Siampie1990

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Masterlist of Matt Murdock Fics

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Masterlist of Dean Winchester Fics

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Masterlist of Michael Kinsella Fics

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Masterlist of Steve Harrington Fics

Daredevil.

He is standing in your living room, pinning you against your wall. You heart is hammering against your ribcage, thoughts swirling at a mile a minute as you are actively looking for a way out. Your eyes dart to your purse on the couch, in which the gun given to you is kept.

His voice gravelly, and rough pulls your eyes back to him. “I’m going to take my hand off your mouth. It would be your best interest not to scream. Do you understand?”

Even if you were to scream who would come to your rescue?

No one.

You nod, hesitantly. He lifts his hand and rests it against the wall, a few inches from your face. His second hand still on your sternum, keeping you against the wall. You can feel the slightest of pressure there.

“I’m going you to ask you some questions,” he says. “If you answer truthfully, I won’t hurt you. Believe me when I tell you that you don’t want to lie, and that I will be able to tell the difference? Understood?” He pauses.

You nod again, letting out a breathless; “yes.”

“What’s your name?”

“You know where to find me but you don’t know my name,” you answer instead.

The pressure against your sternum increases slightly, “just tell me your name.” You say your name reluctantly. His face tilts to the right. “You remember the first time we met, don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Do you remember what I asked you?”

“I do.”

“If I ask you again, will you tell me the truth?”

“No,” you answer truthfully.

His hand wraps around your throat tightly, “why are you protecting them?” He growls in your face, his breath fanning over your lips.

Your hands wrap around his forearm, “I’m not—protec—ting them.” You choke out.

He isn’t letting you go. So, you fight back. You try to jam your thumbs into his eyes. His right hand takes a hold of your left, stopping you from attacking his eyes. You change your strategy, balling your right hand into a fist and punched the side of his face. Catching his temple.

“Stop!” He groans, “I won’t hurt you.” He finally let go of your throat to pin your arms against your chest. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

You don’t believe him. You move your head, ready to crush his nose with your forehead. He blocks you, pushing your head against the wall. You do not stop the fight, you struggle against his grip, trying to get away from him.

“I am not going to hurt you.”

“Really? You attacked me in my car. And now, you’re in my apartment. If you’re not gonna hurt me, what are you gonna do?”

He doesn’t have an answer to offer to you. You were right, each time, it looked terribly like he wanted to hurt you. That was never his goal. His intent was only to intimidate you. But clearly, he had underestimated you.

“Alright, I will let you go,” he utters. “I have more questions but as a show of a good faith, I will put distance between you and me. And I won’t touch you. Deal?”

Your eyes roam the bottom half of his face, the only visible part of his face. You have no way of knowing the truth. No way of knowing if he will keep his words. But he will let you go, meaning if he tries anything, you will be able to defend yourself. To use any weapon in your home to fight back.

“Deal.” You nod.

He pulls away, raising up his hands and takes a few steps away from you. Putting as much distance, he feels comfortable putting between the two of you.

“Now, let’s have an honest conversation—”

You cut him off, “I won’t tell you, their names.”

“What did they do to earn your loyalty?”

“This is not about loyalty,” you retort. You take in a deep breath, “this is about duty.”

“To them?”

“Not to them. Never to them.” You let out a shaky breath, your thoughts flashing back to your siblings and their children. Flashing back to your father; the very reason you were in this situation to begin with. “Look, I am a simple secretary. A secretary who is unfortunately indebted to them. All I want is to pay what I owe them. And be free,” you say. “Helping you will not accomplish that. So, whatever—plan you have—I’m sure, you’ll find someone who will gladly help you. But it won’t be me.”

“Why can’t it be you?” He asks quietly.

“I’ve already sign off my soul to them. To Fisk. I’m not willing to sign it off to you.”

“I will get you your freedom,” your breath hitches at his words. The streetlights casting harsh shadows across his jawline. “You can work with me. Help me tear down what’s left of his empire, and I will get you out.”

Time seems to stop. Is he aware of what he’s promising you? Is he aware of what he’s asking you?

“Do you know what you’re asking me?”

“Yes. I’m asking you to help me. To be the inside man.”

You scoff, “said the masked man. They don’t know who you are. I don’t know who you are. And you’re asking me to put my life on the line for you?”

“I’m asking you to put your life on the line for the people you’re already protecting,” he counters.

You swallow your saliva then let out a shaky breath, “I can’t—” tears are welling up in your eyes, “—do that.”

His posture softens infinitesimally, “you don’t have to answer me tonight. I’ll give you a few days to think it over.”

“What if I still refuse? What then?”

“When they fall, you’ll fall with them,” he steps closer to your window. “Three days. I’ll be back in three days.”

Without any more words, he leaps out of your window onto your fires escape. You let out a shaky breath; your legs give out from under you. Is this what your life was reduced to? Being threatened in your own car and your own home. Your home that was supposed to be a safe sanctuary, away from the storm. And the danger. And yet, it had found you.

The Devil had found you.

****

He knows who you are. He knows where you live. Your sanctuary was no longer safe. And now, you have to think about his offer. An offer where you have to sign off your soul away once more.

You will never be free.

You barely slept the night before. You swipe your access badge, walk past the security guards and get in the elevator. You are determined to have a normal day of work. At least, try to have a normal day of work. Desperate to enjoy one day of peace and normalcy. But Marsh was determined to make it difficult for you.

“Good morning, doll,” you sit in front of him, at his desk. He is grinning widely. Seemingly proud of himself. “I heard you did a great job last night. Congratulations, I knew you had it in you.”

“Glad that you are satisfied by my work,” you say in a tight voice.

“Now, I’m curious what did you tell him to convince him?”

“I just—reminded him that he still has a debt to pay. Nothing more.”

“Well, it must have been a hell of a speech.”

“Mr. Marsh, you won’t ask me to do this again, will you? I don’t feel comfortable driving around with—you know—in the trunk of a car.”

He leans over the desk, “but you did such a good job—Mouse, why shouldn’t I ask you to do this again, uh? Plus, it’s not like you have a choice. You owe us, remember?”

“How can I forget?”

“It is settled then, Doll,” he leans back. “I will let you know when we have—a new package—to drop.”

****

You need to find more intel on your new bosses. Specifically on Marsh. You still don’t know what you will do with it. What could you possibly do with it?

Give it to the Devil.

You can’t risk your life on an empty promise. You can’t trust a man in a mask. You knew nothing about him. He has threatened you twice already. At least, he was upfront with his threats and intentions. But could you really trust him? Saying yes to him, would only bind you to another master. You will have no choice but to obey. To do as you are told. Is that really what you want? To serve another master?

You were a slave to Fisk. You are currently serving Leblanc, and now, the Devil wanted you to serve him. Offering you freedom. The freedom you have been seeking for years. Could you trust him over this? Could you risk your life for the illusion of a promised freedom?

You did what you always do when you feel as though you’re losing the little control you have, you start to look into the new security guards. Hired guns, mercenaries that worked for a good paycheck. And nothing else. Not that you believe that security guards are doing the job for the love of it either. But you like to think that; unlike those mercenaries; they still have some morals. You mainly researched two of them. Not that you neglected the others. You found out basic things about them, their names, and their rap sheets. But the two hired guns you researched, were the ones that work currently with Marsh the most.

