who am I kidding?

it was approaching midnight as you were returning to your apartment from your long shift at work. the night breeze was cool against your face as the city lights illuminated your path.

your steps slowed when a rattle came from the alley just next to your building. a gurgling cough followed, and you couldn't stop yourself from looking, intrigued when you saw a pair of legs sticking out from behind the dumpster. you approached with caution and pepper spray, but lowered it immediately upon seeing how bloodied and beaten the stranger below you was.

you figured he was in his mid-to late thirties, built like a weapon. his face was torn to shreds, oozing with every wince he made. similarly, with each breath, he was wheezing slightly. his blue uniform, that covered his entire top half except for his eyes, was stained with blood in several areas. the worst was on his right side where he was clutching himself to stem the bleeding, gritting his teeth in pain.

you knew he was dying.

so you made the split-second decision to take him into your apartment. this was a complicated affair, granted that he was approximately double your size in terms of muscle mass, so getting him off of the ground was terrifically difficult. after bending his knees, much to his chagrin, and stepping on his boots to keep him balanced, you took the stranger's outstretched hand and hoisted him to his feet. he groaned, dribbling blood and spit from his lips as he leaned most of his weight on your much-smaller frame. you were beyond thankful you had started going back to the gym as a new years' resolution.

it was truly a miracle that you got him up to your apartment without falling. you had to go back down later with a rag and wipe up the trail of blood on the floor, though.

you took the bloodied, masked man into your bathroom, switching on the overhead light to see him more clearly. when you did, your breath hitched.

"hoping for daredevil?" he bristled, deeply uncomfortable beneath your scrutiny.

your brows narrowed, confused. "what? no."

your voice was like honey. he didn't quite know what to do with this. why were you helping him?

you opened the cabinet and pulled out an extensive first-aid kit, rolling up your sleeves. "alright, we need to get those cleaned and stitched up before you bleed the fuck out. will you let me help you?"

the stranger let out a laugh. "will i let you save my life?"

"consent's important," you replied. "gotta peel that," you gestured to his entire uniform, including the leather suit with the signature bullseye on his forehead, belts to store knives and guns, "off."

a beat passed and the electrical charge of the air changed.

"i have clothes that can fit you, don't worry."

dex wasn't sure if "worry" was exactly the correct term for what he was feeling. he let out a sharp exhale, and with his unoccupied hand, removed his mask.

"oh, hi," you introduced yourself sheepishly, blushing under his intense gaze. that, and the fact that he was incredibly handsome. it was then that you realized who he was, but it wasn't going to change what you were doing. he needed help now.

"hi," dex breathed, reading that you'd recognized him, dropping the mask to the ground, immobile.

you approached him the way you would a stray animal, hands raised. "may i?"

dex nodded, yet he still appeared apprehensive of you. you started with the belts, easing them off his torso. his hazel eyes tracked every one of your movements as you unclasped the hook at the top of his uniform and began to unzip it down his muscular back. you peeled the fabric forward gently, pulling it over his unfairly broad shoulders toward you. dex hissed at the pain, having caught on a wound you hadn't seen.

"shit, i'm so sorry, there's no easy way to do this—"

"'s okay."

resolve churned in your pretty eyes when you looked back up at him. tenacious. he liked it.

you continued, taking dex's gloves off his large hands before you stripped the fabric further down, revealing meaty biceps and a built, wounded chest. you'd admire him if he wasn't so caked in grime and blood.

your eyes landed on the gash in his side—to which he now held a cloth—widening in horror. "jesus christ."

your hands hovered a few inches away from his belt buckle. there was a wound on his left leg, you knew that much from his limping.

dex whispered your name and it felt intimate on his tongue. your lashes flicked up to him and he swore his heart stuttered, nodding. your hand was undoing his buckle and dex's head was spinning. he watched you religiously as you stripped his combat pants off, mindfully avoiding his wound. you'd made him kick off his boots as soon as he'd gotten into your apartment, so all he was left in were his black briefs as he loomed over you. maybe if he hadn't lost so much blood, he could've found it within himself to be embarrassed.

"need to clean you up," you said softly, gesturing to the first-aid supplies. dex agreed, not shocked when you were able to thread the needle with little-to-no difficulty. you reached for the 97% isopropyl alcohol first.

the giant gash had to be treated first, of course. you apologized sincerely for how terribly this whole ordeal was about to hurt him and dex thought that made you a good person. he slammed his hand into the wall, hissing through his teeth when you pressed the cloth soaked in alcohol against the wound. wiping the blood away from the edges of his flesh, you tried not to think about the length of the knife that could have done this.

dex clenched his torn fist as you pinched the sliced muscle together, previously-threaded needle piercing him with haste. he swore and grounded himself in the pain, teeth pulling his bottom lip between them harshly, certainly drawing more blood. he studied your beautiful face, so focused on saving his life with your furrowed brow.

the pull of the string through his skin was awful but necessary, the pain of it suddenly reminding him just how long it had been since someone had touched him like this. firm, but gracious. maybe never, he realized.

dex begins to fill with shame as his mind races. you pierce him again and he inhales sharply, giving you a quick nod to continue as he can feel himself hardening in his briefs. your warm fingers on his body feel foreign and heavenly. he's trembling when you finally finish the stitch, half-hard and strung out. you tidied your work, snipping off the excess string and wiping off any further blood.

you moved to the next incision near his left shoulder, gently washing his torso with a cloth as you did so. dex breathed heavy as he watched you through hooded eyes, aching with need. you repeated the same steps and dex lost himself in it, throbbing against the briefs that separated him from your thigh.

"fuck, i'm—," his throat was dry, so he swallowed thickly. it didn't help.

"you're…what?"

he wanted to cry.

"'m sorry." his hazel eyes darted down to his erection, guilty. "you're just..pretty."

"oh," you gasped, a stunning smile touching your lips. desire pooled low like lava in your abdomen, pussy soaking through your panties. grinning, you pressed a chaste kiss to his clean chest. "'s okay, honey. 's natural, it's okay."

he threw his head back and moaned wantonly, cock jumping. you finished your stitches quicker this time, cleaning him, before shifting to care for his bloodied face. the tenderness of your touch was intoxicating. dex found himself closing his eyes, slowly rocking his hips against you, sighing through his straight nose in contentment.

"ben?"

"mm?"

"gonna let me take care of that one on your leg too?"

dex groaned in response, nearly choking on air when he watched you sink to your knees in front of him. this was a simple bullet graze so you wasted no time in getting to work. you kept the same laser-focused intensity as last time, though now with a scorching heat in your cheeks under his scrutiny.

by the time you'd finished fixing dex's wounds with the proper gauze, he was whining your name, leaning on the counter for support to stand. you peered up at him from the floor, curious.

"please."

dex wasn't quite sure what he was begging for, but he could have wept in victory when you'd taken his hand and stood. something told him you knew exactly what he needed, so he followed you like the needle on a compass into your arms, into your bedroom, onto your bed, beneath you.

you giggled, planting a kiss on his lips. "'s okay, i got you. just gonna make you feel good, okay?"

he whined back into the kiss, nodding. you reached down and wrapped your delicate fingers around his girthy cock, feeling the weight of it in your hands. he twitched in your hold, moaning lowly as you began to jerk him off, squeezing his bulbous head, mixing the gathering pre-cum with your spit as lube. your cunt was sopping now, dripping your juices onto his thighs below.

you lined yourself up and sank down upon him, weeping into dex's mouth. you rocked your hips—you couldn't help it, you were just so needy. slowly, inch by inch, dex's thick length filled you, tip caressing the brim of you.

"f-fuck, baby," you whispered against his lips, and it had dex on fire. he was throbbing inside you, walls gripping him within an inch of his life as you gently began riding him.

dex had to think about some pretty sick shit to not cum right then and there.

after a whorish roll of your hips, dex whined. "fuck, i like that."

"yeah?" you did it again. "feels good, honey?"

he swallowed thickly, nodding uncontrollably. you leaned in, meeting his lips in a searing kiss. your fingernails left moon-shaped crescents in the slabs of his pecs, gripping him firm while you bounced up and down on his cock. dex hit deep inside you, stretching your gummy walls deliciously.

"wanna hear you, dex," you mumbled against him, moaning freely as you threw your head back. his hips' pace stuttered, slowing his movements inside you lest he finish too early.

dex planted hands the size of baseball gloves on your thighs and slowly fucked you on his cock. the new position added perfect pressure to your clit. a desperate moan fell from dex's pink, puffy lips, as he blinked up at you, dazed.

"'s warm," he groaned.

you nodded, letting out an "mhm".

dex choked on a breath, eyes flickering to where your bodies joined, wet and aching. "fuck. need this pussy, sweetheart. 's all mine, right?"

a grin lit up your radiant face. "make it yours, then."

dex chuckled for the first time in what felt like forever, in genuine joy. you kept your sinful pace, gliding up and down on his length as the tension in your core was building. he captured your lips between his in a bruising kiss as you matched each others' pace and swallowed each others' moans.

he must have read the pattern in your breathing, because dex relentlessly, steadily fucked you while you ground your sensitive clit on him.

"'m close, fuck," you whimpered.

"yeah?"

you nodded pathetically, nearly in tears from the stimulation.

"yeah, honey?" dex's voice shook as he spoke. "gonna cum all over me?"

your cheeks flamed in humiliation and a sob escaped your lips. but you couldn't stop riding him — not when it felt this good.

he barked a laugh when you nodded again. his right hand came up to rest against your cheek and you covered it with your own, interlacing your fingers.

"shit, 'm cumming, baby," you breathed.

you cried out, falling against dex's shoulder and sinking your teeth into the muscle there, avoiding any injuries. he gasped, cock twitching inside you. the pain was so erotic, dex had a hard time controlling his groans. a new wave of wetness as your cum gushed around his cock.

"mm, me too, pretty girl."

dex saw stars. he pulsed inside you, veins dragging against your sinewy walls, eyes rolling back and closing tight. his hot cum filled your perfect cunt, the excess dripping down your velvety thighs whenever dex thrusted again.

as your gasps and sighs slowed, you settled into dex's relaxing form, tucking your head under his chin as you lay on his chest. you inhaled deeply. he smelled of sweat, rain, gun oil, and a bit of fabric softener. by tracing nonsense patterns on his scarred skin, you were unknowingly putting dex's thoughts to rest and lulling him to sleep.

within minutes, he was out like a light, his arm a dead weight around your waist, snuggling you to him. with not much else to do, you smiled, planted a goodnight kiss to his chest, and readjusted to comfortably rest on his warm, large body.

you'd bathe him clean in the morning.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

a/n: hey again sexies! (dexies?) this took entirely tew long to write, but i was...como se dice "motivated" by those new ddba stils....so here we are. need this man so bad it's getting to be something insane. wow.

pls lmk your thoughts! and as always, asks and requests r opennn! :)

xoxo, b

Mint green.

 The dress. 

For a moment, everything else in the room blurs at the edges—the open safe, the low voices behind you.

Your fingers tighten around the fabric.

It’s lighter than you remember.

Too light for this weather. Too thin for outside. You’d thought that the moment you first held it—how it wasn’t meant for streets or wind or cold. Not really.

Not beyond these walls.

At least he got the color right.

Mint green.

You pull it free.

The fabric shifts softly in your hands, and just like that—

you’re somewhere else.

Not here.

Not this room.

Tile.

Cool, pale mint tile lining a wall, glossy under dim yellow light. You remember standing small in a room that smelled faintly of perfume and powder. Your mother in front of a mirror, fixing her lipstick, the soft click of the tube, the careful drag of color across her mouth.

Jazz drifting in from somewhere distant—muffled through walls, through laughter that didn’t belong to you.

You remember staring at the tiles.

Not her.

Not the people outside.

Just the color.

How it caught the light.

How it felt… calm.

Your grip on the dress tightens without you noticing.

The present slips for a second longer than it should.

Then—

voices.

Low.

Urgent.

Real.

They cut through the memory cleanly.

You blink.

The room snaps back into place.

The safe.

The men.

The clock ticking somewhere you can’t see.

You exhale—quiet, almost soundless—and quickly fold the dress. The movement is sharper now. Controlled. You push it into your bag without ceremony, without letting yourself linger.

Your gaze lifts again—

and catches.

On the jacket.

Brown leather.

Hanging where it always is.

Worn into itself with time.

Your fingers reach out before you fully think about it, brushing lightly over the surface.

The texture catches immediately beneath your skin.

Rough.

Not polished. Not preserved carefully the way expensive things usually are. The leather is softened in places from years of wear, creased deep along the sleeves and shoulders, cracked faintly near the cuffs. Sun-faded across the top where light must have hit it over and over again.

Used.

Lived in.

Real in a way almost nothing else in this apartment feels.

Your hand lingers there.

And you remember asking about it once.

One of the quieter afternoons.

No tension. No careful probing. No fear sitting between the two of you like a third person in the room.

Just curiosity.

Dex had been sitting in the living room, cleaning one of his guns while you folded laundry beside him. You remembered noticing the jacket draped over the back of the chair and asking why he kept wearing that one when he owned newer coats.

At first, he hadn’t answered.

Not because he was hiding anything.

Just thinking.

Then he said, flatly, “I got it when I was in Virginia.”

Military training.

Eighteen. Nineteen. Somewhere around there.

He told you about Friday nights sometimes.

How a few of the men from his bunk would sneak off base and disappear into small roadside bars outside town. Dusty places with warped floors and old yellow lightbulbs hanging overhead.

“The lights were dim,” he had said quietly, eyes still fixed on the gun in his hands. “Not dark. Just… not bright enough to see the corners properly.”

You remembered smiling faintly at that description.

Because of course that was what he noticed.

Not the music.

Not the drinking.

Not the girls.

The corners.

“The other guys liked it there,” he continued. “Girls. Noise. Beer.”

A pause.

“I mostly watched.”

And you believed him immediately.

You could picture it too easily.

Young Dex sitting in the corner booth half-hidden in yellow light, silently studying people while everyone else laughed too loud around him.

Watching the way people leaned into conversations. The way drunk men exaggerated confidence. The way women smiled when they wanted something. The way groups formed and dissolved naturally without effort.

Observing.

Learning.

Trying to understand something everyone else seemed born already knowing.

Dex had told you he liked watching people interact.

Not because he enjoyed being with them.

Because he liked figuring them out.

“The older guys used to wear jackets like this,” he said eventually, glancing toward the leather coat. “Biker types. Veterans.”

His fingers had paused briefly against the gun.

“They looked bigger in them.”

Stronger.

Confident in that careless sort of way some men carried naturally.

The kind of confidence that entered a room before they did.

“So I bought one.”

Simple as that.

You remembered looking over at him then.

“And did it work?”

Dex had gone quiet for a moment.

Thinking seriously about the answer.

Not performing one.

“No.”

Plain. Certain.

No embarrassment attached to it. No shame.

Just honesty.

Then, after a beat:

“But I liked the jacket.”

