyes slide to you. "Starting with her."

Dex follows his gaze. You feel both of them looking at you, assessing, calculating.

"I don't need protecting," you say. "I need to work. I need my equipment. I need—"

"You need to be alive," Matt interrupts. "Which you won't be if Fisk finds out how deep you're in. Poindexter's a ghost. He can disappear. You can't. Your whole life is in this apartment. Medical records, prescriptions, your—"

"I know." Your voice comes out sharper than you intended. "I know all of that. But running again isn't an option for me."

Matt is quiet again. Then: "There are other options. Safe houses that are accessible. People who can help. You don't have to do this alone."

You look at Dex. He's watching you with an expression you can't read—concern, maybe, or something close to it.

"He's right," Dex says quietly. "You shouldn't be alone in this. Not anymore."

Something in your chest loosens. Just a little. Just enough.

"Okay," you say. "So what's the plan?"

Dex stands in your living room, not sitting, not making himself comfortable. He's wearing a gray hoodie like he did last week.

"You should shower," he says when you park yourself by your dining table. "Real one. Not the floor."

You laugh. Tired and quiet, but it’s a laugh. "Yeah. That's the plan."

"I'll wait."

"You don't have to—"

"I'll wait."

You pick out a nicer pair of black sweat and a Nirvana tee from your closet. The bathroom feels like a palace. Actual counter space. The shower chair you use when you need to. You stand in the shower until you need to sit, and you sit angled to the stream until it runs cold. You limp out and transfer to the wheelchair and man, you’re actually smiling as you leave your bedroom.

Dex is exactly where you left him, staring at your photo of MoistCr1TiKaL again with an expression you can't read.

"Jesus," you say, wheeling closer. "Ease my woes."

His head turns to follow you. "What?"

"Nothing. It’s a YouTube thing." You feel a cool draft and look to where it’s coming from: your pain in the ass window. Dex cracked it open and cold air’s seeping in. "You did that?" you say.

He doesn't turn around. "You like the window open."

You don't know what to say to that, so you don't say anything. You just sit in the flow of outside air and try to remember how to be a person who lives in the world.

The clinic records are a nightmare.

Not because they're well-protected— they're not, relatively speaking. A medical clinic running experimental procedures for a crime lord should have better security than this. But the files themselves are a mess. Handwritten notes scanned as PDFs. Abbreviations that don't match any medical standard you’re familiar with. Dates that conflict. Patient names that are clearly fake but also clearly referencing real people if you knew how to decode them.

You've been at it for six hours when Dex returns from wherever he's been. He doesn't announce himself anymore—just appears, like he's always been there, like the apartment has somehow grown an extra shadow.

"Progress?"

You lean forward. Rub at your temples. "Define progress."

He moves to stand behind you, looking over your shoulder at the chaos of open tabs and partial translations. You've gotten used to proximity in that basement apartment because of the sheer lack of space. But in your home? It feels more he's choosing to be this close instead of just being trapped in the same box as you.

"These," he says, pointing at a column. "Those are dates."

"What?"

"Look." He leans closer, his arm brushing your shoulder as he reaches for the mouse. You don't move. The interior of his arm rubs against the exterior of yours. His chin is above your head. If you lean back even a centimeter, you’d feel his chest behind you. 

You don’t move.

"See the pattern?” He brushes against you as he highlights 11132017. “November thirteenth, twenty-seventeen.” Brush. Highlight 04192018. “April nineteenth, twenty-eighteen. They’re probably the death or procedure date."

You stare at the screen. He's right. You'd been so focused on trying to match the codes to existing hospital data, that you missed the glaringly obvious.

"How did you—"

“The FBI used similar coding for informants."

You hum. You type a command to re-sorting the data. Names resolve. Dates become timelines. A picture starts to form.

"Twenty-three confirmed," you murmur. "No, maybe twenty-seven. There's some overlap…"

"Enough."

"It's enough for what, exactly? We can't exactly walk into a precinct and hand this over. You're dead, and I'm an accessory to—" you wave vaguely, "—everything."

Dex is quiet. You feel him thinking behind you, the weight of it.

“I’ll think of something,” is what he finally says. “You… just keep this ready. I’ll stay in touch.”

Ten minutes later, he’s gone.

You're asleep— actual sleep, in your actual bed, for the first time in what feels like forever. The kind of deep, dreamless sleep that comes from exhaustion so complete your body can comfortably shut down without protest.

Between a sleep cycle, you wake up to silence.

Not the normal silence of your apartment at night, which has its own small sounds—the fridge cycling, the distant traffic, the settling of old bones in an old building. This is different. This is the silence of someone holding its breath.

Your hand moves automatically toward the nightstand drawer where you keep the gun. You don't open it. You just rest your palm on the wood grain and listen.

A creak from the place by your fire escape. It’s the floorboard near the couch.

You almost want to call out. Ask if it’s Dex, but if it was Dex, you know he would’ve missed that floorboard. He would’ve passed by your bedroom door to your office, your kitchen, wherever.

You slide out of bed, ignoring the protest in your knees. Your cane is leaning against the nightstand so you grab it. Less noisy than a transfer, and you’re rested.

You move toward the door as quietly as you can. The bedroom door is open halfway.

You see a shape. Tall. Dark. Motionless.

And it’s not Dex. You’ve seen him move for one and a half years. Dex’s body works differently. Dex breathes differently— he wouldn’t be this tense somewhere . This is someone else.

Your hand tightens on the cane. The gun is in the drawer. Too far now. Stupid. You should have—

The shape moves faster than you can move. Lots of things can, but in this particular case it makes your anxiousness spike to unknown levels. 

The door slams open, barely hitting you as you stagger back and suddenly there's a hand around your throat and you're pinned against the wall. Your cane clatters to the floor. Your legs scream as they take your full weight. Your knee bucks like a stubborn horse.

"Where is he?"

The voice is low. Rough. Familiar from a dozen news reports and a hundred whispered conversations. The Devil.

You can't breathe. His hand isn't squeezing hard, but it's positioned exactly right to cut off air. Your fingers pull at his wrist, useless.

"Where," he repeats, "is Benjamin Poindexter?"

You try to speak. Nothing comes out. You tap his arm twice— the universal signal for can't talk, choking— but he ignores it. Your legs scream at you. Odd angle. Bad tensing. Finally, after a horrible second, his grip loosens just enough for you to gasp air.

"Don't know," you manage. "He comes and goes."

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not." Your voice is raspy, thin. "He doesn't tell me his schedule. He just... appears."

The Devil studies you. Even through the mask, you feel the weight of his attention. Like he's seeing through you, past you, into something you can't hide.

"You're hiding him. You’re an associate."

You don’t deny being an associate. You meet his eyes—or where his eyes should be, behind the mask. "He's… he hid me. He just left."

Something shifts in his posture. Confusion, maybe. Or the beginning of doubt.

"Explain that."

"Can you p–put me down?” You hate how pathetic you sound, being choked by this man. The Devil you don’t know, only heard of in local news reports. “My legs don't… work great."

For a long moment, he doesn't move. Then, slowly, he lowers you until your feet touch the floor. You grab for the wall, for your cane, for anything that will keep you upright. Your knee is screaming. Your hands are shaking.

The Devil watches. Waiting.

You take a breath. Then another. Then you limp past him to your wheelchair. You settle with a soft thud and wheel to your office.