Silas Vance, the man that came to fetch you the night before, looks like the muscle. He is impressive, a brick wall of a man, that looks like he eats concrete for breakfast. It is what he looks like. Not who he is. From what you could read, or at least, from what you could piece together, Vance was in the military.  His records were heavily redacted, but you found out that he was honorably discharged after an internal investigation regarding excessive force and unsanctioned operations. Vance doesn’t use violence freely. He isn’t the type to break your legs because he’s angry, he’ll do it because the spreadsheet says it’s the most efficient way to extract compliance.

The night before, you were a nervous wreck. You didn’t really pay attention to him; on the way he gave instructions or on the tone he used. But observing him now, Vance is always on alert, surveilling the surrounding. His eyes are cold and calculating.

Vance is a predator. A predator on a leash.

Elena Rostova is the second person of interest. Unfortunately, you didn’t unearth much about her. And she seems to be invisible most of the time. Never on your floor, but frequently having private meetings with Marsh in his office. Rostova has no assault charges, no messy public incidents. Instead, her digital footprint is full of ghost-company paychecks and acquitted corporate espionage charges.

One thing you did find out and could help in the future. Elena Rostova has a higher security clearance than you. Meaning she can access the same areas than Octavia and Finnegan have access to.

Two more obstacles to get through to…

To do what?

It isn’t as though you are going to do anything, right? What can you possibly do? You are no one. Nothing. They have you in the palm of their hands and they will crush you if you attempt anything against them.

Knowledge is power. But it is the only power you have. Not a power you can wield against them.

****

Marsh pours himself a drink; “would you like one?” He offers you.

“No, thank you sir.”

He sits down in his chair, across from you. “I must say I am impressed, Doll. You are providing good work for the company in and out of the building.” he praises you.

“James Wesley taught me the value of efficiency, Mr. Marsh.” You reply, keeping your voice as smooth as possible. Trying to appear detached.

Marsh smiles, a predatory stretching of thin lips. “Good. Because I have a new assignment for you. Something that requires that exact—efficiency.”

He slides a heavy manila folder across the polished mahogany desk. You reach out and flip open the cover, fighting the instinct to hesitate. Inside are photos, in black and white, of at least five young women. They didn’t look older than 25 years old.

“You know that we secured our arrangement with Madame Gao. And thanks to Octavia, we secured other associates that are ready to invest in our new project. In order to prove our good faith, we agreed to secure their assets.” He nods to the photos.

Is he really expecting you to participate in human trafficking? The bile rise in the back of your throat, hot and acrid, but you swallow it down. You let your eyes drag over the photographs, memorizing the terrified, hollow stares of the young women.

You knew what Wesley did for Fisk. Blackmail, political corruption, all of this in order to secure and facilitate their associates’ business. You barely glanced at the papers he had put in your hands. You only arranged meetings, nothing more. You could plead plausible deniability if it came down to it.

But with this—they are making you a participant. An accessory to their crimes. Putting bloods on your hands.

“When they fall, you’ll fall with them.”

The Devil’s voice echoes through your head. Leblanc, Marsh and Turpin are making sure that you do.

You close the folder, looking up at Leblanc. His gaze is focused on you, calculating. He will not take no for an answer. And you already are involved in all of this. You can’t pretend you don’t know what they’re doing. You can’t feign ignorance.

You straighten your spine, “the logistics of moving living assets are vastly different from moving—deceased ones.” Your voice is steadier than it was at the beginning of this conversation. “They require food, ventilation, and a secure transit route devoid of random inspections.”

Marsh’s predatory smile widens, clearly pleased by your pragmatic approach, “our new associates and I are aware of these accommodations. And are taking care of it at this very moment.” He continues, leaning back into his chair. “What I need you to do is to orchestrate the transport. Ensure no one sees them. Ensure none of them break.”

“What about security?”

“Do not worry about it. Our new partner has his own security; they will do the heavy lifting.” He waves a dismissive hand, “You worry about building a route that the police—and that masked freak running around the Kitchen—won’t anticipate.”

“Of course,” you nod. You stand up, smoothing the front of your jacket. “I will need access to the shipping manifests, as well as the shift rotations for the dockworkers.”

“You’ll get them within the hour. Our partner wants them moved by tomorrow midnight, to their primary distribution hub.” Marsh promises. He calls your name, “Do not disappoint me, doll. Mr. Leblanc does not tolerate failure. And neither do I.”

“I have never failed an employer, Mr. Marsh. I will ensure the cargo reaches its destination.”

You turn and walk out of his office, your heels clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floor. With every step away from Marsh, the cold numbness in your chest shatters, replaced by a terrifying, electric resolve. You are going to build the perfect route. You are going to secure the manifests, the guard rotations, and the exact coordinates of the transfer.

And you will hand every single piece of evidence over to Daredevil.

Because if you are falling, you will take them down with you.

Night had fallen a long time ago. You were laying on your back, in your bed, staring at the ceiling, hoping for slumber to welcome you. You have been trying to fall asleep for a while. You turned on your right side, then on your left. You threw away the covers, and pulled them back on, up to your collarbone, down to your waist. Nothing felt right, too suffocating. You fluffed your pillow because your head wasn’t high enough, and then, flattened them because your head was too high.

You threw away the covers, once more and climbed out of bed. With a heavy sight, you padded to the kitchen, your barefoot barely making any sound on the floodboard. It was two in the morning as your microwave gently reminded you. You decided on making a hot drink, maybe that would help.

There was a light thud outside of your window as the Devil landed on the fire escape. His senses had honed in on you’re a few streets away. He was expecting on your slow and steady heartbeats that would confirm to him, you were safely sleeping. Instead, he heard your heart beating faster than it should. He had already planned to stop briefly to check up on you. It was now a staple of his night patrols. To stop by and listen to you sleeping before going home. He knocked twice on your window. You let out a gasp, abruptly turning towards the sound. Nearly dropping the heavy glass jar that contained your tea bags, you were about to place on the middle shelf.

You padded over to the window. Through the darkness, the familiar, imposing silhouette of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen crouched on the iron grating. You unlock the latch, and he slid the window open, slipping into your small kitchen with a silent grace that still took your breath away.

You let the cool New York breeze swept into your apartment, closely followed by the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen himself. Your boyfriend stood framed in the moonlight, his chest heaving slightly from the exertion of his patrol. Even beneath the crimson cowl, you could feel his heightened senses zeroing in on you.

“You’re up late,” his gravelly voice broke the silence, softening as he stepped into the warmth of your apartment.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you said softly, closing the window behind him.

As he turned to face you, the streetlights outside caught the deep red plating of his armor. You hadn’t seen him in the suit much. He symbolized fear and brutal justice to most of the city. But standing in your dimly lit kitchen, all you could see was the man who had charmed you at Josie’s Bar—only now, he looked dangerously, undeniably handsome. The tactical material hugged every muscle, emphasizing the sheer strength he possessed, a stark contrast to the sharp suits and cane he carried by day.  

The sight alone sent shivers down your spine. Heat spread through your nether regions. His face tilted to the right, jutting his chin forward, catching the smell of your arousal. His gloved hands reached up, grasping the edges of his cowl. With a smooth motion, he pulled it over his head. His hair disheveled, plastered to his forehead with sweat, and a blooming purple bruise painting the edge of his sharp jawline. He dropped his helmet on the kitchen counter.