Your thumb presses lightly now into one of the worn cracks near the sleeve.

You can almost see him at nineteen standing in front of some scratched motel mirror trying the jacket on for the first time, hoping maybe confidence was something a person could wear into themselves.

Trying to become bigger than whatever hollow thing followed him everywhere.

Your fingers curl slightly around the leather.

And you think—

you like the jacket too.

More than anything else here.

You pull it off the hanger.

The weight settles over your shoulders as you slip it on. Heavier than the dress. Warmer. The lining cool at first, then slowly adjusting to your skin.

It smells faintly of him.

Not strong.

Just enough.

For a second—

just a second—

you let yourself feel it.

The weight.

The familiarity.

The illusion of something steadier than what this is.

Then the voices rise again behind you—sharper this time, words you can’t quite catch but urgency you can.

And the moment breaks.

Clean.

You adjust the jacket once, grounding yourself in the movement.

Then your gaze finally lands half open safely.

Half-shadowed.

Waiting.

Inside—

the guns.

Lined up.

Cold.

Still.

Your eyes fix on them.

You hesitate.

Would you need it?

Across the room, the two men are talking—low voices, urgent, already planning the next move. Focused on each other. On what comes next.

Not on you.

Would you need it?

The question lingers.

Unanswered.

Dex isn’t supposed to still be here.

The office has already thinned out—lights dimmed in sections, voices quieter, the end-of-day lull settling in—but someone dropped a file on his desk ten minutes before he could leave, and now it sits open in front of him like a deliberate inconvenience.

He stares at it.

Doesn’t read.

His jaw tightens.

He’d said he would bring something back tonight.

Cake.

Nothing complicated—just something small, something right. He’d pictured it already: the way you’d look up when he walked in, the shift in your expression, the way it would land.

Predictable.

Good.

Now—

delayed.

His fingers tap once against the desk. Stop. Start again.

Irritation builds fast in him, sharp and directionless.

He exhales through his nose and reaches for his phone.

Just a glance.

A habit now.

The camera app opens without him needing to think about it. A flick of his thumb, a practiced motion—

The feed loads.

For a second, it doesn’t register.

The shapes are wrong.

Too many.

Movement where there shouldn’t be.

His eyes narrow—

and then it clicks.

He freezes.

There are people in the apartment.

Not shadows.

Not a trick of light.

People.

Nadeem.

Recognition hits first—immediate, unmistakable.

And—

someone else.

Masked.

Dex’s body goes still in a way that looks like control but isn’t.

His gaze sharpens, scanning the frame with sudden, violent precision.

Where—

There.

You.

On the floor.

Nadeem crouched in front of you, something in his hands—metal—striking, again, again—

Your ankle.

The chain.

The safe—

open.

Wide open.

Something in Dex’s chest tightens too fast to name.

His breath stutters, then comes back harder.

Louder.

The office around him dulls instantly, sound dropping away like someone cut the volume out of the world.

There’s a high, thin buzz in its place.

Building.

His grip tightens around the phone, knuckles whitening.

He watches another second—one more hit, one more movement, the masked man shifting near the closet—

Close to you.

Too close.

Dex stands up so abruptly his chair skids back against the floor.

The sound turns heads.

He doesn’t notice.

Doesn’t look.

Doesn’t explain.

The phone stays in his hand, the image burned into him now, replaying faster than the screen can keep up.

Men.

In his apartment.

Touching what’s his.

The safe open.

You—

leaving.

The thought hits wrong.

Not fully formed.

Just impact.

His breathing turns uneven, sharper at the edges. The buzz in his head spikes, louder now, almost drowning everything else out.

No.

No.

No.

He moves.

Fast.

Out of the office, past desks, past people who call his name—voices he doesn’t hear, faces he doesn’t see.

The hallway stretches, compresses, disappears beneath him.

There is only one point now.

One direction.

Home.

The sound of metal being hammered echoes too loudly in the room.

Nadeem draws back, breath already uneven, and brings the hammer down again against the chain wrapped tight around your ankle. The impact jolts through your leg, up your spine. You grip the length he told you to hold with the pliers, fingers shaking, trying to keep it steady.

“God—” he exhales under his breath, frustration bleeding through. “This thing is solid.”

Another hit. Sparks don’t fly, but it feels like they should.

Across the room, the masked man—already moving, already searching—has gone quiet.

Not the quiet of thinking.

The quiet of listening.

His head tilts slightly, just enough that you notice it even through the blur of everything else.

Then—

he stills.

“—he’s here.”

The words don’t rise. They drop.

Heavy.

Certain.

Your body goes cold.

Nadeem freezes mid-motion. “Wait—what?”

No answer.

The masked man is already moving, fast—crossing the room, reaching the window, glancing out only long enough to confirm something you can’t see.

“Front door,” he says. “He’s coming up.”

The hallway.

The hallway.

Your stomach drops.

Nadeem swears under his breath, panic threading into it now. “We can’t leave her like this—he’ll know—”

“We’re not leaving her.”

The masked man’s voice cuts through, sharp, decisive.

He gestures—quick, precise—toward Nadeem’s holster.

For a second, Nadeem just stares at him.

Then—“You’ve got to be kidding me—”

“Do it.”

There isn’t time to argue.

Not really.

Nadeem sucks in a breath, looks at you—just for a second—and something apologetic flickers there.

“Cover your ears.”

You don’t even have time to react.

The gunshot explodes through the room.

It’s louder than anything you’ve ever heard—too loud, too close—the sound slamming into you, tearing through your skull, leaving nothing but a high, piercing ring in its wake.

The chain jerks violently against your ankle.

It doesn’t snap.

But it cracks.

A jagged fracture splitting through the metal where the bullet struck.

“Hold still—hold still—” Nadeem mutters, already dropping the gun, grabbing the weakened chain with both hands.

He yanks.

Once—

twice—

The metal gives with a harsh, tearing sound.

It breaks.

Your breath catches—but you barely feel it, barely register it, because everything is moving now.

Too fast.

“Go.”

Nadeem’s hand clamps around your arm—not gentle, not careful—just firm enough to move you.

You stumble as he pulls you up, your body lagging behind your mind, ears still ringing, balance off, vision unfocused.

The masked man is already at the window, pushing it open.

Cold air floods in.

“Move,” he snaps.

You don’t remember deciding to climb.

You don’t remember how your hands find the frame, how your foot clears the ledge, how your body follows.

Only that suddenly—

you’re outside.

Metal under your palms.

Cold biting into your skin.

The fire escape rattles under the weight of all of you, the city air sharp and loud and wrong after the suffocating quiet of the apartment.

Behind you—

the front door slams open.

You don’t see it.

But you hear it.

That sound—

final.

He’s here.

“Go, go—” Nadeem urges, half pulling, half guiding you up the narrow steps, your legs barely keeping pace, your thoughts scattered and lagging behind your body.

Then—

something whistles through the air.

Fast.

Sharp.

It slams into the railing beside you with a violent crack.

Glass shatters outward.

You flinch hard, a sound ripping out of your throat before you can stop it, instinct folding you inward as fragments scatter across the metal grating.

Another one—

strikes just past Nadeem’s shoulder.

Too close.

Too precise.

Not random.

Aimed.

“Keep moving!” Nadeem shouts, pushing you forward.

You don’t look back.

You don’t want to.

But you feel it—

the intent behind it.

Not at you.

Around you.

Like something is being redirected.

Like you’re the reason it isn’t hitting.

Your chest tightens.

They reach the window above.

The masked man forces it open with practiced ease.

“Inside.”

Nadeem doesn’t wait for you to comply—he lifts, shoves, pushes you forward through the opening.

You stumble into the room beyond.

Carpet under your feet this time.

A bed.

A stranger’s space.

Wrong.

All of it wrong.

You turn just as Nadeem climbs in after you, slamming the window shut behind him.

For a second—

there’s silence.

Just your breathing.

Too loud.

Too fast.

The ringing in your ears.

The world trying to settle.

The masked man steps back from the window, head angled slightly, listening again.

“Front exit,” he says to Nadeem, already moving toward the door. “You take her. Get her to a station.”

“And you?”

“Roof.”

Nadeem hesitates—just a fraction—

Then—

gunfire rips through the room.

The window behind you explodes inward.

Glass sprays across the floor, across the bed, across you.

Nadeem grabs you instantly, dragging you down with him.

“Down—!”

You hit the floor hard, the air knocked from your lungs as his body shields yours.

Pain flares at your ankle, your shoulder—everywhere at once.

Another shot—

closer—

louder.

You hear it this time even through the ringing.

Nadeem grunts.

Something wet hits your hand.

You look down.

Blood.

“—you’re shot,” you choke out, your voice barely working as your hands press instinctively against his side, trying to stop it, trying to do something.

“I’m fine,” he grits out, though his face tightens, breath uneven. “I’m fine.”

The masked man is already gone from the open space—pressed into the side of the closet, using the wall as cover, head tilted, tracking something you can’t see.

“Across the street?” Nadeem mutters through clenched teeth.

A beat.

“No,” the masked man says.

Quiet.

Certain.

“It’s from down stairs.”

The words land like a verdict.

Your stomach drops.

Dex. The masked man’s head turns slightly—toward you.

Not your face.

Your position.

Your proximity.

He calculates.

You don’t understand how you know that.

But you do.

“Use her as a shield," he says.

Nadeem stares at him. “Are you out of your mind?”

“He won’t shoot her.”

“How would you know that?”

“Because he hasn’t.”

There’s no hesitation in it.

No doubt.

Just fact.

“Trust me.”

You shake your head immediately.

“No—no—”

Your voice comes out small. Thin. Panicked.

You don’t believe that.

You don’t believe him.

Nadeem looks at you.

Really looks this time.

And for a second—you think he might refuse.

But then—

his jaw tightens.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

And he moves.

His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you up, turning you so your back presses against his chest.

You try to pull away—instinct, panic—but his grip is firm, steady, holding you in place.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, low, urgent. “Just—stay with me.”

He guides you forward.

Step by step.

Toward the bedroom door.

Your feet move because they have to.

Because he’s moving you.

Because stopping isn’t an option.

Your eyes lift—

toward the shattered window.

Toward what’s beyond.

You don’t know where he is.

You don’t know if he can see you.

But you feel it anyway—

like a line drawn between you.

Taut.

Unbroken.

And as you take another step forward—

your breath catching, your body trembling—

one thought loops, over and over, louder than the ringing in your ears.

Please.

Please don’t shoot.

Just a floor below, Dex steadies himself against the ledge, breath coming too fast, too sharp. The window opposite to his building becomes his mirror. Through it, he tracks the lit room upstairs. Angles. Distance. Refraction. He adjusts without thinking, the math running clean even while everything else in him fractures.

His jaw tightens. Teeth press into the inside of his cheek until it almost hurts.

They’ve got her.

The thought doesn’t arrive fully formed—it hits, over and over, a blunt repetition that crowds out everything else.

Her.

Not the tapes. Not the safe. Not Fisk.

Her.

He could burn every file, vanish every trace, let the whole operation rot if it meant keeping her exactly where she belonged—inside, safe, contained, his. The rest is noise.

But now—

His breathing stutters, uneven. He forces it down, tries to flatten it, but it keeps catching in his chest, hitching on the memory of her scream—sharp, startled—the way the glass shattered inches from her. Too close. Too close.

His fingers tighten on the grip.

He’d angled it. Calculated the deflection. A clean ricochet past Nadeem’s shoulder, past the masked man—Daredevil—forcing them to move, to expose—

—but she’d been there.

Closer than expected.

He swears under his breath, a low, bitten thing.

He didn’t hit her. He knows he didn’t. He would know.

Still—

the image lingers. The possibility.

It claws.

He inhales sharply, steadies the line again. Through the scope, the room is momentarily empty—no clear target. They’ve dropped low. Smart. Predictable.

A flicker of movement.

Shadow.

Dex shifts, abandoning the scope for the handgun—closer angle, faster response. His posture tightens, focus narrowing into a single, razor line.

Then—

he sees her.

First.

Always her.

You’re pulled upright into frame, half-stumbling, breath uneven, fear written across every line of you. For a split second something in his chest stutters—halts—like the world misfires around that single image.

You look—

wrong.

Too far.

Too frightened.

And then he sees it—

the arm around your shoulders.

Nadeem.

Dex’s expression hardens, something sharp and immediate slicing through the noise.

Using her as a shield.

Of course he is.

Smart.

Cowardly.

Dex’s jaw tightens.

The line is there.

It always is.

Angle.

Distance.

Wind.

Movement.

Obstruction.

He calculates automatically, instinctively, the way other people breathe without thinking about it. Your body blocks most of Nadeem’s center mass, but not entirely. There’s enough visible. A shoulder. Part of the neck. A narrow opening beneath your arm.

A shot exists.

There is always a shot.

His finger settles against the trigger.

The buzzing in his head sharpens into focus.

One bullet.

That’s all.

Nadeem drops first.

And if the round passes through you—

His breathing catches once.

No.

Not ideal.

But workable.

Necessary.

Pragmatic.

If you die here, then everything stops here too.

No witness.

No testimony.

No courtroom.

No Fisk complications.

No exposure.

The FBI keeps believing what Fisk wants them to believe. Dex goes back to work. Back to structure. Back to rules and schedules and clear expectations. Fisk remains pleased with him. Reward follows performance. Order restores itself.

Simple.

Clean.

His finger begins to tighten.

He has made harder shots.

Crueler ones.

He has killed people for less.

The scope stays perfectly still.

But something underneath it—

something inside him—

doesn’t.

Because then he sees your face clearly.

Not just your body.

You.

Your panic is obvious even from this distance. Your mouth trembling around uneven breaths. Your eyes darting frantically toward the dark street like prey searching for where the predator waits.

Alive.

Warm.

Real.

And suddenly his mind betrays him.

Not with doubt—

with memory.

Your laughter filling the apartment while music played too loudly through the radio.

Your fingers combing through his hair half-asleep.

The feeling of your body curling instinctively toward his in bed.

His star.

His.

The pressure in his finger falters.

Because if he pulls the trigger now—

if the bullet tears through both of you—

then all of that disappears with you.

Gone.

Not temporarily.

Forever.

No more mornings with sunlight caught in your hair.

No more quiet afternoons.

No more warmth beside him in bed.

No more you looking at him like there was still something human left worth trying to save.

The realization hits harder than he expects.

Hard enough to hurt.

His jaw clenches violently.

This is wrong.

Objectively wrong.

Emotion interfering with function.

Attachment disrupting judgment.

He knows that.

He knows it with terrifying clarity.

And still—

he cannot make his hand move.

Your eyes lift suddenly.

Toward the window.

Toward him.

And for one impossible second, it feels like you’re looking directly through the scope and into him.

Your lips part.

A tiny movement.

Barely there.

But Dex reads it anyway.

The same way he reads trajectories.

The same way he reads weakness.

Please.

Or maybe—

Don’t.

His breath catches sharply.

