𝓁.

A nurse, huh?

How did you get to where you are? Was it unprompted? Did your parents tell you that the best thing you could do was save other people's lives? Do they see it as a respectable calling? Or was it because you wanted to? I can picture you second-guessing that choice: maybe you watched a show, a movie, or read a book as a little girl that told you being a nurse was your path in life.

I picture you on your graduation day, celebrating big, with family and friends. I bet that was the day your boyfriend proposed... I can sense it from the pictures hanging by the stairs in your home. I’d swear you imagined a life where you’d have thousands of achievements, and why wouldn't you? You’re smart, sharp, and you know how to hold your own, how to speak, and how to face situations that would make anyone else afraid to even set foot forward.

But every sweet life has a bit of bittersweet, doesn't it? I can picture you during those endless shifts at the hospital, complaining because you have to work overtime or because there isn't enough staff for everything that goes down in Hell's Kitchen. I can picture you sleeping on a cot, still in your uniform, hoping that this time, when you get home, your husband will be sober and won't have gotten into trouble... like he always does. And keeps doing, over and over again.

You’re tired of him. I can see it in the way you sigh when you open the front door after a whole day on call and see him passed out on the couch. You want to cry, you want to scream at him and throw him out of the house your parents bought you for your happy marriage... or well, the attempt at one.

But you hold back... because you know it’s too soon. Damn. Twelve months of marriage and there are already problems at home? Twelve months of marriage and you already want to give up? You know it would be an embarrassing topic of conversation at your friends' and family's gatherings. You know your parents wouldn't approve of a divorce, not because they like their son-in-law, but because... well, religion comes before everything else, doesn't it?

And I don't mean to offend you, because I know you think the exact same thing. I know you have a small Bible in your bag that you cling to when faith seems to slip through your fingers; you read it over and over, in bed, on the bus, at work, waiting for something, or someone, to fall from the sky and help you. You want a divine force to save you when you see him lose his mind, crossing the boundaries you set and said no man would ever cross; you want that when he screams at you, when he tells you to shut up and just lay down and open your legs, nothing more. God, all you want is for someone to show up.

Because you’re exhausted, because you don't know what to do anymore... because you’ve put up with your husband for twelve months and it seems unacceptable to your heart to let him go.

But you’re a good believer. I can see it; you’re a good person, trying to help anyone who knocks on your door at two in the morning on a Monday looking for a piece of bread, because they know you’re the woman who helps everyone in this community. Young girls come to you, they tell you their problems... instead of telling their parents or siblings. The elderly greet you by name, ask about your mother, and give you pastries when they can. Everyone in this community trusts you.

Everyone loves you. Your friends talk about you with an admiration I’ve rarely seen without fear mixing into the recipe; with you, there’s no need for it. Your husband, even though he doesn't seem to grasp the damage he causes you, speaks of you as if you were a saint. You’re lovely, empathetic, supportive, a good cook, and a good wife.

And I’m not going to lie to you, woman... all of this seems unfair to me. I understand that in the end you’re just collateral damage, but I don't see why you should be hurt. I mean, what did your husband do to make Kingpin send me to kill you? Are you his accomplice? You can tell me the truth, and if you're innocent, I promise to leave you alive, I promise to bring Fisk a boar's heart inside a chest.

Are you even aware of the underworld your husband is tangled up in? It seems you are, by the way you don't flinch when you see me climb through your window in the Daredevil suit. You know the devil, right? Have you ever helped him? Have you been an accomplice to a vigilante? Dammit, that's... fucked up. If I weren't putting on a theatrical show with this piece-of-shit red mask I’m wearing, I could report you, you know that, right?

But how could I? When you look so innocent and angelic, you greet me hopefully, your brows furrowed over your forehead and your eyes gleaming in the shadows of your bedroom... all by yourself, because that useless husband of yours decided to skip another night, surely with another lie. He will never tell you the whole truth: not exactly what he’s into, nor the blood spilled on his hands, nor the affair he’s having with one of his co-workers.

No... you don't know anything about that, do you?

I could never do that to you. I could never hurt you; people like you are an example to follow. But it’s not enough for me to just believe it, I need you to tell me: please tell me you’re a good person, tell me I can trust you and take the risk. Tell me that cross on your necklace is genuine in your heart, that the trembling you’re having right now is because you’re glad to see me and not because I’m getting closer.

Don't be afraid, my hands are nowhere near any weapon. I’m just trying to take you in; these past few days I’ve only watched you from afar, but now that I’m close... I notice you have a bit of green in those blue eyes.

I’m sorry, I’m a bit confused. I’d like to understand the way you look at me. I can see the fear, yes, but there's something else slipping into your gaze, something I didn't expect. I thought you were going to scream, that maybe you’d curse at me upon realizing I’m the Daredevil who caused a massacre in the New York Bulletin and not the one you know. But no, you just tremble, perfectly still, your chest rising and falling heavily beneath the pink dress you’re wearing.

And yet, when I finally have you in front of me, when my fingers manage to touch the cold metal of your cross and I can feel the figure of Jesus on it, it doesn't surprise me at all when you pull away, your eyes wide and your mouth open, gasping from the terror and adrenaline rushing through your veins. Relax, I’ve made a decision; it's not me you’ll be running from now.

My words seem to take a moment to hit you as I tell you, the gears turning slower. But when you understand, when you know that the best thing you can do is escape, flee this city and abandon your old life, that’s when a thick tear rolls down your cheek. I cut you off short when you try to argue; brave of you, honestly, as if it were a choice you could actually make and you didn't know my hands are deadly weapons.

“Last chance.”

You know I’m not lying, you know I could drive that cross into your throat right now and leave myself wondering what would have become of you if you had just listened to me. I can see you’re already thinking about it, taking the time to calculate what you can do. I’m not judging you; I mean, you have a lot to do from here on out, and even though this city is big, you know it won't be big enough.

Something seems to click in your head when you hear your husband's car pull up outside your house. He's drunk and almost semi-conscious, fumbling to fit the key into the front door lock, completely unaware that you left it open for him to walk in, but he doesn't even notice that.