You stepped closer, and reached up a hand up, fingertips hovering just millimeters away from the purple bruise on his jaw. “You’re hurt,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly—not from fear, but from the overwhelming proximity of him. The smell of the city clung to him: a mix of cold night air, worn leather, sweat, and the faint, metallic tang of copper.

Matt leaned into your touch before you even made contact, his skin warm and slightly damp against your palm. He closed his unseeing eyes for a brief moment, letting out a long, exhausted sigh that seemed to drain the vigilante right out of him, leaving only the man you loved. But as his eyes fluttered open—those beautiful, hazel, sightless eyes—a small, knowing smirk tugged at the unbruised corner of his mouth.

He didn’t offer an answer right away. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate breath, his broad chest expanding against the crimson plating of his armor. He angled his face down toward you, closing the distance between your bodies.

Your hands found their resting place against his chest, your fingertips grazing against the scarred reinforced plating of his chest. There was an uptick in your heartbeat.

“You really like the suit, uh?” Matt’s gloved hands grabbed your hips gently.

“Well, you look—really nice in it,” you nodded, smiling. Your arms snaked around his neck, your fingers weaving through the hair at the nape of his neck. “Very sexy.”

“I’m not supposed to be sexy. I’m supposed to scare people.”

“It’s all kind of the same in the end.” He chuckled, pulling you flush against him. “Do you want to stay the night?”

“Would you like me to?”

“Yes,” you answered immediately. “And—” you continued hesitantly, “maybe you can show me how—to take it off.”

“Sweetie, if you wanted to get me naked you could have just said,” he countered teasingly.

You slapped his chest lightly, “I was just curious, you perv.”

“Perv? You are the one who wants to undress me,” a cheeky grin was plastered on his face.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, your forehead hit his chest. Your ears heat up at the top.

Matt chuckled, landing a kiss at the top of your head. He then pulled away slightly, his sightless eyes incredibly soft, he took your smaller hand into his, guiding to his collar, “right here.”

And for the next few minutes, he showed you patiently where all the hidden zippers and clasps were. Letting you undress him, piece of armor after piece of armor. The tension building in the room at the intimate action of undressing him. The vigilante melted away, Matt standing in his place. You rested a kiss between his naked shoulder blades, still slick with sweat.

You moved around to face him, your arms wrapping around his neck pulling him down, pressing your lips against his. His hands fell on your hips, deepening the kiss. He pulled you flush against him; you gasped, he slid his tongue inside your mouth. One of his hands let go of your hips, going down to your ass, and grabbing it. Your sleeping shirt hiking up slightly with the movement. A moan was drawn out of you.

He walked you both to your bedroom, his lips attached to yours. With you trusting him implicitly. Once in the bedroom, he pulled away slightly, pulling your sleeping shirt off of you. Goosebumps raising on your shoulders and chest. Your panties were soaked and stuck to your cunt. He cupped your face, pulling you back in for another kiss. Your naked breast pressing against his chest.

The back of your knees hit the edge of your bed; causing you to fall backwards. You let out a oomph when Matt landed on top of you.

“Sorry,” Matt chuckled.

“It’s okay,” you giggled before pulling him back into the kiss.

Your legs parted as his body pressed against, adding a comfortable weight on top of you. His hand cupped your left breast, his thumb brushing against your nipple. A soft moan slipped past your lips, immediately swallowed into the kiss. Matt’s lips detached from yours, living them red and swollen. His mouth pressed opened and wet kisses down your neck, and your collarbone. Travelling down to your chest, before wrapping around your nipple. Your fingers buried into his hair, his hips bucking into you, his erection meeting your heated core. His tongue lapped at your nipple, sucking it.

“Matty—” you purred, pulling his hair slightly. He let go of your nipple with a loud and filthy plop.

“Tell me what you want,” he teased with a feral smirk, his lips attaching to your pulse point.

“You—” you panted, your cunt clenching around nothing. Not only did you want him, “I need you. Please.”

His lips moved away from your neck back to your lips, your teeth clinking together. Before his mouth traced a map down your body. Both of your hands grabbed your breasts as you leaned on your elbows, keeping your eyes on him. His fingers slid under the hem of your panties. He laid a kiss right at your clothed entrance.

“So wet for me,” Matt’s lips curved up in a feral smile, your head fell against your back. His fingers hooked on the waistband of your panties, and he pulled them down. You lifted your hips briefly to help him take them off.

You felt the roughness of his beard as he laid kisses after kisses on the plush side of your thighs. His nose bumped into your wet cunt.

“You smell delicious,” he rasped out. At the first stroke of his tongue, you let out a broken moan. Falling back onto the mattress. He gave another stroke of his tongue before his mouth wrapped around your clit, sucking on it. Your hand buried into his hair, your fingers pulling it. Your legs trembled before involuntarily squeezing around his head.

“Fuck—” you hissed. “Matty, please.” You pulled his head away from your cunt. “I want you inside, baby. Please.”

He crawled over you, laying a sloppy kiss against your lips. He moved away, dropping his boxers, gave himself a few strokes. He climbed back on the bed; the head of his cock teased your entrance a few times. You whimpered at the contact, your cunt clenching around nothing. He lined himself up with your slickened entrance. And in one thrust, he slid all the way inside of you. The breath was knocked out of you at the sudden invasion. Accompanied with the sweet pleasure of finally feeling all of him inside of you.

“Oh, you feel so good, Matt.” You cooed once you caught your breath.

“Shit, sweetheart—” he grunted, his chest slick with sweat, pressed against yours.

He pulled out halfway before slamming back into you, you cried out. He started moving, thrusting inside of you. Your legs wrapped around his hips, your heels digging into the small of his back. His right hand wrapped gently around your throat, he kissed you. Your fingers weaved into dark locks.

You moaned into the kiss, your mind completely blank. Matt was literally fucking you dumb. He abruptly sped up; you squealed in surprise into his mouth. He didn’t stop, he only felt encouraged by your squeal and whimpers. His hips slammed viciously into you, over and over again.

“Oh, God, yes—there, just like that,” you cried out.

“You’re doing so good for me,” Matt praised you.

Your back bowed up, your legs trembled, the edges of your vision darkened.

“Matt—I’m—”

“Yeah, I—can feel—it,” he cussed, his forehead dropping against your shoulder.

You grunted, your arms wrapping against his back pulling him closer to you. His hips kept their relentless and vicious pace. Your hips desperately tried to keep up with his. Never quite matching. You felt him throbbing inside of you, his hips stuttered. Losing their rhythm, the telltale signs that he was also close.

The only sounds that could be heard in your room were your heavy breathing, broken moans and whimpers. And the clapping sounds of skin against skin.

The spring coiled tightly, low in your abdomen and suddenly it was released. Your cunt clenched hard around Matt’s cock. Your vision faded into black. Not long after, you felt Matt spilled inside of you, coating your walls. He gave a few more thrusts as you recovered from the earth-shattering orgasm you just had.

“That was—” you breathed out, “—very hot.” Your turned to your side, your hand resting on his chest.

“Yeah, it was,” he let out a low laugh. His sightless eyes searched your face before focusing on your right cheek. “Are you okay?”

“More than okay,” you nodded.

Matt gently pulled out of you, after pressing his lips against yours. He fell on his back next to you, his arm pressing against yours.

“I think you wore me out.”

A laugh rumbled out of his chest, “I hope that means you're going to fall asleep.”