The trigger stops beneath his finger.

Not because the shot disappeared.

Because his will to take it did.

Yet his grip tightens again, reflexively, trying to force the shot back into place—

but the moment is gone.

Nadeem moves.

Dragging you backward.

Out of the line.

Out of the frame.

Out of his sight.

Dex doesn’t fire.

He can’t.

The doorway swallows you.

Empty.

Gone.

For a second, he just stands there, gun still raised, staring into the absence like it might correct itself if he waits long enough.

It doesn’t.

“—fuck.”

The word tears out of him, raw, stripped of control, echoing sharp against the concrete.

His arm drops, then lifts again uselessly, like he might still salvage something from nothing.

They took her.

The thought returns, louder now, angrier.

Took her.

Not saved.

Not rescued.

Took.

His breathing turns jagged again, chest rising too fast, too shallow. His focus fractures and then snaps back into something harder—colder.

Directed.

Daredevil.

Of course.

This is his doing.

This interference. This disruption. This—

theft.

Dex’s jaw sets, eyes narrowing as he tracks the building, recalculating, reorienting, already moving past the moment even as it still burns under his skin.

Someone doesn’t get to take what’s his—

and walk away from it.

Not without consequence.

He exhales once, sharp and controlled this time.

Then moves.

Because this isn’t over.

Not even close.

You and Nadeem don’t make it far down the stairs before the sound hits—

boots.

Heavy. Fast. Coming up.

Nadeem hears it first. You feel it in the way his body tightens against yours, the sudden alertness cutting through the haze of pain.

“—wait.”

His hand catches your arm again, sharper this time, pulling you off course.

Before you can ask—

he’s dragging you sideways, into the narrow recess beneath the stairwell. A shallow pocket of shadow where the concrete juts just enough to hide two bodies if they don’t breathe too loud.

You barely have time to steady yourself before he presses you back—

close.

Too close.

His chest against yours.

His arm braced above your shoulder to keep his weight from collapsing fully into you.

“Stay still,” he breathes.

You do.

You don’t think you could move if you tried.

The footsteps grow louder—closer—echoing up the stairwell in sharp, overlapping bursts. Voices follow. Urgent. Coordinated. Police.

You shrink instinctively, your back flattening against the cold wall, your breath caught somewhere too high in your chest.

Nadeem’s heart is racing.

You can feel it through him—fast, uneven, pounding hard enough it almost feels like it’s inside your own ribcage. His breathing isn’t much better. Each inhale shallow. Controlled. Forced.

There’s a smell, too.

Metallic.

Thick.

Your eyes drop—

and you see it.

Blood.

Darkening your shirt where it’s soaked through from his side. Spreading slowly, unevenly, the fabric clinging where it’s wet.

Your stomach tightens.

You look back up at him.

His face is drawn tight, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut for just a second too long as another wave of pain hits.

He exhales—shaky this time. It slips out before he can stop it.

The footsteps pass.

One set. Then another. Then more.

No one looks your way.

No one sees you.

It takes longer than it should for the sound to fade. Every second stretched thin with the fear that someone will turn. That someone will stop.

They don’t.

Eventually—

silence returns.

Not quiet. Not really.

But empty enough.

Nadeem’s arm falters slightly where it braces against the wall.

You catch it.

“Here—” your voice comes out softer than you expect, but steadier. “Take—take my shoulder.”

He shakes his head immediately. “No, I’m— I’m fine.”

You don’t let him.

“No,” you insist, quieter but firmer now. “Please. I can’t—just—please.”

There’s no time to argue.

And maybe he knows that.

Or maybe he just can’t hold himself up much longer.

Either way—

he relents.

Slowly.

Carefully.

You guide his arm over your shoulder, adjusting your stance so you can take some of his weight. He leans into it just enough to stay upright, his breath hitching as he shifts.

“Okay,” he mutters. “Okay.”

Together, you step out from the shadow.

The stairwell feels different now—too open, too exposed—but you don’t stop.

Down one step.

Then another.

Each movement is slower than it should be. Measured. Careful. You can feel how much effort it takes him just to keep pace, his weight heavier with every step, his grip tightening reflexively when the pain spikes.

You don’t say anything.

You just keep moving.

Down.

Down.

Until—

finally—

the door.

You push through it together.

The cold hits immediately.

Sharp. Biting. The kind of cold that fills your lungs too fast and makes everything feel too real all at once.

The street is quieter than it should be. Wind cutting through the space between buildings, carrying distant noise that doesn’t reach you fully.

You adjust your grip on him.

“Did you—did you bring a car?” you ask, breath visible in the air.

“Yeah,” he manages, already fumbling at his pocket.

His hands shake as he pulls out the keys, lifting them just enough to point.

“There—gray—Nissan.”

You follow the direction, spotting it across the street.

It feels too far.

You don’t say that.

You just move.

Half-walking, half-dragging him across the pavement, your arm tight around his waist now as his weight leans heavier into you. His steps falter more than once, catching unevenly, but you don’t let him fall.

“Almost there,” you murmur, more for yourself than him.

You reach the car.

You get the door open.

Getting him inside is harder.

You have to guide him down, steady him as he lowers into the passenger seat, his breath breaking on the movement.

Then you’re around the other side—hands shaking now, heart still racing—as you climb into the driver’s seat and slam the door shut.

For a second—

you both just sit there.

Breathing.

Too loud.

Too fast.

Then you move.

Key in. Turn.

The engine stutters—then catches.

“We have to go to the hospital,” you say immediately, already gripping the wheel, eyes flicking toward him. “You’re bleeding too much—”

“No.”

The word is rough, but immediate.

You turn to him.

He’s already shaking his head, one hand pressing hard against his side.

“No—we go to the station.”

“What? No, you—”

“You need to be processed,” he cuts in, voice tightening through the pain. “Witness protection. We get you in, we get you secured—Fisk can’t reach you there. Dex can’t reach you there.”

That stops you.

Just enough.

Because it’s true.

You know it is.

He sees it in your face.

Presses on.

“You’re safer there than anywhere else right now.”

Your grip tightens on the wheel.

Your eyes drop—just for a second.

Then you ask it.

Quietly.

“…do I have to testify?”

Nadeem exhales slowly, like he already knows what that question means.

“Yes,” he says. Not unkind. Not hesitant. Just honest. “You’re a direct witness. You might be the only one who can tie him to this.”

Your throat tightens.

“He’ll be in custody,” Nadeem adds, softer now, trying to reassure you. “You’ll be protected. You won’t be alone up there.”

But that’s not what you’re thinking about.

Not really.

You see it anyway.

Clearer than anything else.

A courtroom.

Dex in restraints.

Hands cuffed.

Orange against pale skin.

His eyes—

on you.

Not blank.

Not distant.

Something sharper.

Something worse.

You don’t know which would be harder to face.

Anger.

Or—

something like hurt.

Your fingers press tighter into the steering wheel.

You don’t answer.

Because you don’t know how to.

Because you already know—

you won’t be able to stand there and take it.

Not from him.

Not like that.

The engine hums under your hands.

The road stretches ahead.

And for the first time since you got out—

you hesitate.

The station comes into view almost too suddenly.

You don’t remember the last few turns. The traffic lights. The roads between.

Just—

this.

Fluorescent light spilling out onto the street. The low, constant hum of voices and movement behind glass doors. Safety, in its most official form.

You pull the car up too fast, braking harder than you mean to. The engine idles, uneven beneath your hands.

For a moment, you don’t move.

Then you turn.

Nadeem looks worse.

Paler than before—skin drawn tight, lips losing color, his head tipped slightly back against the seat like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His hand is still pressed to his side, but the pressure’s slipping. You can see it in the way his fingers tremble.

“Hey,” you say, quieter now. Careful. “We’re here.”

His eyes open—slow, unfocused at first—then settle on you.

Relief flickers there.

Faint. Fragile.

“I’ll go get them,” you tell him. “Okay? I’ll—just stay here. I’ll get help.”

He nods.

Barely.

“Go,” he mutters, jaw tightening as another wave of pain hits. “Go.”

You hesitate—just for a second.

Then you push the door open and step out.

The cold hits again, sharper this time, cutting straight through the adrenaline that’s been carrying you this far. The station doors feel farther away than they should.

You take a step.

Then another.

Your heartbeat is still too fast. Your hands still shaking.

Inside—

there will be questions.

Statements.

Names.

His name.

Your grip tightens slightly at your sides.

You keep walking.

By the time the officers come out, it’s fast. Too fast for how slow everything else suddenly feels.

Three of them.

Moving with purpose, voices already raised—

“Sir, can you hear me?”

“Stay with us—don’t move.”

“Let’s get him out—easy—easy—”

They crowd the passenger side, pulling the door open, hands steady but urgent as they assess the damage. Blood. Too much of it.

“You’re safe now,” one of them says firmly, already reaching for Nadeem’s arm. “We’ve got you.”

Nadeem tries to focus.

The world around him tilts, blurs at the edges.

But something pushes through it.

Sharp.

Immediate.

“The girl—” His voice comes out strained, uneven. “Where’s—the girl?”

The officers pause—just enough to glance at each other.

“What girl?” one asks, distracted, still working to keep him conscious.

“The one—she—” Nadeem swallows hard, fighting to stay present. “She called—she was just—”

His eyes drag toward the driver’s side.

Empty.

The space where you were.

Gone.

The officers follow his gaze, looking around the street, scanning the immediate area.

There’s no one.

“…Sir,” one of them says carefully, confusion creeping in. “There’s no one here.”

“No—no, she was—” Nadeem tries to push himself up, a sharp breath tearing out of him as pain flares through his side. His hand slips, pressing harder instinctively.

“She was just here,” another officer mutters, stepping back slightly, checking the perimeter. “Did she go inside?”

“Why is she important?” a third asks, glancing back at him.

Nadeem tries to answer.

He tries to explain—

but the words don’t come out right. They tangle, break apart, lost somewhere between pain and exhaustion and the sheer effort it takes to stay conscious.

“She—she’s—” His voice falters.

Critical.

Key.

Evidence.

He knows what she is to the case.

But that’s not the word sitting at the front of his mind.

Not the one that matters.

“She—” he tries again, weaker now.

Nothing.

His strength gives out before the sentence does.

“Alright, that’s enough,” one of the officers says, firm but not unkind. “We’ve got you. Let’s move.”

They don’t wait for more.

Carefully, they start pulling him from the car, one arm slung over a shoulder, another steadying his weight. He doesn’t fight it—not really.

He can’t.

His head turns once more toward the street.

Searching.

Even as his vision dims at the edges.

Nothing.

No sign of you.

“—no…” he breathes, barely audible now.

But the moment passes.

And then he’s moving.

Inside the station.

Carried forward by hands that don’t know what just slipped through them—

and how much it matters.

Cold air cuts across your face like something alive.

It stings your eyes, dries your lips, steals the breath from your chest faster than you can pull it back in. Everything around you is motion—lights smearing into long streaks, passing cars dissolving into noise, footsteps that don’t feel like your own hitting pavement again and again and again.

You’re running.

You don’t remember when you started.

Only that you didn’t stop.

Your feet ache—bare against the rough concrete, each step a sharp, grounding pain that barely registers over the rest. Your lungs burn. Your throat feels raw, like you’ve been breathing through something too thin to hold you together.

Still—

you run.

Past corners you don’t see. Past people who blur into shapes. Past the station. Past the place that was supposed to be safe.

Your body keeps moving long after your mind stops keeping track of why.

Until—

you can’t.

Your legs falter.

You turn—too quickly, too blindly—into the first narrow space you find.

An alley.

Dark. Close. Quiet in a way the street wasn’t.

You stumble to the wall and press your back against it, your body folding in on itself as your breath comes in sharp, broken pulls. Your hands brace against your thighs, then slide up, gripping your arms like you need something to hold you in place.

You can’t—

you can’t breathe right.

Your chest rises too fast, falls too shallow.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

You can’t face him.

The thought comes through everything else—clearer than the noise, sharper than the cold.

You can’t face Dex.

Not after this.

Not after leaving.

Not after running.

Your stomach twists, something heavy and sick curling low and deep.

You don’t want to think about what his face would look like.

What his eyes would be.

Anger.

Or worse—

something quieter.

You shake your head, like you can push it out.

“I can’t,” you whisper, breath hitching. “I can’t…”

Your voice sounds small. Lost in the space around you.

You slide down the wall slightly, your back dragging against rough brick until your knees bend just enough to take some of your weight. Your fingers dig into your sleeves, trying to find warmth that isn’t there.

You don’t want any of it.

Not the police.

Not the station.

Not the questions.

Not the courtroom.

Not justice.

The word feels distant. Hollow.

Like it belongs to someone else.

You don’t care about any of that.

You don’t care about proving anything.

About fixing anything.

About bringing anything down.

You just—

want to feel safe.

The thought hits harder than anything else.

Simple.

Almost childish.

Safe.

Your throat tightens.

Home.

The word comes quieter.

Softer.

You want to go home.

Not that apartment.

Not that place.

Home.

Your dad’s voice flickers somewhere in your memory—faint, warm, steady in a way nothing else has been.

The smell of food.

Green pasta.

Too much garlic, the way he always made it.

You swallow hard, your vision blurring again—but not from the cold this time.

“I want to go home,” you whisper, barely audible.

Your hands press harder against your arms, like you can hold yourself together long enough to make it real.

Then—

a thought cuts through.

Sharp.

Sudden.

State hospital.

Your eyes open.

He’s there.

He should be there.

Injured. But alive.

They said alive.

Your breath stutters—but steadies, just a little.

That’s where you go.

That’s—

home, for now.

You push yourself off the wall, your legs unsteady but moving.

“I’m going home,” you murmur, more certain this time. “I need to go home.”

The alley doesn’t answer.

The cold doesn’t ease.

But you step forward anyway.

And this time—

you know where you’re going.

AN: Funfact Nadeem is actually my 3rd favorite character from S3 of daredevil. First is kingpin, second is Dex and third is Ray Nadeem. If you question my sanity for placing Kingpin as my favorite, you are right to do so. He pulls the best laugh out of me while I was watching S3. When I was a boy...I was 12.

Your hands tremble slightly where they rest in your lap.

He was a child.

A child.

And in his voice there was—

nothing.

No guilt. No hesitation. No confusion.

Just… clarity.

Like he wasn’t confessing.

Like he was explaining something simple. Something practical. Something that had worked exactly the way it was supposed to.

Your fingers curl faintly against your knees.

You try to place it—try to make it fit into something you understand. A mistake. A moment. A child not knowing better.

But it doesn’t feel like that.

It doesn’t feel like anything went wrong in the moment.

It feels like something was already… missing.

And that thought—

that’s what unsettles you.

Not him.

Not fully.

The absence.

You swallow, your throat tight.

Because beneath the horrors of what he said, there’s something else, quieter, more difficult to face.

He was a child.

Where was anyone?

Where was someone to stop it— to correct it— to hold it before it became this?