“Yeah—I’m—I’m gonna fall asleep,” you shifted slightly, curling into his side. “Tell you what else—”

“What?”

“I might even sleep in tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

You felt his lips pressed against the crown of your head as you finally fell asleep.

Stéphane and your mother attempted to make their way into your street. Your mother’s husband had decided he would no longer wait to visit you. He had to see you, that was why he was there. This was why he convinced your mother to come all the way to Dublin. Your mother had wanted to tell you the truth about your father. About his true nature. And Stéphane saw an opportunity to be back into your life. To pick up where he left off before your father had ripped you away from his life.

The Guards had tried to warn you of their arrivals but Stéphane, the ever so charming man, convinced them otherwise. It was supposed to be a surprise, he said. You’d been here for months, on your own, they just wanted to make you feel better. So, they didn’t call you. And let them through.

Your neighborhood seemed quiet enough. Although, he was still confused as to why there was a police car in your street, monitoring every and any visitors. But he didn’t truly care about this at the moment. He rejoiced at the idea to see you again. He couldn’t wait to lay his eyes on you.

Dusk was falling as they both turned around the corner, stepping into your driveway. The lights were on in your kitchen. Your mother hesitated and grabbed onto his arm.

“She doesn’t want to see us,” she said quietly.

“She will,” he ripped his arms out her grasp. “And didn’t you want to tell her the truth? Once, she knows it, she will let you back into her life.”

Resigned, your mother followed him to your door.

****

Your lips quirked up into a giant smile when you heard the knock on your door. It seemed Michael was able to join you this evening. You rushed down the stairs, abandoning your phone on the counter as you walked by the kitchen. And opened the door.

The words of greetings died on your lips; your smile dropped as terror made its way into your chest.

“Surprise,” Stéphane said with a shit eating grin. Standing on your doorstep.

“Hi, honey,” your mother smiled at you from where she stood.

You shut the door on them. This couldn’t be real. They couldn’t be there, in front of your door. They weren’t supposed to find you here. Stéphane blocked the door and pushed against it. You put your weight against the door, trying to shut it. To no avail, Stéphane was much stronger than you. He shoved it back, and you lost your balance.

“That wasn’t really nice,” Stéphane said as he stepped into your home.

“I don’t want you here,” you took a step back, putting distance between you. “You have to leave. Get out.”

“Please, sweetie, can we just talk?” Your mother pleaded.

“No. No, we can’t. Get out,” Stéphane sneered at you. “GET OUT!”

Stéphane marched onto you; your hand reached for the phone on the counter as you backed away from him. He invited himself in, and your mother followed him, like the loyal little dog she was.

“It’s a really nice place you got yourself,” he commented as he walked further into your house, ignoring any command you gave him before. “That inheritance money really paid off, uh?”

“You have to leave. I don’t want you here.”

“Do you have any coffee?” He peeked into your living room. Your mother stood passively behind him, and you resented her for it.

Stéphane was forcing his way into your home. And left you no choice but to—reluctantly accept his presence in your home. You turned away from him, gripping your phone tightly. Stéphane looked to your mother, and with a tilt of his head—he signaled to her to sit at the small table. You placed your phone, discreetly on the counter. Hoping to see a text from Michael, confirming his visit. But there were no words from him. Your heart was pounding in your chest. You could feel it in your ears. You started a fresh pot of coffee, hands shaking terribly. You took in a shaky breath in a failed attempt to calm down your nerves.

You could feel their eyes on you as you moved around the kitchen. You hoped that it would be enough. Offering a cup of coffee, listening to their words and then they would leave. It was easier than trying to get them out. You would comply for a few minutes, going through the discomfort. And then it would be over.

You looked at your phone, once again. Michael was probably busy with a family meeting. They were having a lot of them, these days. You didn’t want to bother him. Worry him.

“It doesn’t matter; ya call me. And I’ll come and get ya.”

Your hand slid up his right side, “Michael," you were about to protest but he cut you off.

“I'm on yer side, Pet. I got ya. I won't let anyone hurt you."

This was a promise he had made you. A promise you knew he would keep. As discreetly as possible, while your back was turned to them. You texted him, hoping he would get the message. Hoping he would show up soon.

You let out another shaky breath as you turned around to face them. You crossed your arms over your chest. And remained quiet.

“Aren’t you going to give us a house tour?” Stéphane asked you.

“No.” The smell of coffee was starting to fill the room as it slowly dripped down into the pot. “So, what is it that you were dying to tell me?”

“Sweetie,” your mother started.

“And go fast, please. Cause I don’t have all day.”

She flinched back as though she had just been slapped by you. “That’s no way to speak to your mother,” Stéphane intervened looking angry.

“Stay out of it,” you glared at him. “I speak to her however way I want.”

She placed a hand on Stéphane’s arm, “Stéph, please?”

He sneered at her, then threw up his hands. And leaned back in his chair.

“Maybe you should sit down,” she suggested with a smile.

“I’m good. I just want—to get this over with.”

“Alright, erm—your father is not the man you thought he was,” she sounded unsure, her voice wavering slightly. “My aunt introduced us both. I was looking for a way to escape home, and he was offering me a way out. And I took it. But—it wasn’t an appropriate relationship. It shouldn’t have never—”

“I already know,” you shook her head, dropping your gaze to the floor. “If this was the big thing you wanted to tell me, you can stop. I already know.”

“You do?”

“Of course, I do. It doesn’t take a genius to put—“ you exhaled, “—two and two together. You were sixteen when you met him. And I was born a year later. And he was forty-five by then.” You looked up at her. “I know.” Tears pressed against your eyes. “I know.”

“And you still support the old man, uh? He was a monster and you still support him.” Stéphane snorted, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I’m not supporting the old man. I’m supporting me.” You retorted, then turned your focus back on your mother. “I understand what happened to you. I understand that he groomed you. That it wasn’t the great love story that I thought it was. I understand—” You paused, gathering yourself. “I understand that you needed to leave—but—you were supposed to protect us. To protect me. From Dad,” your eyes turned to Stéphane. “From him.”

She said your name softly, “—I’m sorry that I left. But I couldn’t stay with him.”

“So, after what he did to you—you trusted him enough to not do the same to us? Is that what you’re telling me?” She remained quiet, dropping her gaze to her hands on the table. You sighed, readjusting your position against the counter. “If it can make you feel any better—he never hurt us in that way. Me and my sister, he never was inappropriate with us. But he still hurt us. He still was controlling. And yelling. Overall, he wasn’t exactly great. But unlike you, he stayed. Never left. He wasn’t great but he was the best we had.”

“Listen, kid, your father was a liar. A monster. Didn’t you hear what he did to your mother?”

“And what about—what you did to me? Or what you could have done to me?”

“You are a liar, just like your father.”

“I’m not a liar,” you turned your eyes on your mother. “If Dad hadn’t stepped in when he did, he would have done something to me. Something nefarious, and you know it.” You accused her.

“Your father was a rapist. A pedophile,” Stéphane stood up from his chair, and took a step in your direction. “Don’t compare me to him.”

“He never did anything to me. He never stood in my bedroom at night, only in his boxers. He never looked at me the way you did. He never tried to force me to sit on his lap. My father was controlling, and neglectful. But he wasn’t a rapist.”

“That’s what he wanted you to believe. I don’t blame you; he was your father.” He got closer to you. “But she’s your mother—you should probably give her a chance, don’t you think?”