Your brows knit slightly.

A question forms without permission.

If someone had loved him differently—

enough—

would this have… changed?

Then—

a noise.

Faint.

Metal against metal.

You freeze.

It comes again.

Not from inside the apartment.

Outside.

The fire escape.

Your head snaps toward the window, breath catching somewhere high in your chest. The sound is unmistakable now—the subtle rattle of weight shifting against iron, a measured climb, deliberate and familiar in a way that makes your stomach drop.

He’s back.

You move.

Everything happens at once.

The headphones are yanked off completely, tossed aside without care. Your fingers fumble with the cassette player, but you don’t even think to stop or eject the tape this time—you just grab the entire thing, tape still spinning inside, and shove it straight back into the shoebox.

The plastic cases clatter softly as you force them down, stacking them unevenly, the neat order ruined in seconds.

“Shit—”

Your voice barely leaves your throat.

The shoebox goes back into the safe, pushed too far, hitting the back wall with a dull thud. Your hands shake as you reach for the next thing—your bag.

Still sitting there.

Open.

Too visible.

You grab it, zip it halfway—no time—and cram it into the safe on top of everything else. It barely fits now, edges catching against metal, but you force it in anyway, pressing until it disappears into shadow.

The rattling outside grows louder.

Closer.

You shut the safe with more force than you should. Making a grating sound of metal against metal that had you regretting, immediately after the safe shuts. But you have no time. Your eyes flick across the room—

and land on it.

The yellow file.

Still in the middle of the floor.

Your stomach drops.

“Fuck—”

You lunge for it, fingers catching the edge, crumpling the paper slightly as you snatch it up. For a second, you almost just hold it—frozen between choices—but the sound at the window snaps you forward again.

Move.

Now.

You rush toward the bedroom doorway, the chain at your ankle dragging with a sharp metallic scrape against the floor, stopping you just short of the hall. You don’t fight it—you know the limit by now.

You drop low instead, extending your arm as far as it will go, leaning your weight forward until it strains through your shoulder.

The front door is just across the small stretch of hallway.

Too far.

Almost.

You push the file forward, letting it slide from your fingers. It skids across the floor—too slow at first, catching slightly against the wood grain—

“Come on—”

You grab the edge again with your fingertips, stretching further, forcing your body past what’s comfortable, and shove it one last time.

It glides.

Stops.

Right where it should be.

Near the front door.

Like it was never moved.

Like no one touched it.

The sound at the window—

closer.

The latch.

You pull back immediately, retreating into the corner of the bedroom, heart hammering so hard it feels loud enough to give you away. Your hands hover uselessly for a second, unsure what to fix next—what’s out of place, what he’ll notice.

Everything feels wrong.

Everything feels obvious.

The closet isn’t fully closed.

The room smells like panic.

You can still feel the ghost of the tape in your ears.

The window creaks.

You turn—

just in time to see the shadow shift against the glass.

And then—

it opens.

Morning comes softly.

Light filters through the slats of the shutters in thin, pale strips—gold laid carefully across the room, across the bed, across you.

Dex is already awake.

He always is.

He doesn’t use an alarm anymore. Doesn’t need one. His body pulls him out of sleep early, like it’s bracing for something before the day even begins.

For the longest time, the first thing he used to see was the ceiling.

Blank.

Flat.

Nothing.

Now—

it’s you.

Always you.

His gaze settles on your face with a kind of stillness that borders on reverence. Like if he looks too quickly, too carelessly, you might not be there.

Like you could disappear if he doesn’t anchor you with his eyes first.

Slowly, carefully, his hand lifts.

He doesn’t rush it.

His fingers hover for a moment before they touch you—light, almost hesitant—as if he’s testing something fragile.

Real.

His knuckles brush along the curve of your cheek.

Warm.

You don’t move.

Still asleep.

His touch shifts, softer now, tracing the line of your jaw, the edge of your face like he’s memorizing it again. Like it could change if he doesn’t keep track.

Sometimes, he tells himself it’s just to be sure.

That you’re still here.

That this—whatever this is—hasn’t gone.

His fingers slide upward, combing lightly through your hair. A slow motion, careful not to pull, not to wake you. Just to feel it.

To feel you.

You shift slightly in your sleep.

A small reaction—your face tightening, just for a second.

A faint scrunch.

Dex stills.

Then—something in his chest loosens.

Adorable.

The word comes without effort. Not analyzed. Not constructed.

Just… there.

His hand moves again.

He takes one of your hands gently, lifting it just enough to bring it closer. His lips press, soft and deliberate, against your knuckles—one by one.

Measured.

Precise.

Like he’s following something he’s learned, something he knows is right.

But slower.

More careful than imitation alone.

Up your wrist.

Along your forearm.

He feels the faint texture of your skin, the softness, the warmth. His mouth follows the path his hand has already traced, mapping you in a way that makes sense to him.

Up.

To your shoulder.

Your collarbone.

There, he pauses.

Watches you.

Your breathing shifts—just slightly.

A sign.

He recognizes it immediately.

That edge where sleep starts to break.

Dex pulls back.

Not abruptly.

Not in retreat.

Just enough.

He doesn’t push further.

He knows better than that.

Knows the boundary even if he doesn’t understand it.

So he settles beside you again, close enough that he can still feel your presence, still anchor himself to it.

The warmth in his chest lingers.

Quiet.

Contained.

Enough.

His gaze drifts—briefly, but not without purpose—toward the closet.

The door isn’t fully shut.

Just slightly ajar.

That’s all it takes.

His eyes narrow, just a fraction.

The safe.

The file.

The tapes.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

The creases in the yellow file that shouldn’t be there. Subtle, but wrong. The edges bent where they shouldn’t be when he pick it up last night

And the tapes.

Out of order.

Not by label—those don’t matter.

By memory.

He knows where each one belongs. Knows without checking.

Last night, when you were asleep, he confirmed it from a gut feeling.

One still left in the player.

Not rewound.

Not returned.

You didn’t finish it.

You didn’t put it back.

You panicked.

Dex’s jaw shifts slightly.

Not anger.

Not quite.

Something more focused than that.

Measured.

You saw something.

Enough to move things.

Enough to touch what’s his.

And still—

you stayed.

He replays it.

The way you looked at him.

The way you held him.

The way you stepped into the shower without pulling away.

If you wanted to leave—

you would have tried.

If you wanted to hurt him—

you had the means.

The gun.

The door.

Time.

You didn’t use any of it.

So it means something.

It has to.

His chest tightens—not painfully, but with a kind of certainty that settles deep.

You know.

At least part of it.

And you’re still here.

That’s enough.

More than enough.

The thought anchors itself quickly, cleanly:

You love him.

Not the way other people define it.

Not the way it’s supposed to look.

But enough to stay.

Enough to accept.

Enough to choose him.

Dex exhales slowly.

The decision forms just as quietly.

He’ll change the safe code.

Not as punishment.

As precaution.

You’ll notice.

You’ll react.

Maybe pull away. Maybe resist.

Maybe look at him differently.

That’s fine.

He can manage that.

He can adjust.

But most importantly, you won’t leave.

You didn’t last night.

You won’t now.

Beside him, you shift again—this time more noticeably.

The light has moved.

One of the thin strips falls across your face.

Your brow tightens slightly in your sleep.

Dex notices immediately.

His body shifts closer without thought, angling himself just enough to block the light from reaching you.

The change is instant.

Your face relaxes again.

Your breathing evens out.

Dex watches it happen.

Watches the effect.

A small, quiet satisfaction settles in his chest.

He lifts his hand once more, brushing the back of his knuckles lightly against your cheek.

Gentler this time.

Certain.

“My love,” he murmurs, barely audible.

The words aren’t performative.

They aren’t practiced.

They’re… owned.

Held close.

His.

You.

Afternoon light spills through the apartment in long, pale strips—caught between the slats of the shutters, stretched thin across the floor, the couch, your legs where they tangle with his.

The radio hums somewhere in the background, low and indistinct. Something about a documentary—voices talking in calm, measured tones. He’s not listening. He hasn’t been for a while.

His laptop rests open on his thigh, something paused on the screen.

Unimportant.

Because you’re here.

You’re stretched along the other end of the couch, book in hand, brow faintly furrowed in concentration. Your fingers hold the page lightly, like you’re not even aware of the grip. Every now and then your lips move—silent, reading a line twice.

He watches that.

The small movements.

The patterns.

He’s learned them.

“You know I got you a present?”

The words leave him suddenly. Not planned. Just… there.

You glance up over the edge of your book, eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity.

“No, I don’t know,” you say.

Your voice still carries that soft edge of distraction, like part of you is still in the page.

He closes the laptop immediately.

Sets it aside on the coffee table without looking.

All of his attention shifts—clean, complete.

“Well,” he says, a hint of something almost pleased threading through his tone, “the surprise is… surprisingly… in a blue bag in the closet.”

You blink at him.

Brows lifting.

“Are you serious?”

There’s a pause—brief, but he feels it. Measures it. Waits.

“Come on,” he adds, leaning forward slightly. “Go check it out yourself.”

You hesitate.

Just a second.

Your fingers tighten on the book.

“Seriously? While I’m reading?”

He reaches out and gives your thigh a light, quick slap—not hard, just enough to interrupt the moment.

“You can read later,” he says. “Go.”

The contact lingers in his mind even after his hand pulls back.

You huff softly—more habit than annoyance.

“Hmm. Okay.”

You set the book down beside his laptop and untangle yourself from him, your leg slipping free from his. The absence is immediate.

Not painful.

Just… noticeable.

He watches you walk toward the bedroom.

Listens to the quiet shift of your steps, the door opening, closing—

Then—

a gasp.

Sharp.

Real.

His mouth curves before he can stop it.

A second later, you’re back.

Holding the dress.

Mint green.

Floral.

Bell sleeves falling soft from your arms, the fabric catching the light as you move. It’s not extravagant. Not complicated. But it fits something—something he recognized the moment he saw it.

You.

“Dex—no way.”

Your voice is brighter now. Clearer. Entirely present.

He leans back slightly, watching you with open satisfaction.

“I saw it on the way back,” he says. “It reminded me of you. I heard your favorite color is mint green.”

“It is,” you say immediately, already smiling wider. “It is.”

Good.

That’s good.

It fits.

“I’m going to try it on—wait.”

You don’t even let him respond.

You’re already turning, already moving back toward the bedroom, the dress gathered in your hands like something fragile and exciting.

The door closes again.

Dex exhales softly through his nose.

A quiet, contained sound.

His gaze lingers on the door for a moment longer than necessary.

Then drops—to where you had been sitting. The indentation in the couch. The book, slightly open. The faint warmth still left behind.

He shifts slightly, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees.

Waiting.

A few minutes pass.

Then the door opens.

And you step out.

Wearing it.

The dress falls just to your knees, the sleeves brushing your arms as you move. The color sits against your skin exactly the way he expected—soft, clean, unmistakable.

Right.

“You look…” he starts, then stops.

Adjusts.

“…amazing.”

You hesitate at the edge of the room, biting your bottom lip slightly.

There it is.

That movement.

He’s noticed it before—how you do that when you’re uncertain, when you’re waiting for confirmation. The way the corners of your lips hold a different shade because of it.

“You think?” you ask.

There’s something careful in it.

Something that waits.

“No,” he says immediately, more certain now. “Not ‘I think.’ I know.”

A small beat.

“It suits you.”

Your smile widens, but it softens too—less sharp, more real.

“You sure it doesn’t wash me out a bit?”

He shakes his head once.

“Not at all.”

Another pause.

“It’s… perfect.”

The word settles.

You move toward him then, closing the distance between you and the couch. Your hand lifts slightly, reaching—aiming for his.

He responds without thinking.

His hand comes up to meet yours.

The space between them closes—

Almost—

And then you stop.

Pull back.

“Wait,” you say suddenly. “I have an idea.”

His hand lingers in the air for half a second before lowering slowly.

A flicker of something—confusion, brief and sharp—passes through him.

But he doesn’t question it.

You’re already moving again, crossing the room to the radio. You crouch slightly, fingers turning the dial, adjusting the frequency. Static crackles, then shifts, then settles into something else.

Music, maybe.

Something softer.

He watches you.

The way your focus narrows. The way your tongue presses briefly against the inside of your cheek as you concentrate. The way your lips part slightly—then press together as you fine-tune the sound.

You bite your lip again.

There.

Again.

He catalogs it without thinking.

When you finally look up, there’s something bright in your expression. Anticipation. A kind of quiet excitement, like you’re about to show him something he doesn’t know yet.

He likes that.

That look.

The one that belongs to him now.

Your eyes catch the light.

Your smile shifts—wider, softer, open.

And for a moment—

just a moment—

everything feels aligned.

Correct.

Like something finally fits the way it’s supposed to.

Dex leans back into the couch slightly, watching you, his gaze steady.

That smile—

it could light the entire city.

He’s sure of it.

And more than that—

it’s his.

The station catches.

Music floods in—clearer, louder, something with rhythm. Something that moves.

You brighten instantly.

There it is.

That shift.

He feels it before he understands it.

“Oh,” you say, almost to yourself, then louder, turning halfway toward him, “they’re playing the same song they played yesterday.”

You set the radio down, but your attention stays with it for a second, like you’re still listening through your whole body.

Then you move toward him.

“I think it’s called…” you start, thinking as you approach, “…Love My Way? By Psychedelic… something.” You shake your head lightly, smiling at yourself. “I don’t get the last part, but I’m sure it’s that.”

You stop a few feet in front of him.

And then—

you don’t come any closer.

Instead, you sway.

Just slightly at first. A shift of weight from one foot to the other. Your dress follows the movement, the soft fabric catching the light from the window. Mint green. He chose that. He was right.

The music fills the space between you.

There’s an army on the dance floorIt’s a fashion with a gun, My love—

You move more fully now, letting the rhythm take you. Not precise. Not practiced. Just… natural. Your arms lift a little, your shoulders loosen, your hips follow the beat like it’s something you’ve always known.

In a room without a door— A kiss is not enough in

He doesn’t hear the song the way you do.

Not really.

He hears structure. Tempo. Repetition.

But you—

you make it something else.

You smile.

And that changes everything.

His mouth curves without permission. Small at first. Then more.

He claps once, then again—tentative, then finding the beat, matching it. Matching you.

You turn, the skirt of your dress flaring slightly with the motion. The bell sleeves shift with your arms. He notices all of it. The way the fabric moves. The way your hair follows half a second behind you.

You’re laughing.

He mirrors it before he realizes he’s doing it.

Love my way, it’s a new road—

“You know the lyrics already?” he asks, the question slipping out between beats.

You don’t answer.

You just come closer.

Close enough now that he can see the flush in your cheeks, the brightness in your eyes. You reach for him without hesitation, your hands finding his, your fingers curling around his like it’s already decided.

You pull.

He lets himself be pulled.

He’s on his feet before he fully processes it.

“I don’t—” he starts, a reflex more than a thought. “I don’t really dance.”

“It’s okay,” you say immediately, like the answer was obvious. “Just feel the music.”

Feel.

He doesn’t know what that means.

But you do.

So he watches you.

You guide him—subtle at first. A shift of your hands. A step backward, drawing him forward. Your body sets the pace, and he follows, slightly off, slightly delayed.

He adjusts.

Watches.

Corrects.

Matches.

Love my way, it’s a new road. I follow where my mind goes—

You sing along, your voice light, a little breathless with movement. Not perfect. Not polished.

Real.

He studies the timing of your steps. The way your weight shifts. The rhythm in your shoulders, your arms. He mirrors it piece by piece, assembling it until it fits.

Until it aligns.

And then—

something settles.

The movement becomes easier. Smoother. Less thought, more response. Not instinct—he doesn’t have that—but something close enough.

You laugh again, spinning once, and he follows the motion, his grip tightening just slightly as he turns you back toward him.

Not to control.

To keep.

Your hands don’t leave his.

Love my way, it’s a new road— I follow where my mind goes—

You’re closer now.

Your steps begin to match his as much as he’s matching yours. The space between you narrows until it’s almost gone. The music fills the room, but it feels like it’s coming from somewhere else entirely—somewhere smaller, contained between the two of you.

Your laughter overlaps with his.

Your voice with his breath.

Your movement with his movement.

It aligns.

It works.

And for a moment—

it’s quiet in his head.

No noise. No static. No sharp edges pressing in.

Just this.

You.

Your hands in his.

Your smile—bright enough to fill the whole room, bright enough to feel like it could light something much larger.

He focuses on that.

On you.

On the way your happiness looks, and sounds, and moves.

He matches it.

Holds onto it.

Builds himself around it.

And in that moment—

he decides, without needing to say it, without needing to understand it

that he likes this.

That he likes this because of you.

That whatever this is—

he wants it to stay.

Evening settles into the apartment quietly.

Not all at once.

The light simply thins little by little until the windows turn dark blue instead of gold, until the shadows in the living room stretch long enough to swallow the furniture whole.

By the time you notice it, sunset is already gone.

You glance toward the window instinctively.

It’s probably past seven.

Dex should be home soon.

The thought comes automatically now, worn smooth from repetition.

You’ve been telling yourself the same thing for days.

Not now. He’ll be home soon.

I’ll leave later.

Tomorrow maybe.

When it feels right.

When I’m ready.

Your gaze drifts toward the closet.

Toward the safe hidden behind hanging clothes and folded jackets.

218.

You still remember the number perfectly.

You think you always will.

You could open it right now if you wanted to. Take your things. Wait for the right moment. Leave before he comes home.

You know that.

That’s the problem.

Because the truth is—it was never really the chain keeping you here.

Not after the safe.

Not after you realized escape was possible.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the bathroom sink.

You stay because part of you keeps thinking maybe a little more time would change something.

Maybe if someone had loved your mother enough—

properly enough—

she would have stayed.

Maybe if someone had seen her clearly before the illness hollowed her out from the inside, things could have become different.

Your mother had still been capable of beautiful things.

You remember that.

The way she painted her nails while humming softly under her breath. The way she danced around the kitchen barefoot when jazz records played late at night. The way she once turned scraps of fabric into your Halloween costume by hand because she said store-bought things had “no soul.”

Borderline Personality Disorder had not erased her humanity.

It had not erased her softness.

It had only made everything hurt louder.

And Dex—

Dex is not soft.

Not naturally.

But sometimes—

sometimes you catch glimpses of something that almost could be.

The way he watches your face when you speak, like he’s trying to memorize how emotions work through you. The way he traces your fingers absentmindedly when he thinks you’re asleep. The way he buys you things simply because they reminded him of you.

Crooked attempts.

Imperfect things.

But attempts nonetheless.

And some foolish, aching part of you keeps wondering:

if someone stays long enough—

loves carefully enough—

could a person like him become better?

Could he learn?

Could he become something gentler?

Or is that just another version of the same mistake your mother made people believe about her?

You exhale slowly.

The apartment beyond the bedroom remains dark and silent.

Your chain won’t let you reach the lights outside the room.

You’ve tested it before.

So you stay where the light reaches.

Where things feel smaller.

Contained.

And beneath all of that—

beneath the guilt and the hope and the confusion—

there is another truth you try not to touch too directly.

You are afraid to leave him.

Not because of what waits outside these walls.

But because of what might follow after you do.

The bathroom mirror is slightly fogged from the tap.

You lean in, brushing your teeth, movements slow, absent. Foam gathering at the corners of your mouth, your gaze unfocused as it drifts somewhere past your own reflection.

Routine.

Something to do with your hands.

Something to fill the space.

A sound cuts through it.

Metal.

Soft—but distinct.

The faint scrape of something shifting where it shouldn’t.

You pause.

Toothbrush still in your mouth.

You listen.

Another sound—quieter this time. Subtle. Controlled.

The bedroom window.

Opening.

Your first thought comes easily.

Dex.

Relief follows it before you even question it.

He’s early.

Or maybe just… quiet tonight.

You rinse quickly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, already moving toward the doorway.

“Dex—”

The word dies before it fully forms.

Someone is standing by the window.

Not Dex.

A man—tall, still—half his face covered. A mask drawn over his eyes, the lower half of his face exposed. Dark. Unfamiliar.

Wrong.

For a split second, neither of you move.

You don’t need to see his whole face to know—

he’s just as startled as you are.

Your body reacts before your mind catches up.

You turn—

fast—

back toward the bathroom.

A place to hide. To close a door. To put something—anything—between you and him.

You don’t make it.

He moves quicker.

A hand catches your arm—then your back meets the wall a second later.

The impact isn’t hard—but it’s sudden enough to knock the air from your lungs.

His other hand comes up immediately.

Over your mouth.

Firm.

Not crushing—just enough to stop the sound before it can fully form.

Your breath jerks against his palm, a muffled cry swallowed there.

“—wait.”

Low. Close. Right by your ear.

Not harsh.

Urgent.

“Listen to me. I’m not here to hurt you.”

You struggle anyway.

Instinct.

Your hands push at him, your body twisting, trying to break free—but his hold adjusts with you, controlled, deliberate. He shifts his weight just enough to keep you in place without pressing harder than he needs to.

There’s restraint in it.

Precision.

He isn’t trying to overpower you—

just contain the moment.

“I’m going to let go,” he says, voice still steady, measured despite the tension in your body. “But you have to stay quiet. Okay?”

Your breathing is uneven against his hand. Too fast. Too shallow.

Your eyes lift—meeting what you can see of his face.

The lower half.

The line of his mouth.

There’s no smile.

No anger.

Just focus.

Waiting.

“Okay?” he repeats, quieter this time.

A beat.

Your body stills—just enough.

You nod.

Small.

Uncertain.

He removes his hand immediately.

No hesitation.

Like he meant it.

You suck in air the second you can, stumbling back a step as soon as his grip loosens, putting space between you. Your hand comes up instinctively to your mouth, then to your arm where he held you—as if checking that you’re still there. Still in control of yourself.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says again.

Softer now.

You take another step back.

The chain drags.

A sharp, unmistakable sound against hardwood.

Metal pulling taut around your ankle.

His head turns slightly.

Not toward your face.

Down.

He hears it.

Processes it.

Understands.

Something in his posture shifts—subtle, but immediate. The stillness sharpens. Tightens.

Not toward you.

Past you.

Anger—quiet, controlled—settling into place.

A knock cuts through the apartment.

Sharp. Sudden. Too loud for the quiet that’s been sitting there all evening.

You flinch.

“Is everything alright?”

A man’s voice. Muffled through the door—but close.

The masked man goes still for half a second.

Then he moves.

Fast.

He crosses the apartment in a few strides, every step controlled, and reaches the door. His hand hovers just briefly over the handle—as if listening—then he pulls it open.

The man on the other side is already leaning in.

Alert. Tense. Like he expected something to be wrong.

“What—”

His gaze flicks past the masked man, trying to read the space beyond him.

“There’s a woman in here,” the masked man says quickly, low but urgent. “She’s chained.”

A beat.

“What?”

It’s not disbelief.

It’s shock catching up to understanding.

The man pushes past him without waiting—one hand brushing the door wider as he steps inside. His eyes scan the apartment quickly, trained, methodical—taking in the dark living room, the closed-in space.

Then the masked man gestures toward the bedroom.

A slight tilt of his head.

That’s enough.

The man moves immediately, pace quickening as he crosses the threshold into the bedroom—

—and stops.

For a second.

Just a second.

Because now he sees you.

Really sees you.

Standing there, too still, shoulders tight, eyes wide—not quite trusting, not quite running.

Shaken.

And then his gaze drops.

Down.

To your ankle.

To the chain.

The metal cuff sits tight around your skin—too tight to be new. There’s a faint discoloration there, a subtle bruising that wraps just beneath the edge of it. Not fresh. Not accidental.

Worn.

Used.

His expression changes.

Not dramatically.

But enough.

“Hey—hey,” he says immediately, voice lowering, hands coming up slightly in front of him. Not reaching. Not grabbing. Just… open. Careful. “It’s okay. We’re not here to hurt you.”

He slows as he steps closer—deliberate, giving you space even as he approaches.

“My name is Agent Ray Nadeem,” he adds, tone steady, grounding. “FBI.”

The name lands.

Recognition flickers before you can stop it.

“You’re… you’re Dex’s partner.”

It comes out quieter than you expect.

He pauses—just for a fraction of a second.

Then nods. “Yeah. I am.”

Something in your chest tightens.

Relief tries to surface—but it doesn’t come clean. It catches on something. Hesitation. Doubt. Everything you’ve lived in these past days pressing back against it.

Still—

it’s something.

“Please,” you say, your voice unsteady despite yourself. “I— I need—”

You swallow, forcing the words out.

“I need to get out of here.”

You don’t say kidnapped immediately.

Not like before.

The word sticks differently now.

But he understands anyway.

His expression softens—not pitying, but firm. Assured.

“Okay,” he says, nodding once, like he’s locking onto a plan. “Okay. We’re going to get you somewhere safe. Alright? You’re okay now.”

He crouches carefully in front of you, his attention shifting fully to the cuff around your ankle. He doesn’t touch it right away—just looks. Studies it.

His jaw tightens.

“This is—” he mutters under his breath, more to himself than to you. “This isn’t—”

He leans in closer, finally reaching out, fingers hovering just beside the metal.

Solid.

Heavy.

Locked clean.

Not improvised.

Not temporary.

“…we need backup,” he says, already reaching into his jacket, pulling his phone free.

“No.”

The word cuts in from behind him.

Firm.

Controlled.

The masked man has stepped closer again, his attention flicking between the door, the window, the space—always listening.

“We don’t have time,” he continues, quieter now, but sharper. “He’s not here, but he will be.”

Nadeem frowns, glancing up at him. “If we call this in—this is exactly what we’re supposed to do.”

“And you know how that plays out,” the masked man replies immediately.

A beat.

“He’s FBI,” he adds, voice dropping lower. “This gets reported wrong, it turns on you. On her. On all of this.”

Nadeem’s hand pauses, phone half-raised.

You can see it happening in his face.

The shift.

Procedure… against reality.

His grip tightens slightly around the phone.

“…they could bury this,” the masked man presses, quieter still. “Or twist it. You know they could.”

Silence stretches for a second too long.

Nadeem exhales through his nose.

His gaze flicks back to you—down to the cuff, the bruising, the way you’re standing like you don’t quite believe any of this yet.

Then back to the phone.

Slowly—

he lowers it.

Not comfortable.

Not confident.

But decided.

“…okay,” he says under his breath.

Then, a little louder, more certain—“Okay.”

He slips the phone back into his pocket and pushes himself to his feet again.

“I’m going to find something,” he says, already turning, scanning the room. “There has to be tools here. Something we can use.”

He glances back at you briefly—something apologetic flickering there.

“We’ll get it off,” he adds. “Just—stay with us, alright?”

You nod.

Small.

Automatic.

He moves out toward the kitchen, opening cabinets, drawers—quicker now, but still controlled. Focused.

Searching.

The masked man’s head turns slightly.

Not toward you.

Toward the closet.

He’s already moving before you realize it—crossing the room with that same quiet precision, like he’s following something you can’t see.

“The suit,” he says. “It’s here.”

From the kitchen, Agent Nadeem pauses mid-search.

“How are you so sure?” he calls back, a faint edge of disbelief in his voice.

A beat.

“I can smell it.”

There’s a moment of silence.

Then Nadeem reappears in the doorway, a pair of pliers in one hand, a hammer in the other.

“You can smell the suit?” he repeats, brows pulling together as he steps back into the room.

The tools catch your eye.

Metal.

Heavy.

Your body stills without meaning to.

A small, instinctive freeze—subtle enough that he doesn’t notice, too focused on the masked man already pushing past hanging clothes in the closet.

Fabric shifts on the rail.

Hangers scrape softly.

Then—

The safe.

Your breath catches.

Your lips part—just slightly.

The number sits there, ready.

218.

You could say it.

You could end this faster.

Your throat tightens.

And you don’t.

Something holds you back—thin, irrational, stubborn.

The masked man doesn’t ask.

He crouches in front of the safe, fingers already moving along the dial, head tilted just slightly—as if listening.

Behind him, Nadeem exhales.

“You can crack safes too?” he mutters, half under his breath.

“Not if you keep talking,” the masked man replies flatly.

That shuts him up.

Nadeem shifts his focus back to you instead, crouching near your ankle again. The tools in his hand lower as he studies the chain more closely.

“Hey,” he says, quieter now. “I’m going to try to get this off, okay? Just… stay still. I won’t hurt you.”

His tone is careful.

Measured.

Trying.

You nod again.

Small.

Your attention flickers back to the closet.

To the safe.

To the man working it.

The dial turns.

Slow.

Precise.

A pause—

Then—

click.

The sound is soft.

But it cuts through everything.

The door opens.

The masked man stills.

“…it’s gone.”

Nadeem looks up immediately. “What do you mean, it’s gone?”

“The suit,” he says, already reaching inside, checking again like the answer might change. “He had it here.”

Another pause.

“It’s not here now.”

You don’t say anything.

You know why.

Dex never keeps it there long.

After he uses it, it disappears somewhere else—repairs, maintenance, something you were never allowed to see or know about.

But you don’t tell them that.

Your silence folds into the room unnoticed.

The masked man’s hand moves again inside the safe—this time slower.

He pulls something out first.

Your bag.

Your breath stutters.

He tosses the bag toward you without looking.

“Pack what you need,” he says. “We’re leaving soon.”

The bag lands near your feet.

You flinch at the sound more than the motion.

For a second, you just stare at it.

Then—slowly—you reach down and take it.

The masked man shifts back toward the closet, still searching. Still working.

And that’s when Nadeem speaks again.

Low. Tight.

Not to you.

To him.