“And I have. I listened to her; she gave me her story—her side of it.” You told him, breath shallow as fear seized you at his proximity. “So, you can leave—both of you. And I don’t want you to come back.”

The back of his hand met your cheek with a crack. The pain was there before you could register his action. Another hit and you landed on the floor. Your mother put herself between you both, pushing him away from you. You get back on your feet, ears ringing, cheek throbbing in pain. He shoved her to the side and Stéphane’s hands circled around your throat, slamming your lower back against the counter behind you.

You desperately fumbled around on the counter, grabbing the first heavy item you could touch. A vase that was empty, waiting to be filled with flowers. You swung it at Stéphane’s face as hard as you could. It shattered against his face and in your hands. He screamed, his hold on your loosening, letting go of your throat. You barely registered the sting in your hand; shards of glass embedded into the palm.

You pushed against the counter, attempting to flee the kitchen. Shoved in the back, your front collided with the wall harshly. You crumpled on the floor, Stéphane, without wasting time, straddled you. Using your arms, you tempted to protect yourself.

The brutality of his punches was unnatural, immoral, inhumane. Words were coming out of his mouth that you couldn’t make out. You tried to fight back, grabbing his face, trying to dig your thumbs into his eyes. But the pain kept stealing your breath away, sharp, sudden and excruciating in a way you had never experienced before.

Tears were falling out of your eyes, tiny broken little sobs falling from your lips as you kept protecting yourself. Your mother was nowhere to be seen. It would have been no use to call for her help. It would have been disappointing to expect her to save you from him.

The punches stopped as suddenly as they started. Your ears were ringing still, and you dared not to move, in fear of triggering him again. Not that he needed any excuses to just do it all again. When the ringing stopped and the house fell into an uncomfortable silence, did you hear the sound of muffled voices. As though they were coming from underwater. You tried to move onto your stomach but a gentle hand pushed you back down.

“Don’t move, Pet,” it was Birdy. “We’ll take care of ya.”

“Birdy—” you said before letting out a heart wrenching wail at the mere sight of a friendly face.

Someone had come to save you.

She shushed you softly, afraid that you moving may hurt you more. She remained close, cradling you. Whispering words of reassurance and comfort. Giving you the kindness your mother had been uncapable of giving to you.

The Guards were at your door, handcuffing Stéphane and waiting for ambulance to come on scene. Your mother couldn’t help but looked onto you and Birdy. Envying the way, you trusted the older woman to comfort you. A stranger. While you resented her, your own mother.

Where did she get it all wrong? This was supposed to be an opportunity to reconcile. But after what happened, no reconciliation would be possible.

None.

The machines were beeping in the dark room, your chest going up and down with every steady breath. Your left wrist was in a cast; your right hand wrapped in bandages. Your face had been beaten beyond recognition, your left eye swollen shut and purple. Your bottom lip was split open. Your right cheek stitched up and swollen. You were unrecognizable.

When he finally laid eyes on you, he felt a rush of relief. His hand reached up to the top of your head, gently touching your hair, his thumb stroking gently. “The Guards got him, yeah?” His jaw tightened with rage.

“Yeah, they did.”

“What about her mother?”

“She was here but the poor thing kicked her out. Screamin’ and cryin’. They had to give her a sedative to calm her down.” Birdy told him.

You stirred awake, your good eye opening slightly. His blurry silhouette was the first thing you saw. Your heartbeat spiked up as fear took over, since your brain had not caught up with the sight in front of you. His soft voice called out your name, comforting and reassuring. Then, you recognized his eyes. Soft and warm hazel eyes.

“Mikey?” You croaked out. Relief washed over you, tears welling up in your eyes. You couldn’t feel your face or your body then. But your mind was coming back to you as you laid eyes on him. He was real. He was there. A healing balm to your battle wounds and to your broken heart.

He pressed his forehead to yours, lips wobbling. He, too, breathed out a sigh of relief. His calloused fingers gingerly rested on your cheek, near your swollen eye, wiping off the tears. “I’m here,” he said. “I’m here, Pet.”

Your arms wrapped around his back, in an awkward angle but you didn’t care. You just needed to hug him. You needed to feel safe. And the only one who could make you feel this way, was him. Only him. He was the only one who could make the pain go away. He engulfed you in his arms, pulling your face into his neck.  

“I’m sorry, Pet. I was—I was meetin’ with Jimmy,” he apologized profusely, tears now streaming down his face. Guilt eating away at him.

“It’s okay,” you comforted him. “It’s okay. You’re here now.”

“No, I shoulda been there. I shoulda been with you.”

“It’s alright. You’re here now, it’s all that matters.” You tightened your hold onto him, “you’re here.”

“C’mon, lie back,” you obeyed instantly.

“Please, don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he tucked you back in bed, pulling the blanket further around your body. “Listen, the Guards are coming tomorrow to ask you questions. I will be with you when they do. And then, Birdy’s gonna take us home.”

“Are you sure you can be here? What about Eamon Cunningham? The bounties?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Michael assured you.

“But Michael—I don’t want you—to risk your life for me,” you protested.

He shushed you, “we protect our own, Mo ghrà.”

“Your own?” you looked up at him, confused. “But I’m not—"

“You are now.”

“What can you tell us about the most recent victim?” You questioned the Sheriff. Dressed in a pantsuit; that you thought was too tight around your thighs; you were taking notes about the bizarre deaths that had been happening in the small town.

It had been months since the angels had fallen from the sky, onto the cold harsh earth. Months since you last had a proper conversation with Dean and Sam Winchester. Dean, who; strangely; was your main interlocutor, had the very bad habit to cut all of your conversations short these days. Even through texts, he seemed short and distant. As for Sam, well, he—himself—didn’t seem very talkative these days. But at least, he confirmed one thing. The third and final trial had not been complete. And the angels falling was probably a consequence of that failure. But they couldn’t know for sure.

Anyway, after remaining off the grid for a few weeks, away from hunting, you went back to it. At Andy’s demand. He needed your help on a hunt. Your brother wasn’t too happy about it. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t want you out there hunting. Although it was part of the reason, but more so because he never really liked Andy. Always thought the guy wasn’t good enough for you. Which you chalked up to your brother being a little too overprotective when it came to you.

So, that was how you ended up here. Asking questions to a small-town sheriff about a series of bizarre deaths. Andy was sitting right next to you, listening to the Sheriff’s answer before you were interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Sheriff Park?” His secretary passed her head through the door.

“What is it, Sheryl?” Park asked back, in his gruff voice.

“Two FBI agents would like to speak with you,” she said as confused as you and Andy. Her eyes went from you to the Sheriff.

The Sheriff glanced at you, “Did you guys call for backups?”

Andy’s jaw tightened, as he breathed through his nose, glaring at you. Blaming your choice to pass up as FBI agents for this case. You let out a deep breath, ignoring the icy glare he sent your way. You slapped a smile onto your face, “I’m sure there’s a mix-up at the bureau. It happens more than you think.” You got up, “I will let you with my partner. I’ll check in with the other agents.”

Your heart was hammering in your chest as you followed Sheryl out into the hallway. Why would FBI agents be interested in these deaths? You almost scoffed at yourself, thinking bitterly, for the same reasons you were. To investigate. You didn’t think you had it in you to come up with a believable lie on the fly. You could have them call your fake supervisor; Emilie; to cover for you. But would they believe her?