“So what we’ve got right now,” he says, exhaling through his nose, “is a psychotic FBI agent who’s been keeping a woman chained in his apartment.”

A beat.

“That’s it.”

The words hang there.

Heavy.

Not enough.

Not what he wants.

He drags a hand over his jaw, frustrated now in a quieter way. Controlled, but strained.

“No connection to the Bulletin attack,” he continues. “Nothing tying him to Fisk’s hit list. Nothing that proves he’s Daredevil—if that’s even what he is.”

Your body stills at the name.

Bulletin.

Attack.

Fisk.

It takes a moment for your mind to stitch it together.

Then—

Dex.

Your throat tightens.

Dex… attacking the Bulletin?

The idea doesn’t sit right at first.

It doesn’t fit the version of him you’ve been holding onto in pieces.

But the words are already in the room.

Real.

Unavoidable.

The masked man doesn’t look back.

He’s already moving again, pulling the shoebox closer, rifling through it with sharper intent now.

“We’ve got her,” he says simply.

Like that changes the equation.

His head tilts slightly toward you—just enough to acknowledge your presence without softening it.

“She’s proof,” he continues. “Living, breathing proof that he’s been impersonating Daredevil.”

Your stomach drops.

Impersonating.

Not Daredevil.

Not what you thought.

Something worse. Something deliberate.

Your fingers tighten around your bag strap without you noticing.

Around you, the apartment feels different now.

Smaller.

Colder.

Nadeem finally looks at you properly.

Not as someone to rescue.

Not just as a victim.

But as something heavier than that.

Something useful.

Something that carries weight beyond you.

His expression shifts—just slightly.

Recognition of what you represent.

Evidence.

A key.

You feel it then.

The shift in how the room holds you.

The way your silence now means something different to them than it did a minute ago.

The masked man turns back to the safe.

“Still need more,” he mutters.

His hand moves inside again.

Then—

he freezes.

A pause.

Then pulls something else out.

A shoe box. Wood and cardboard, worn at the edges like it’s been handled too many times for something meant to stay hidden.

The masked man takes a few steps back and opens it without ceremony.

Inside—

a cassette player.

Tapes.

Neatly stacked. Labeled.

Nadeem straightens, shifting away from your ankle for now, drawn toward what the masked man has found.

“What are those?” he asks, nodding toward the box.

The masked man doesn’t answer.

He opens it.

Pulls out a tape.

Slides it into the cassette player.

Presses play.

The soft hiss of static fills the room.

You don’t stay to listen.

You already know.

You grab your bag and move toward the closet instead, your steps quick but quiet, your mind racing ahead of your body.

Part 3 here<<<<<<<<<<< AN: Recently I watched Bones and All and Call me by your name for inspo and guys. I can't tell you how much I am in love with those two films. To show my love for Luca Guadagnino, I added Love my Way in this chapter. If you've watched Call me by your Name. I think you would be able to spot the easter egg.

The mask comes off in a rough motion, dragged up and over, catching briefly before he yanks it free. Air hits his face—cool, sharp—but it doesn’t clear anything. His vision still pulses wrong. Too narrow. Too loud.

Karen Page.

Still out there.

The thought snaps through him again, jagged.

It was supposed to be simple.

Locate. Confirm. Execute.

Done.

Instead—

interference.

Obstacles.

Noise where there shouldn’t have been any.

Now she’s gone.

His jaw tightens.

Fisk is going to—

No.

Don’t think about that.

Not yet.

His hand hits the bedside table, the mask dropping—no, thrown—onto it. It skids, knocks into a stack of books. They tip. Slide. Fall.

The sound grates.

Too much.

Too many things out of place.

“Fuck—”

His arm sweeps across the surface without thinking. Books, glass, anything there—gone. It clatters to the floor in a scatter that feels too slow, too loud, too controlled for what’s inside his chest.

He needs—

Something to break.

Something to stop the pressure building behind his ribs.

His fingers flex, tightening, loosening. Not enough. Not enough.

Need—

“Dex?”

It cuts through everything.

Not loud.

Not sharp.

But precise.

His head turns immediately.

She’s there—standing in the corner of the room, still, small in a way that doesn’t match what he knows she is. Her eyes are wide, fixed on him. Taking him in.

For a second, he just looks.

Breath still uneven. Shoulders tight.

Then—

he moves.

Fast.

Crossing the space in a few strides, closing the distance before anything else can get in the way. His hands find her—arms, shoulders—pulling her in, hard, immediate, like locking something into place.

She makes a small sound—air leaving her lungs—but he doesn’t loosen his grip.

He can’t.

His arms wrap around her, pulling her flush against him, anchoring. Holding.

There.

There.

The noise in his head doesn’t stop—but it shifts. Dulls at the edges. The sharpness pulling inward, focusing instead of scattering.

His breath comes out rough against her shoulder.

Closer.

He needs her closer.

His grip tightens without meaning to.

She’s still for a second.

Then—slowly—her hands come up. Hesitant. Light at first, touching his back like she’s testing something fragile.

Then settling.

A small, repetitive motion.

Not precise. Not practiced.

But enough.

It works.

The pressure inside his chest eases, increment by increment, like something finally locking into alignment.

He breathes.

In.

Out.

Again.

Time stretches.

He doesn’t count it. Doesn’t need to.

Just stays there, holding her, until the edge inside him dulls into something he can contain.

When he pulls back, it’s gradual.

Reluctant.

His hands don’t leave her shoulders. They stay there, fingers pressing just enough to keep contact, to make sure she’s still there, still real.

Her gaze drops almost immediately.

Not meeting his.

Her hands rest against his arms—light. Not pushing. Not pulling.

He doesn’t read into it.

Not now, not like this.

His focus shifts.

Down.

Her shirt.

There’s blood on it.

Blood from his suit.

Dark against the fabric.

He notices it before anything else fully settles—the smear of red across your shirt, the way it isn’t contained, the way it’s out of place. Some of it higher, near her collar. 

Her neck.

His breath is still uneven, the noise still echoing in his head, but this—this pulls it into focus.

A detail.

A problem.

His gaze locks.

There’s a brief, sharp flicker of something—irritation, miscalculation. He didn’t account for that. It wasn’t supposed to transfer. It’s sloppy.

His hand lifts.

Automatic.

Thumb angling toward your skin to wipe it clean, to correct it, to fix what’s wrong—

and then it stops.

Midway.

Not hesitation.

Adjustment.

Something clicks.

He’s seen this before.

Not exactly this. Not blood like this, not like tonight—but the shape of it. The sequence. A man noticing something on a woman’s skin. The shift that follows. The correction. The way the moment turns into something softer. Controlled. Close.

This is what comes next.

His fingers hover for a fraction longer before lowering, the action redirected—not abandoned, just… replaced.

A breath leaves him. It almost sounds like a laugh, but it isn’t. It’s too thin, too deliberate.

“Guess…” he says, voice rough, and he works to smooth it, to place it correctly, to match what he remembers, “we have to take a shower together now.”

It fits.

The line fits the situation.

The transition makes sense.

He watches her closely after he says it—waiting, not for emotion, but for confirmation. For alignment. For the response that tells him he chose correctly.

She looks at him.

There’s a beat—just long enough to register, not long enough to disrupt.

Then—

“Okay.”

The answer settles something in his chest.

Not relief.

Resolution.

He nods once, small, contained. That’s enough. The moment has direction again. Structure.

He turns immediately, already moving, already stepping into the next part of it.

“I’ll get the water ready.”

His voice is steadier now. Even. Functional.

The bathroom light hums faintly as he turns the tap, adjusting the temperature with careful precision. Too hot and it burns. Too cold and it shocks. There’s a correct range. There’s always a correct range.

Behind him—

You didn’t follow immediately.

Your fingers curl slightly at your side.

You stand there, still in the middle of the room, and your gaze drifts—slow, careful—not towards the mess on the floor, not the scattered books or the broken lamp. Not to the cracked candy bowl he bought for you a few days ago. No.. But towards the hallway.

Toward the front door.

Where, just minutes ago, you slid the yellow file back into place.

Exactly where it had been.

Exactly how it had been.

You think.

Your chest tightens, just a little.

Was it angled the same way?

Was it too straight?

Would he notice?

Would he—

“Hey.”

His voice cuts through from the bathroom.

“The water’s ready.”

You blink.

The moment snaps shut.

Your face settles back into something neutral before you move.

You step toward the bathroom, pushing the door open wider as you enter.

Steam is already starting to gather, thin against the mirror.

He’s standing near the tub, back turned, adjusting the temperature.

You stop just inside the doorway.

There’s a brief pause.

Then, evenly—

“You have to take off my ankle cuff.”

He stills.

Just for a second.

Then—

“Oh.”

Like he genuinely hadn’t thought of it.

“Right.”

His tone is almost absent.

Casual.

Like it’s nothing.

Like it’s always been nothing.

He turns toward you, already reaching for you, already closing the distance again—as if this, too, is just part of the routine.

As if nothing has changed.

As if everything is exactly where it should be.

For now—

You let him believe it. 

When you step into the bathroom, the first thing that hits you is the heat.

Steam already clings to the air, softening the edges of everything—mirror, tile, light. The shower is running.

Full.

Constant.

Dex is already inside.

You can’t see him clearly at first. Only the vague outline behind the fogged curtain, water streaming down in heavy, unbroken lines. A shadow made of movement.

In the corner of the bathroom, his suit lies discarded in a wet, crumpled heap. Dark fabric. Heavy. Wrong in a space that’s suddenly too soft, too domestic.

Your gaze catches on it briefly.

Then drifts.

To the curtain.

To the faint, scattered droplets of red clinging to the plastic surface.

Not much.

But enough.

Your thoughts tighten immediately around it.

Must’ve gotten there when he was washing it off.

You look away.

You don’t want to see it.

Not red.

Not tonight.

Not after the yellow file.

You move without thinking about it too long.

Clothes come off one piece at a time, falling quietly to the floor. Fabric against tile. Soft, final sounds that disappear under the steady noise of water.

Until there’s nothing left but you.

Bare.

Still.

The cold air raises goosebumps along your skin almost immediately.

Your fingers hover for a second near the light switch.

Then flip it.

The bathroom goes dark.

For a fraction of a second, the only sound is the water—

and then it changes.

A pause.

A shift.

Dex stops moving.

Not fully visible, but you hear it in the way the water pattern breaks for half a beat, like his body has gone still under it.

“Something wrong?” he asks.

His voice is muted through the curtain. Controlled, but cautious.

You hesitate just long enough to register the question.

Then—

“No,” you say quietly. “The light was bothering me.”

A beat.

Then a small sound of acknowledgment.

A nod, even if you can’t see it.

“Okay.”

You step closer.

The curtain rustles slightly as you reach for it.

Then you pull it aside.

Cold air meets steam.

And you step in.

The space is tighter than you expect.

Water hits your skin immediately—warm, constant, grounding in a way that almost feels like pressure instead of comfort.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Just the sound of water and breath.

Dex is facing slightly away at first, shoulders tense under the stream. Then he shifts just enough to register your presence fully.

“You okay?” he asks again, quieter this time.

“I’m fine,” you murmur.

Your hand lifts before you fully decide where it’s going.

It lands on his back.

Between his shoulder blades.

He stiffens instantly.

A sharp inhale pulls through him.

Not from surprise.

From recognition.

Pain.

You feel it under your palm before he even says anything—the way his body reacts around something already injured.

The memory hits him faster than words.

The fall.

The impact.

The landing.

His breath catches.

“—sorry,” he says quickly, like it matters to correct something. Like he needs to reset the moment. “That I’m late today. Field work ran longer than I thought.”

It’s not just an explanation.

It’s an attempt.

To close distance.

To fix the shift he feels but doesn’t fully understand.

“It’s alright,” you say.

Flat. Soft. No resistance.

Your fingers move again.

Down his spine.

Slow.

Tracing muscle, bone, the subtle tension held beneath skin. When you press a little harder at a certain point, he flinches—small, involuntary.

A sound slips out of him.

Not words.

Just reaction.

His hands brace against the tile wall without him fully deciding to. A grounding instinct. Fingers spread. Shoulders tight.

“Y/N—”

Your hand doesn’t stop.

Instead, your voice cuts in first.

“Do you ever think about your family?” 

The question lands differently here.

In the steam.

In the dark.

Dex goes still.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that the change is noticeable.

“…not really.” 

You trace upward slowly, following the line of his spine, deliberate—measured—until your fingers reach the nape of his neck.

He shudders.

A small, involuntary reaction.

You feel it.

“I think about mine all the time,” you murmur.

Your fingers press lightly against a bruise forming near his shoulder. Not enough to break him. Enough for him to feel it.

Your thumb presses lightly into the space between his neck and shoulder—right where the bruise is beginning to form.

Not enough to injure.

Just enough to register.

His breath tightens.

“But mostly my dad.”

Another press.

Subtle.

Controlled.

“He’s all I have.”

Dex swallows.

The movement is visible even from behind.

You continue before he can respond.

“He was all I had after my mom….died.”

Your fingers drift lower, then return again to that same sore point—testing the reaction, holding it just a second longer.

“He’s really all I have left.”

That does it.

Dex freezes.

Not in panic.

Not in guilt.

In absence.

Like the script doesn’t load.

The silence stretches just long enough to mean something.

And in that space—

someone watching might fill it in wrong.

Dex finally speaks.

“…I’m sorry.”

The words come out slower this time.

Placed carefully.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

A pause.

Then, like he’s completing something he knows should be there.

“That must have been hard.”

Another beat.

“…really hard.”

Behind him, you let out the smallest breath.

Not relief.

Not quite frustration either.

Something quieter.

More final.

“It’s fine,” you say.

Too easily.

“Death’s like that, isn’t it?”

Your hand slides down his back, trailing over muscle and heat, until your fingers reach his ribs—where another bruise is forming.

You press.

His breath hitches.

Sharp.

Contained.

“It just shows up one day,” you continue softly, like you’re talking about the weather. “At your door.”

A little more pressure.

“Doesn’t ask.”

Dex’s grip tightens against the tile.

“Just takes.”

Your hand moves again.

Lower.

To his hip.

You find it without looking—the place where the impact must have settled deepest, where the bruise is still forming beneath the skin—and press your thumb in.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Dex’s entire body tightens around it.

A sharp intake of breath cuts through the steady sound of water. His fingers splay harder against the tile, joints locking, tendons standing out along the back of his hand as he braces himself upright.

He doesn’t pull away.

Doesn’t stop you.

His head dips forward a fraction instead, jaw clenching, like he’s choosing to hold still through it—like the sensation is something he needs to endure, or maybe something he’s trying to understand.

A strained sound slips out of him despite that effort. Low. Contained. Not quite a groan—something caught between restraint and release.

You don’t ease up.

“My dad used to call me,” you say.

Even.

Measured.

“In the evenings.”

Your thumb presses again—firmer this time, grinding slightly into the bruise.

Dex exhales through his teeth. His shoulders tense, then hold there, rigid under the stream of water.

“Right after work.”

Another press.

His breath stutters—loses rhythm for a second before he forces it back under control, like he’s trying to match it to something steady.

You continue.

“Some days I didn’t pick up.”

That catches him.

“Why not?”

The question comes too quickly.

Too clean.

Too practical.

It slices straight through the space you’re building.

You don’t answer.

Not immediately.

Your hand drifts again, slow, deliberate, never fully leaving him—tracing the edge of the injury like you’re mapping it, like you’re deciding how much more he can take.

He waits.

You can feel it in the way his body holds—suspended, expectant.

You let him stay there.

Then—

“Do you think he still calls?”

Your voice lowers.

Softer now.

Almost thoughtful.

“Would he still be there… on the other end?”

A pause.

“Wondering where his daughter is?”

Dex doesn’t move.

Doesn’t turn.

But under your hand, something shifts—not physically, but in the tension he’s holding. Like his body is trying to keep still while something in him scrambles.

You can feel the effort of it.

Not feeling.

Constructing.

“I don’t think he would keep calling,” he says finally.

Carefully.

Measured.

“Not if there’s no response.”

A beat.

“People stop after a while.”

It lands.

Clean.

Logical.

Wrong.

Your hand stills against him.

For a moment, you say nothing.

Then—

you pull away.

The absence is immediate.

Where your hand had been—pressure, heat, something to focus on—there’s nothing now. Just water. Just air.

Dex feels it before he understands it.

His back shifts—almost unconsciously at first, like his body is trying to lean into something that isn’t there anymore. His shoulders draw back a fraction, then forward again, searching for that point of contact you just took with you.

Even after the pain.

Especially after the pain.

He misses it.

His fingers flex against the tile, grip tightening, then loosening as if he’s recalibrating. His breath changes—shallower for a second, like something has been interrupted mid-pattern.

He turns slightly, not fully—just enough that he might catch you through the steam.

“What—”

The word doesn’t finish.

He doesn’t know how to finish it.

You step forward before he can try again.

Close the distance.

And wrap your arms around him.

Sudden.

Soft.

But not careless.

You press into him fully this time—your body fitting against his, arms tightening around his torso with a firmness that almost contradicts the gentleness of the movement. Your cheek finds his chest, just beneath the steady fall of water, where the heat of him is strongest.

You hold him like you’re anchoring yourself.

Or like you’re memorizing the shape of him.

Dex goes rigid for half a second.

The shift is immediate—his body caught between reacting and recalculating.

Then—

he returns it.

His arms come around you, slower but firm, pulling you in, pressing you closer as if closing that last bit of space matters more than anything else.

Not questioning.

Not understanding.

Just… holding.

Because this—

this he recognizes.

This fits.

His grip settles, solid, almost grounding, one hand pressing flat against your back, the other tightening just slightly at your side as if to make sure you stay where you are.

You don’t loosen your hold.

If anything, your arms tighten a fraction more—subtle, but deliberate.

Like you’re allowing yourself this once.

Like you know something he doesn’t.

You press your face more firmly against his chest, listening.

His heartbeat.

Fast.

Steady.

Real.

It fills the space between you.

And inside your head—

quietly, without voice—

the decision settles.

Soon.

You will have to leave soon.

A few hours earlier—

The yellow file sits in your hands like it weighs more than paper should.

Your fingers tighten around it without meaning to. The edge crinkles softly beneath your grip, the sound small but sharp in the quiet of the room.

You don’t open it.

Not at first.

It isn’t yours.

It wasn’t meant for you.

You know that.

You should put it back. Slide it under the door again. Pretend you never saw it. Pretend it never came.

Yet.

Your thumb presses against the flap.

Then—

you open it.

The seal isn’t even sealed. Just tucked in, careless. Easy.

Too easy.

You slip your fingers inside and pull.

A thin stack of papers comes free—and with them, a scatter of photographs slips loose, sliding from between the pages and dropping onto the floor.

The sound is soft.

But it lands wrong.

You flinch anyway.

For a second, you just stare at them where they’ve fallen.

Then you kneel.

Your knees press against the hardwood, cold even through the thin fabric of your pants, as you reach for the nearest photo.

You turn it over.

A man.

Mid-step. Caught in motion, like he didn’t know the picture was being taken. One hand half-raised, mouth open as if he’d been speaking to someone just out of frame.

You frown.

You don’t recognize him.

Another photo.

A woman this time. Sitting at a table. Her head tipped slightly toward someone across from her, a faint smile caught at the edge of her mouth. A glass in her hand. A plate in front of her.

Dinner.

Normal.

You pick up another.

And another.

Different people.

Different places.

All of them unaware.

All of them… living.

A crease forms between your brows.

You don’t understand.

Not yet.

Your hand reaches for the papers.

You shouldn’t—

You already have.

You pull one free.

Your eyes scan it—

and then stop.

Names.

Rows of them.

Structured.

Categorized.

Your gaze flicks down.

Affiliations. Positions. Notes.

Agent. State police. Attorney.

Family member.

Your breath catches.

You flip to the next page.

More names.

More details.

A pattern begins to form—quiet, clinical, undeniable.

These aren’t random.

These are people tied to something.

Working against something.

Against—

Your stomach tightens.

You don’t want to say it.

You don’t need to.

Another page.

This one is different.

Less information.

More… instruction.

Your eyes move across it before you could stop yourself.

Your hand tightens around the paper.

The words don’t change.

They don’t soften.

Like someone wrote down groceries.

Like it is normal to instruct someone’s death.

Like this is… routine.

Your breathing slows.

Not calmer.

Thinner.

You flip back.

Faster now.

Your eyes scan the earlier pages again—more carefully this time.

And then you see it.

Next to some of the names.

A single word.

Typed.

Neat.

Unemotional.

Terminated.

Your gaze lingers on it.

The word feels wrong in your head.

Detached.

Clean.

Your throat tightens.

Your fingers tremble slightly where they hold the page.

You look down at the photos scattered across the floor.

At the man mid-sentence.

At the woman at dinner.

At another—someone walking out of a building, keys still in hand.

They weren’t looking.

They didn’t know.

You reach for one more photo.

Your fingers hesitate before turning it over.

A woman.

Seated at a table.

The angle is distant. Taken from somewhere across the room.

She’s laughing.

There’s a child beside her—small, leaning into her arm, holding something up for her to see.

Another figure across from them.

A family.

The moment is frozen in that frame—warm, ordinary, alive.

Your grip tightens.

On the back of the photo—

a name.

Your stomach drops.

“No—”

It slips out under your breath.

Barely a sound.

You shake your head once.

Then again.

You can’t—

You can’t keep looking.

Your hands move quickly now, clumsy in their urgency as you gather the papers, shoving them back into the file without order, without care. The photos follow—some bent slightly at the corners as you push them in, forcing the flap closed like that might undo what you’ve already seen.

Your chest rises too fast.

Too shallow.

“I can’t… I can’t—”

Your voice doesn’t finish.

Your eyes dart toward the door.

The room feels smaller.

Tighter.

Wrong.

You push yourself to your feet too quickly, the motion unsteady as your balance catches half a second too late.

You have to get out.

You have to—

Tell someone.

Do something.

This isn’t—

This isn’t something you should stay in.

Your gaze snaps to the closet.

The safe.

Your breath stutters.

You move.

Fast.

The door swings open harder than you intend, the hinge giving a soft protest as you drop to your knees in front of the safe.

Your hands fumble for the folded paper tucked in the corner.

You find it.

The pen.

The numbers.

That’s where you stopped.

You stare at it for half a second—

then move.

The dial turns under your fingers—too fast at first, slipping slightly before you correct it.

Nothing.

Your movements grow sharper.

Faster.

Less precise.

Your breath is loud in your ears now, uneven, breaking between numbers as you push through them.

Before—

this had been a thought.

An option.

Something distant.

Now—

it’s urgency.

Now—

it matters.

Because this—

this isn’t a mistake.

This isn’t a misunderstanding.

This is what he does.

This is what he is.

Your hand tightens on the dial.

If he can do this—

if he can look at a list like that—

if he can see a woman sitting with her child and reduce it to a line on a page—

then—

Your breath catches.

He won’t hesitate.

Not with you.

Not when—

Not if—

When you become—

inconvenient.

Your fingers slip slightly.

You steady them.

Keep going.

The numbers blur.

But you don’t stop.

You can’t.

Not anymore.

Because whatever you thought this was—

whatever you let yourself believe—

it isn’t safety.

It isn’t connection.

It isn’t—

anything you can survive.

Your hand trembles—but the movement doesn’t slow.

If he can kill them—

like that—

Then he can kill you.

Just as easily.

Just as clean.

Just as—

finished.

You swallow hard.

Keep turning.

And for the first time since the file touched your hands—

you stop thinking about staying.

Now—

you’re trying to leave.

Time loses its shape somewhere between numbers.

You don’t know how long you’ve been here—kneeling on the closet floor, shoulder pressed to the wall, fingers turning and turning and turning.

Somewhere out there, the clock is ticking to pass ten.

Your stomach aches faintly.

Hunger.

You ignore it.

It doesn’t matter.

Not now.

Your fingers ache worse.

The pads of them feel raw from the constant motion, from gripping the dial too tightly, from slipping and correcting and starting again.

You don’t stop.

You can’t.

You stare at the paper in your lap.

153 is crossed out.

Everything after it—messy. Rushed. Numbers bleeding into one another.

You swallow.

Turn the dial.

Your breath catches slightly.

One more.

You don’t expect anything.

Not really.

Your fingers move out of habit more than hope as you align the number and—

click.

You freeze.

Completely.

The sound is small.

Quiet.

But it splits through everything.

You don’t move.

Your hand stays on the dial like you imagined it.

Like if you breathe too hard it’ll undo itself.

“…wait—”

It comes out under your breath.

Barely there.

You try the handle.

It gives.

Just like that.

The safe door opens.

For a second, you just stare at it.

Open.

Actually open.

Your heart slams hard against your ribs—too fast, too sudden—like your body is only just catching up.

You move.

Fast.

Too fast.

Your hands reach inside, searching blindly before your eyes can even focus—

and then you see it.

Your bag.

Your shoulder bag.

Right there.

You grab it immediately, pulling it out like it might disappear if you hesitate. The zipper catches for half a second before you drag it open—

Everything is inside.

Your keys.

Your wallet.

Your water bottle.

Your cracked mirror—

You don’t care.

You dig deeper—

Your phone.

Your breath stops.

“—oh my god—”

You grab it, hands shaking now as you press the power button.

The screen flickers.

Slow.

Too slow.

Come on.

Come on—

It lights up.

1%.

“Shit.”

The word slips out, sharp and breathless.

Your mind races.

Police.

You should call the police.

You should—

You freeze.

Dex is an FBI agent.

The thought cuts through everything.

Cold.

Wrong.

He’ll know.

He’ll twist it.

He’ll—

You don’t trust it.

You don’t trust any of it.

Your thumb moves anyway, opening your contacts.

Scrolling.

Too fast.

Names blur.

You stop.

Dad.

You press it immediately.

The phone rings.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

“Come on—come on dad, please—”

Your voice is already breaking.

Four.

Five.

Nothing.

No answer.

“No—no, no—please—”

Your chest tightens, breath coming too fast now as panic starts to crawl up your throat.

Pick up.

Pick up.

Pick up—

It doesn’t.

The call ends.

Silence.

Your hand trembles.

You stare at the screen like it betrayed you.

“Please…”

It doesn’t change anything.

You scroll again.

You don’t even know what you’re looking for anymore—

And then—

Juli.

Missed calls.

More than one.

Your breath catches.

“She—”

She tried.

She remembers.

You press call.

Immediately.

The dial tone hums in your ear and your free hand comes up to your mouth without thinking.

“Please, please, please—”

The words tumble out under your breath, frantic, uneven.

It rings.

Once.

Twice—

“Hello?”

Your eyes squeeze shut.

“Juli—”

Your voice cracks on her name.

“—oh my god—Juli—”

“Y/N?—wait—oh my god, are you okay? Where are you?—”

The sound of her voice—

real, alive, not him—

hits you all at once.

Your throat tightens painfully.

“I—no, I’m—”

Your words stumble, breath catching as something in your chest finally breaks loose.

You’re so close.

You’re so—

“My dad—”

The thought slams into you mid-sentence.

“My dad—Joshua Weavers—he’s a reporter at the New York Bulletin—he—he’s okay, right? Is he—?”

There’s a pause on the line.

Short.

But it feels long.

“I—I heard there were casualties,” Juli says quickly. “Some of the reporters got hurt—they’re at State Hospital, I think—I don’t know how bad, but—he might be there—wait, where are you? You’re reported missing—”

Relief and fear collide in your chest so hard it almost makes you dizzy.

He’s alive.

He’s—

“I’m—yes, I am, I’m kidnapped—”

The word feels unreal even as you say it.

“—by Dex—Benjamin Poindexter—”

Silence.

It drops suddenly.

Heavy.

Too heavy.

“Juli?”

Nothing.

Your stomach twists.

“Why aren’t you—”

You glance down.

The screen goes black.

“No—”

You press the button again.

Nothing.

“No—no, no, no—”

Dead.

Your breath stutters.

“Fuck—”

You’re already moving.

Too fast.

Too frantic.

You push yourself up, scanning the room like something might appear if you just look hard enough.

Charger.

There has to be a charger.

You rush to the bedside table, hands grabbing the handle of the drawer and pulling—

It doesn’t open.

You blink.

Try again.

Harder.

Nothing.

Locked.

“Shit—”

You yank it again.

Nothing.

“Come on—”

You pull harder, the wood rattling slightly but not giving.

“Come on!”

Frustration spikes sharp and hot and you kick the drawer—

Pain shoots up your foot instantly.

“—ah—!”

You stumble back, dropping down hard onto the floor, clutching your toes as the ache pulses through you.

“Fuck—”

Your voice cracks.

The room feels too small again.

Too tight.

Too late.

I was so close.

You press your forehead to your arm, shoulders shaking as the tears hit all at once.

Not quiet.

Not controlled.

Ugly.

Raw.

You were so close.

She heard you—

Did she hear you?

Did she understand?

Did she—

“Why didn’t I just—”

Your thoughts tangle, unraveling mid-sentence.

Why didn’t you call the police?

Why didn’t you—

You don’t even know.

Your chest heaves.

Your hands shake.

Everything feels wrong again.

Too fast.

Too much.

You drag in a breath that doesn’t help.

Another.

Still not enough.

And then—

your gaze shifts.

Back to the closet.

The safe.

Still open.

Waiting.

You stare at it through blurred vision.

Your grip on your foot loosens slowly.

“…fine.”

Your voice is hoarse.

Unsteady.

But quieter now.

Colder.

You push yourself up.

Wipe at your face with the back of your hand.

If the outside won’t come to you—

Then you dig deeper.

Into him.

Into this.

Into whatever else he’s hidden.