With your heart trying to burst out of your chest, you turned around the corner, ready to confront these FBI agents. And wouldn’t you know it? There they were; the Winchesters.

You let out a breath of relief upon seeing them. It was quickly followed by anger bursting in your chest. You gave a polite smile to Sheryl, thanking her before walking up to them.

“I should have known it was you,” Dean commented as soon as you were within earshot.

“What are you two doing here? Don’t you have bigger fish to fry?” You asked angrily, arms crossed over your chest.

“Good to see you too, princess,” he shot back.

“Did I say it was good to see you?”

“What’s your problem, exactly?”

“Alright, I think we should take this outside,” Sam suggested, looking around him quickly. Sam gently placed his hand on your shoulder, steering you towards the exit.

You shrugged him off, once outside. Looking at him, you could see that Sam looked so much better than when you last saw him. Healthier and not—on the brink of death.

“Glad to see you’re doing much better, Sammy,” you said. “Wasn’t really sure about it since your brother ain’t really sharing anything these days.”

“Well, we had a lot on our plates. Didn’t have time to update you. Didn’t really know that I needed to.”

You glared at Dean, “five minutes. That’s all I was asking for. Five minutes to have a real update. Instead of you constantly cutting our conversations short. Every—single—time.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you love the sound of my voice,” Dean quipped.

“I was worried about you,” that shut him up, his smirk dropped. “Both,” you added quickly, glancing up at Sam. “I was worried about you both.” You let out a deep breath.

“Hey,” Sam called softly. “It’s really good to see you.”

You couldn’t help but smile, “it’s good to see you too.”

“Hey,” Andy called, in two long strides he was by your side. His hand found the small of your back, in a gesture that he wanted to be comforting. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Everything’s good—” you took in a deep breath. “Andy Bennett meet Sam and Dean Winchester. Sam and Dean meet Andy Bennett.”

“Winchester?” Andy repeated, his eyebrows high up on his forehead. “You know the Winchesters?”

“Yeah, I do.” You exhaled, “let’s take this somewhere else, shall we?”

****

Sitting in the booth, across from Dean, you all waited for your food. Once the introductions were over, you all went to the nearest restaurant to have lunch and to discuss the current job you were all working on. Although, you were glad to see the brothers, you were annoyed—if not angry, that they kept their distance with you. You were confused as to why, really. You had naively thought that you were all getting along. Things had even seemed better between you and Dean. But his—or rather their behaviors during those last few weeks made it clear—to you—that you weren’t as close as you thought you all were.

“Victims have nothing in common. We have a teenager, a farmer, a teacher—even their deaths have nothing in common. Different causes, it goes from heart attack to freak accidents.” Andy explained, before shoveling food in his mouth.

“So far, we’ve only spoken to the Sheriff. None of their family members or friends, yet. So, I hope we learn more once we do,” you added. “And I thought, maybe, we could get a hold of their personal belongings see if there’s anything that could help to link them all together.”

“You have it all figured out, I see,” Dean commented.

“As I always do,” you shot back. “Your help isn’t really required. And as much as I’m glad to see you are both doing well, I don’t think you need to stay.”

“Whoa, whoa, come on, we could use the help on this,” Andy placed a hand on your arm, you looked down at your arm, where his hand was. Before looking back up at him.

“Trust me when I say we can do without,” you pulled your arm out from under his hand.

“Okay,” your ex-boyfriend scrunched up his face. He turned to the brothers, “could you—give us a moment?” He pulled you out of your seat, dragging you out of the diner.

You pulled your arm out of his grip, “we don’t need a moment. There’s nothing to discuss, we’re not working with them.”

“So, you’ve decided?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Don’t I have a say in this?”

“No, you don’t.”

“Okay, let’s take a step back, here.” He placed his hands on your shoulders, “should I remind you that I’m the one who found this job? And that I called you in for help? You don’t get to decide.” You scoffed, “so, I take note of your—opinion but I’m not gonna pass up the chance to work with the Winchesters.”

“I didn’t know you were such a fan boy,” you spat in his face.

“Come on, don’t be like that!”

“Would it kill you for once to be on my side? No questions asked. To just accept that I don’t want to work with them for the time being. Is that so hard for you to do?”

“Yes, when you’re being unreasonable?”

You let out a deep breath, “fine, I’m being unreasonable.”

“Glad, you could see it,” Andy grinned at you. “Come on, let’s finish our lunch.”

“No, I’m not hungry anymore,” you told him. “So, instead, I’m going to take my unreasonable self back to the station, and see if I can get any of their belongings. Have fun fangirling over the Winchesters.”

“Is everything alright?” Sam asked Andy as he came back alone. Both Winchesters acting as though they haven’t just watched the two of you talk through the large window.

“Yeah, she’s just being pissy right now. I don’t know what you guys did to her but she really doesn’t want to work with you two.” Andy waved Sam’s concern off. “Don’t worry about it, though. We do need the help on this.”

Dean glanced at his brother, Andy’s words not really sitting well with him. “Where did she go?”

“At the station, wanted to get their stuffs.”

Dean’s eyes landed on the barely touched plate you had left behind. Maybe, he shouldn’t have hung up on you so much. But he didn’t really have a choice in this. Not if he wanted to keep what he did a secret. For as long as possible.

You would not understand.

****

This was ridiculous. You had no business being this angry. You weren’t angry. Not before you saw him, at least. Dean didn’t get to ignore you and be short with you for weeks, and then, turn around and act as though everything was fine between the two of you. Because it simply wasn’t.

It wasn’t fine.

And you weren’t being unreasonable.

Andy was wrong.

He still hasn’t apologized for ignoring you. He hasn’t apologized for keeping his distance. You didn’t understand why he would. Not after you helped in the researches for the third trial. Not after you two had seemingly gotten closer. You thought you two had become friends. And now—you were starting to think that maybe it was one sided.

****

“These are what she had on her when she died?” You asked the M.E.

“Yeah, nothing of interest,” he shook his head.

“What about this?” You asked, holding a small, intricately woven knot made of dark, unfamiliar material. “Do we know why she had it? Or what is it exactly?”

He shook his head no, once more, before sighing, “not really. We’ve talked to her family and they couldn’t tell us why she would have this knot. Or what it is supposed to be. But—” he moved to his desk and pulled out a few files. “—I went back to our previous victims just to check—if any of them had something similar on them,” he pulled out a few photos of the previous victims. “They all had a knot in their hands when they died.”

“I suppose you didn’t keep them,” you stated.

“Unfortunately, we didn’t think it was important then.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” You frowned at the photos, “Did you analyze this? See what it is made of?”

“The results were inconclusive. The fabric is unknown. And the year of fabrication couldn’t be determined.”

“Thank you for your help. Uhm—may I keep these photos?”

“Be my guest,” he nodded as you returned the knot to him, he gently placed the knot in a plastic bag.

****

The knot looked ancient and intriguing. No one knew what it meant or how it found the victims. But clearly, the knot was linked to the multiple deaths. In what capacity? You had no idea. The M.E. kindly directed you to the town’s historian and keeper of local lore; Agnes Blackwood. You found her at her office, near the local library. She was a well of knowledge when it came to the town dark past and secrets.

“—I recognized the knot, of course,” she mused out loud when you presented her with the photos.

“What can you tell me about it?” You questioned her, curious.  

“It was called the Weaver’s Knot,” she started, crossing her legs under the desk. One of those things you wished you could do, to appear more feminine. But the thickness of your thighs didn’t really allow it. “Legend has it that the original founder of this town was cursed after using this knot for personal gain. Since then, the knot has been known to grant wishes but at a terrible cost.”

“Death, I suppose,” you stated.

“Exactly—but those are legends. Stories that got passed down from generations to another,” she shook her head lightly, her blonde hair swaying. “May I ask why an FBI agent is inquiring about this knot?”

“I’m just trying to understand why some of the victims had this knot on them when they died,” you replied. “I wonder what sort of wishes the victims made.” You mused out loud looking at the picture of the knot.

“You don’t seriously believe the knot is responsible for any of their deaths?”

“I’m exploring any possibilities.” You stood up, “only the future can tell. Thanks for your help.”

You went back to your motel room, with the intention of finding out more about the Weaver’s Knot. But as soon as you walked through the door, you were welcomed by a very annoyed Andy.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asked, quite angrily, which irritated you immediately.

“I told you. I went back to the station to get more info,” you shrugged off your blazer, draping it over the back of a chair.

“Yeah, well, we’re supposed to be a team on this. You know, work together?” He blocked you on your way to grab your laptop. His hands found your shoulders, stopping you from moving away from him.

“I left you with the Winchesters, isn’t that what you wanted? To work with them?” you shoved his hands away, and went to lock yourself up in the bathroom.

His presence in your room was upsetting you. And you didn’t really know why. Clearly aware that you were probably being irrational about the whole thing. But you were entitled to your anger and frustration. And Andy only refused to see it and it was greatly infuriating.

****

“So, you’re done hiding?” Andy was still there, sitting at the small table. “You’re calm down?”

You had hoped he would get the message when you were in bathroom. Unfortunately, he had not.

His tone and attitude angered you even more. But instead of exploding, you kept quiet and ignored him. You grabbed your laptop and sat on your bed, all the while ignoring him. Drowning out every word that came out of his mouth.

Were you being irrational and unreasonable? Probably. Did you care? Not really. Andy clearly chose a side. And it wasn’t yours. So, you didn’t care if you were blowing this out of proportion. You would let them all know that you were mad at them. And if they cared enough, they would ask why you were.

Seeing as you were clearly ignoring him, Andy left, mumbling something about getting food. While you kept researching. You found quite a few things about the Knot. Bits and pieces of the legend as it was told to you by Agnes Blackwood. But you also found an entire Reddit corner dedicated to the Weaver’s Knot, and according to your readings. The Knot was very much real, not just a legend. Multiple threads were dedicated to it. People who saw it, people who wanted to use the Knot, people who warned others against it. One name kept popping up in all those threads: Reverend Peabody. And with his name came also the mention of a powerful cult.

****

Andy came back later with diner and the Winchesters. Seeing the object of your anger, your ex-boyfriend and Sam were sitting around the small table in your hotel room, only made you angrier.  

“I’m going to be rude but—you need to take your dinner elsewhere.” You said, walking around your bed. Bending down to grab your laptop, missing the way Dean’s eyes roamed over the curve of your backside.

Andy did not miss it.

“Come on, Babe,” he stood up from his chair. “Don’t be like that,” he walked up behind you, and grabbed your waist.

You recoiled from his touch, not out of disgust but you were caught off guard. And frankly didn’t understand the gesture, “what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to get you to dine with us,” he said, trying to grab at you again.

You shoved away his hands, “not hungry. And I would really appreciate if you invited them over to your room. Or maybe go to theirs—I don’t really care.”

“Alright, we’re on a hunt right now. You know that, right?” Andy reminded you.

“Yeah, I know and I did my part of the work,” you shot back. “And now, I would love some rest. So, could you please—?”

“Seriously?” Dean looked at you.

“Yeah, seriously, find somewhere else to be. I would love to rest.” You told him.

“Okay, you are being unreasonable,” Andy stepped up to you. “Come on, can we just sit down and have diner at least?”

“No, I don’t want to,” you glared at Andy. “I just want to rest for tonight. We can talk tomorrow.”

“You’re such a bitch, sometimes,” he let out as he walked back to the table.

“Excuse me?!”

“Okay,” Dean intervened, he started to gather their foods with the help of Sam. “We’ll leave, it’s no big deal. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“You heard me,” your ex-boyfriend turned back to you. “You can be a bitch sometimes. Why do you have to be like that?”

“I told you I’m tired and I would love to rest, is that so hard to believe?” You defended yourself.

“That’s not why you want us out of your room. You want us out because you have beef with him,” he pointed to Dean who was now out of his chair.

“Even so? I’m paying this room and I want you out. So, get the fuck out.”

“Come on, man, let’s go,” Dean grabbed his arm but Andy pushed him off before stomping away. You let out a deep breath. “You good?”

“Yeah, I’m good.” You nodded, turning away from him.

“Hey, we left you some food—you know—if you feel like eating before going to bed,” Dean told you before following Sam out of the room. “Goodnight, princess.”

You sighed, “goodnight, bucko.”

“The Weaver’s Knot,” you simply said, putting down the photos on the table. “All the victims had one on them when they were found—”

You decided to put aside any anger or frustration, or resentment you may feel towards Dean. And Andy. You shared your findings with them, and they shared theirs with you. From what they told you, the victims shared the same dream, shortly before their deaths.

A faceless man, all dressed in black, a top hat, long coat and a cane. No distinctive traits, or voice, or accent. Just a shadow figure, hovering over them or in the distance. Watching. Observing. Unmoving.

At first—

Ultimately, this shadow figure would get closer to them. Each night. And fatally, they would witness their own deaths in the dreams, days before they drew their last breath.

“That’s not creepy at all,” you commented.

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you mess with cursed object,” Dean said, before taking a sip of his coffee.

“Maybe, but that’s not exactly how cursed objects work,” Andy retorted leaning over the table, while you leaned back into your chair. Putting as much distance between you and your ex-boyfriend. “I mean, come on, they all had it on them when they died. Is it one knot or is it multiple? And who’s giving it to them?”

“Maybe the Knot finds them,” you shrugged. “And instead of the multiple, it’s really one knot that—just keeps getting passed down to different people.”

“Maybe—” Sam said, “but you were right, Reverend Peabody keeps getting mentioned, every time the Knot is brought up.”

“So, this cult thing is real?” Dean asked, you glared at him.

“It’s only rumors but it seems to be a possibility.” Sam nodded. “But it’s worth checking it out.”

“Let’s say the cult is real,” Andy started. “How come none of their families mentioned it to us?”

“Maybe because they didn’t know about it,” you said. “When you get enrolled in a cult, they tend to isolate you from your families. Telling you that your relatives and friends don’t know what’s good for you. But they do. That your family won’t understand. That they can’t be trusted.”

“Seem to know an awful lot about it, Princess,” Dean quipped.

“Watched a documentary on it the other day,” you shrugged. “It doesn’t mean it went completely unnoticed. We should talk to the families again.”

Reluctantly, you agreed to work with the Winchesters for the time being. You were still mad that Dean; more than Sam; iced you out within those last few weeks. However, now, you had bigger fish to fry.

****

You and Andy rounded back to the families, talking about the possibility of their loved ones being enrolled in a cult. None of them had any real answers for you. They reiterated what they had said before, mentioning once again the dreams and visions they had before their death occurred.

“I hope Sam and Dean had better luck with the priest,” you commented, once you sat in the passenger seat.