The safe hangs open in front of you.

For a moment, you just stare into it—like it might close again if you move too fast. Like this is something temporary. Something borrowed.

Then your hand reaches in.

Cold metal meets your fingers.

You pull it out slowly.

A gun.

Heavier than you expected.

Your grip adjusts instinctively, fingers tightening around it as if that might make it feel more natural in your hand. It doesn’t. The weight drags at your wrist, unfamiliar, wrong.

You don’t know if it’s loaded.

You don’t check.

You just… hold it.

Your thumb brushes along the side. The shape of it. The reality of it.

Your mind flickers—

If I—

The thought forms too quickly.

Too clean.

If I just wait. If he comes in. If I—

You swallow.

Your hand lowers slightly.

No.

The word comes just as fast.

I can’t.

Not because you don’t understand what it would solve.

But because—

I don’t want to be that.

Your fingers loosen.

You place the gun back inside the safe.

Carefully.

Like it might react if you don’t.

Your eyes linger for half a second—

then shift.

There’s more inside.

A shoebox.

Worn at the edges. Out of place among the metal and the weaponry.

You pull it out and set it in your lap, lowering yourself to the floor without thinking.

The lid lifts easily.

Inside—

cassette tapes.

Stacked.

Labeled.

Neatly.

A small player sits tucked beside them. 

Your fingers hover over the tapes, brushing lightly against the plastic cases.

 Some labels make sense. 

Dates. Times. Others don’t. 

Just fragments of words. Notes that mean nothing without context. 

Your gaze settles on one. 

First Recording. 

Your thumb presses along the edge of the case. You hesitate.

This isn’t yours.

None of this is.

But—

you’re already here.

Already past the point of turning back.

You slide the tape out, the plastic catching slightly before giving, and slot it into the player. The mechanism accepts it with a soft, final click.

Too easy.

You pull the headphones over your ears.

Then—

you press play.

A soft hiss fills your ears.

Static.

Low. Constant.

Then—

a voice.

Warm.

Measured.

Professional.

“Hello, Benjamin. It’s nice to meet you. I’m Doctor Mercer.”

The sound feels… close. Too close. Like you’re sitting in the room with them.

There’s a pause.

Fabric shifting. A chair, maybe.

Then—

another voice.

Smaller.

Clear.

Flat in a way that doesn’t belong to a child.

“Dex. My name is Dex.”

No hesitation.

No softness.

Just correction.

A beat.

Doctor Mercer again, gentle, accommodating.

“Oh—my mistake. Dex, then. That’s a good name. It makes you very distinct.”

Another pause.

“If you’d like, you can call me Eileen.”

Silence.

Not empty.

Waiting.

And then—

“Okay.”

Part 2 here<<<<<<<

A beat.

“More than the sex.”

The water settles around your hands again.

You don’t look at Dex when you say it.

You don’t need to.

There’s a stretch of quiet before you move on, your tone shifting—lighter now, almost like you’re stepping away from something before it gets too close.

“Turns out he wasn’t divorced,” you say.

A faint, breathless sound—almost a laugh, but not quite.

“Just… in a very complicated relationship.”

Your fingers dip slightly beneath the surface this time, the water closing over them.

“One day,” you continue, “his wife showed up.”

You say it like you’re introducing a detail in a story you’ve told before.

Not important.

Just… what happened next.

“She didn’t say much at first,” you go on, gaze unfocused now, fixed somewhere in the water but not really seeing it. “Just looked at me. Then at him.”

A small pause.

“Then she grabbed me.”

Your hand lifts unconsciously, brushing lightly along your own arm as if remembering the motion rather than the feeling.

“By the hair,” you add, almost helpfully. “Which—honestly—I didn’t even realize people actually do outside of movies.”

A quiet, self-deprecating breath escapes you.

“She dragged me out into the hallway and down the stairs like she’s announcing a harlot.”

Your tone doesn’t change.

Still even.

Still distant.

“I remember thinking I should probably say something,” you admit. “But I didn’t really know what to say.”

A faint tilt of your head, like you’re still puzzling it out.

“She was yelling. At me. At him. I think mostly at him.” A pause. “But I was the one she had.”

Your fingers press lightly against the edge of the tub now.

Grounding—but not quite.

“I think she hit me a few times,” you continue, almost thoughtfully. “Or maybe more than a few. It’s a little blurry.”

A small shrug of one shoulder.

“I remember the stairs more than anything.”

Another quiet breath.

“They got black and white checker tiles. I remember that.”

After a moment, you added.

“I think I loosened a tooth,”

A faint, crooked smile tugs at your lips.

“Or maybe it fell out later. I don’t remember exactly from how much blood I was spilling on those dam checker floor boards.”

You exhale softly through your nose.

“It’s kind of… embarrassing, when you think about it.”

The smile lingers just slightly—self-directed, dismissive.

Like it’s easier to laugh at it than to sit with what it actually was.

Dex’s reaction is immediate.

His jaw tightens.

Hard.

The muscles shift visibly under his skin, his posture changing—not relaxed anymore.

Focused.

“Who was he?” he asks.

You look at him then.

Really look.

At the way his eyes have darkened slightly in the dim light, the way something in him has narrowed, honed itself into something pointed.

You know that look.

You’ve seen it before.

You remember the name.

Clearly.

But you don’t say it.

Instead, you smile—small, easy.

“I don’t remember,” you say.

A lie.

Obvious.

Dex studies you.

Silent.

Assessing.

Then—

his hands find you again.

Not tentative.

Not questioning.

They close around you with quiet certainty, pulling you in—not upright this time, not held against him—but down, repositioning you across him like something that belongs in his space.

Your body shifts with the movement, the bathwater sloshing softly against porcelain as he guides you.

Sideways.

Your hip settles against his thigh, your legs folding slightly to fit within the narrow curve of the tub. One of his arms comes around your waist, anchoring you there; the other slides higher, bracing across your back, holding you in place without pressing you flat.

You end up half-draped across him.

Your cheek finds his chest almost naturally.

Warm.

Damp.

Solid beneath your skin.

You let yourself rest there.

The water settles.

And then—

you hear it.

His heartbeat.

Not slow.

Not calm.

It thuds beneath your ear—steady, but too strong, too present. Like something held in place rather than eased into it.

Alive.

Grounding.

His arm tightens slightly around you.

Like he needs to make sure you’re still there.

“I’d do anything for you,” he says.

His voice is low, close—felt more than heard, vibrating faintly through his chest where your cheek rests.

There’s no softness in it.

No attempt to make it sound like comfort.

It’s not a promise meant to soothe.

It’s a statement. Plain. Certain.

“If you wanted something,” he continues, quieter now, like he’s choosing the words as he goes, “I’d make it happen.”

His hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers pressing in—not painful, just enough to remind you of their presence.

“I don’t care what it is.”

A small pause.

Then—

“I can kill for you.”

The words don’t rise.

They don’t drop.

They land exactly where they are.

“I can take things. Make things happen. I can hurt people.”

Another breath.

Measured.

“I can do whatever needs to be done.”

His arm tightens again, more noticeably this time.

Not enough to hurt.

Enough to hold.

“For you,” he adds.

A beat.

“If that’s what you want.”

Your cheek stays pressed to him.

You don’t move.

You just listen.

His heartbeat doesn’t slow.

“If it meant you’d stay,” he says then—quieter, but sharper in a way the rest wasn’t. “If that’s what it takes—then that’s what I’ll do.”

There it is.

Not hidden.

Not dressed up.

Just laid out, plain and immovable.

“I’ll give you whatever you ask for,” he finishes. “Anything.”

A small pause.

His grip doesn’t loosen.

“Just don’t leave.”

Silence follows.

The water laps faintly at the sides of the tub.

Your fingers rest lightly against his skin, unmoving.

You don’t answer.

You just listen.

To the rhythm under your ear.

To the way it grounds the moment into something almost—

normal.

Almost safe.

Almost—

like being held by someone who knows how to love,

even if this isn’t quite that.

Slowly, you lean back.

Just enough to look up at him.

His face is half-shadowed, the warm strip of light catching along the edge of his cheek, softening the sharpness there, painting him in something almost gentle.

For a second—

he looks like someone you remember.

Someone simpler.

Someone safe.

Your hand lifts.

Resting against his face.

Your fingers are wet, cool against the warmth of his skin, brushing lightly along the line of his jaw, over the faint roughness there.

He doesn’t pull away.

He doesn’t move.

He just watches you.

Wide green eyed.

Still.

You lean in.

Slowly this time.

No urgency.

No force.

Just—

choice.

Your lips brush his.

Soft.

Careful.

A different kind of contact.

Not searching.

Not taking.

Just… offering.

You linger there for a second—

just long enough for it to exist.

Then pull back slightly, your forehead almost touching his.

And somewhere, quietly, without saying it—

you hope.

That if you hold it like this—

soft enough—

gentle enough—

long enough—

it might turn into something real.

153

The number sits at the bottom of the page, carved in shallow, uneven strokes into a scrap of paper torn from the back of a book. The edges are soft now, worn from being folded, unfolded, handled too many times.

Every number above it is crossed out.

One after another.

Neat at first.

Then messier.

Then desperate.

153 is the last one.

It hasn’t been crossed out.

It hasn’t been touched in days.

The paper rests where you left it—tucked into the corner of the closet, half-hidden beneath a shift in the floorboard that doesn’t quite sit right anymore. The safe is still there too, quiet and patient behind hanging fabric, its dial untouched.

You had stopped.

Not because you ran out of numbers.

Not because you gave up.

Just—

stopped.

Days don’t feel like days anymore.

They blur.

Mornings into evenings. Evenings into something softer, slower, heavier. Time shaped around him—when he leaves, when he returns, when he looks at you, when he doesn’t.

He’s changed.

Not in a way you can name cleanly.

Not kinder.

Not safer.

Just—

closer.

More present.

No.

That’s not right.

More attached.

It shows in the way his hands linger now. The way he watches you—not distantly, not curiously, but like something that has already been decided. Like you’ve been placed somewhere in his mind and he’s no longer trying to figure out where.

And you—

You don’t know what to do with that.

Because a part of you knows exactly what this is.

It isn’t love.

It doesn’t behave like love.

It doesn’t soften anything.

It sharpens.

It consumes.

It takes and takes until there’s nothing left to give—and still asks for more.

And when it burns out—

you already know how it ends.

There’s no future in this.

No version of it that lasts.

No version of you that walks out of it whole.

You know that.

You do.

But—

another part of you lingers there anyway.

Quieter.

More dangerous.

What if this is it?

Not love as it’s supposed to be.

But love as it exists for you.

Because you’ve never felt anything like this before.

Not with anyone.

Not the people who were too good—too careful, too gentle, like they were afraid of pressing too hard.

Not the ones who never stayed long enough to matter.

But him—

He doesn’t hesitate.

He doesn’t hold back.

He doesn’t soften himself to fit you.

He takes.

He pulls.

He reaches into something inside you and makes space for himself there whether you’re ready or not.

And you let him.

You let him because something in you—

wants that.

Not the soft kind of love.

Not the kind that sits across from you in quiet cafés or lingers in morning light with half-finished conversations and easy warmth.

Not the kind that builds something stable.

Predictable.

Safe.

That kind of love was never meant for you.

It wouldn’t take root.

It wouldn’t stay.

What you understand—

what fits—

is this.

Something that digs.

Something that hurts.

Something that feels like it might destroy you if you let it go too far.

Because at least that—

means something.

At least that reaches you.

At least that feels real.

The light outside had already faded—slowly at first, then all at once—leaving the windows dark, the glass reflecting only the dim interior back at itself. The last of the sunset had slipped away minutes ago, and with it, whatever thin comfort routine used to bring.

He should’ve been back by now.

He’s usually early.

Or at least on time.

Never this late.

You had noticed it without meaning to.

The way the clock kept moving.

The way the silence stretched.

The way your attention kept drifting toward the door, waiting for the familiar sound of the lock turning.

It hadn’t come.

And then—

the knock.

Your body freezes before your mind catches up.

The sound doesn’t belong here.

It doesn’t fit into anything you know.

Dex doesn’t knock.

The realization lands instantly.

Too fast.

Too loud.

Your breath stills.

You don’t move.

Not toward the door.

Not away from it.

Just—

still.

The chain at your ankle lies slack against the floor, its length drawn tight enough that you already know—you wouldn’t make it past the bedroom doorway even if you tried.

Another knock.

Louder this time.

Patient.

Measured.

Your heart starts to climb.

Should you say something?

Should you scream?

Say it—say it now, before whoever it is leaves—

Help me.

I’m here.

I’m not supposed to be here.

But the thought twists before it can settle.

What if it’s him?

What if it’s a test?

What if he’s waiting to see what you’ll do?

The words die in your throat before they can form.

Silence stretches.

Then—

a voice.

“Hello, Mr. Poindexter.”

Male.

Calm.

Professional.

Too calm.

“I’m Felix Manning. I believe Mr. Fisk already mentioned of my arrival.”

The name lands wrong.

Fisk.

Something in your chest tightens.

You don’t breathe.

You don’t move.

You don’t exist.

“I was hoping you might come down to the hotel,” the man continues, tone even, unhurried. “Mr. Fisk would prefer to speak with you in person in…some matters.”

A pause.

“But I understand if that isn’t possible.”

Your fingers curl slightly at your sides.

“Still,” he adds, “he would appreciate it if you could review the contents of this file at your convenience.”

Another brief silence.

“Good day.”

You stay exactly where you are.

Listening.

Waiting.

Then—

a soft sound.

Paper against wood.

Something sliding.

A yellow envelope rests just inside the front door, pushed beneath it, its corner bent slightly where it caught on the threshold.

Too far.

You stand at the edge of the bedroom doorway, the chain at your ankle stretched to its limit, a thin line of metal pulled taut across the floor. It stops you exactly where it always does—just short of anything that matters. 

The sound of footsteps disappearing down the hallway comes shortly after and then—

The apartment is quiet again.

Too quiet.

The kind that presses in on your ears until every small sound feels louder than it should be.

You keep looking at the door.

Half-expecting it to open.

Half-expecting the lock to turn.

It doesn’t.

The envelope doesn’t move.

It just sits there—yellow against the darker wood, flat, unassuming, like it hasn’t already changed something just by being here.

You shouldn’t touch it.

You know that.

You don’t know who that man really is.

You don’t know what “Fisk” means.

You don’t know what’s inside.

But—

you need to know.

The thought doesn’t feel like a choice.

It feels like pressure.

You turn abruptly, the chain scraping faintly behind you as you move back toward the closet. Your hands are already reaching before you’ve decided what you’re looking for—pushing aside hanging clothes, fingers brushing against fabric, wood, empty space.

Something long.

Something you can use.

Your hand catches on it.

You pull it free.

A broom.

Old. Light. Forgotten in the corner.

Of course, he has a vacuum now.

You grip it tighter than you need to and turn back quickly, the chain dragging behind you as you return to the edge of its reach.