“Definitely a dead end,” Andy agreed. “Alright, spill it,” Andy turned the key in the ignition.

“What?”

“What’s the deal between you and Dean?”

“Nothing,” you replied quickly. “Nothing’s going on between me and Bucko.”

You missed the smirk on his face as you turned away from him. “Yeah, sure, keep telling yourself that. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a thing for the guy.”

“Is that why you’re acting like a jealous boyfriend?” you shot back. “Cause you think I like him?”

“I think something happened between the two of you?”

“Not that this is any of your concerns, but nothing happened between us,” you replied. “I have my reasons and I don’t need to explain them to you.”

Nothing happened between the two of you. Nothing of significance at least. No feelings of any kind. Dean iced you out for no apparent reasons and you were mad about it. You were entitled to this anger. And Dean couldn’t possibly be that oblivious. He must know why you were mad at him.

He had to know.

At least, you expected him to.

A middle-aged woman wearing a simple white dress, with a pink shawl, and a straw hat on her head stood before you. You didn’t know her. You had never seen her in your life. You weren’t truly sure about this. Her features were fuzzy, unclear. Although, she felt familiar. You were surrounded by other people, people that remained faceless. Someone was introducing to those people but you didn’t remember, or you couldn’t care.

The woman in the pink shawl turned to you but she wasn’t that familiar middle-aged woman anymore. Somehow, she had shifted into Dean Winchester. Confused, you looked around you. You now stood in the middle of the War Room, back in the Bunker. You turned back to Dean. And he was gone.

You were left alone.

The scenery changed once again.

You stood in the middle of a dirt road. A dead tree to your left, charred ruins to your right. And far away in the distance, stood a man. Faceless, all dressed in black, with a top hat, and a long coat and a cane. You couldn’t make out his face. He remained silent. Just a shadow figure, standing in the distance.

Watching.

Unmoving.

The bass from the club’s sound system didn’t just thump in Julian’s ears; it violently rattled against his ribcage. He only had two glasses of bourbon and a few beers, Julian always prided himself in his strong alcohol tolerance. But that night, it had hit him faster than it used to. It might because he was tired. Something felt wrong, though. His vision was reduced to a fragmented kaleidoscope.

He excused himself to his date; a beautiful blonde that had approached him at the bar. And stumbled toward the neon sign pointing to the restrooms. His pricey loafers dragging heavily across the sticky floor. His limbs felt disconnected, floating miles away from his brain. He burst through the swinging bathroom door, gasping for air that smelled like cheap cologne and bleach.

He needed a stall. Now.

His stomach violently contracted. He didn’t even make it to the porcelain bowl before his knees buckled. A vicious wave of nausea surged up his throat, the bitter remnants of alcohol splattering down the front of his pristine, silk shirt.

Gasping and trembling, he leaned against the cold tile wall. But now, his bladder was screaming. Standing up on unsteady legs, his fingers, numb and clumsy like thick sausages, fumbled uselessly against the silver buckle of his belt. He couldn’t find the zipper. Panic set in. A sudden, humiliating warmth spread down the front of his trousers. He had just wet himself in the middle of a public restroom.

Shame burned hotter than the alcohol in his veins. He couldn’t stay here. He had to get out.

Stumbling back out into the main club, the strobing lights felt like a physical blow to his eyes. The other customers recoiled, faces twisting with disgust at the sight of his vomit on his shirt. Through the dizzying haze, he cast a look toward the bar where the beautiful blonde was sitting with him. But she was gone. It was probably better this way.

He practically fell out of the club’s heavy rear exit doors bursting into the alleyway. He took one unsteady step, then another. The dark alley spun wildly out of control. His legs simply gave out. He didn’t even have the reflexes to put his hands up. His face struck the damp, unforgiving concrete with a brutal, sickening crack.

The pain was a distant, muted throb. The world was shrinking into a tiny, dark tunnel. As the heavy, suffocating blanket of unconsciousness pulled him in under, the last thing he registered wasn’t the cold ground or the taste of copper in his mouth. It was the distinct, invasive sensation of rough, foreign hands sliding into his pockets. Then, there was only darkness.

The rhythmic, heavy strike of the cane echoed over the low hum of the precinct bullpen. Every movement toward her cluttered desk was a calculated, agonizing negotiation with gravity. There was an improvement the day before, just a little uncomfortable. But that day, her arthrosis had flared up with a vengeance. Mannie had no choice but to use her cane which she hated more than anything. She did take her pain medication, anti-inflammatory but it didn’t do much for her knee.

Reaching her desk, she let out a ragged, hissing exhale and dropped heavily into her chair. She hooked her cane over the edge of her desk and immediately extended her right leg stiffly out in front of her, resting her heel on the worn carpet.

Rush slapped down a new file on her desk; “new victim, John Doe, around 25-30 years old.” Mannie took the file and started to go through it. “He was found this morning; he’s in critical condition. Between life and death. They are trying to stabilize him. Just received word that he was in a therapeutic coma. And he also has a broken nose.”

“Physical assault?”

He shook his head, “not sure. It wouldn’t make sense though.”

“Yeah, It wouldn’t.” Mannie agreed.

“The cane is out, I see,” Rush nodded towards her cane, perched on her desk.

“Yeah, didn’t have a choice. I could barely walk this morning. And driving here was torture.”

“And dangerous,” he added. “I already told you. On days like this just call me, I’ll make a detour.”

“Yeah, but I managed, don’t worry about it.” She read the preliminary toxicology report, “did we get a hit on those drugs that were used?”

“Yeah, a mix of pretty much everything, muscle relaxant, amphetamines, really strong painkillers, sedatives—”

“Those look familiar to me—I just can’t figure out—” she froze, pulling out the file of the pharmaceutical’s robbery. The case that Matt Murdock efficiently shut down. And she read the list of the meds that were stolen. The names of the meds, or rather their priorities looked familiar.

“Hunt?” Rush called her.

“We need to talk to Evan Mullins.” She pushed the files towards him, “I think the stolen drugs, those that haven’t been recovered, were used to rob our victims.”

Rush read the files, “this could be a coincidence, I mean—what are the chances they are being used?”

“We’re detectives, Rush. We’re not allowed to believe in coincidence.”

“Alright but—the jump from robbery to murder is pretty big, don’t you think?”

“I agree,” Mannie exhaled. “Although, his lawyer told me that he knows something he’s not saying. Protecting someone.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Detective, I’m only telling you this because I think it’s worth checking out Mr. Mullins’ family or associates. They may lead you to the robbers.”

At the time, the blind lawyer hadn’t gloated after the “Not Guilty” verdict was read. Instead, he had given her a lead. Now, staring at the toxicology report, a cold, terrifying realization washed over her. He was right, which she hated, the pharmacy heists weren’t just a simple smash-and-grab for junkies to get high or a supply run for dealers. It was a much deadlier operation; they were weaponizing the stolen drugs to incapacitate unassuming victims.

“Maybe, we should dig into Mullins’ family,” she suggested to her partner. Internally groaning that she was actually following Murdock’s lead. “This way once I talk to him, he won’t be able to play dumb.”

“On it,” Rush knocked twice on her desk, and walked back to his desk.

“Oh, and do you have anything on the escorts, yet?” She asked him quickly.

“Nope, still looking.”

****

The shrill, piercing ring of Mannie’s desk phone shattered her intense focus. She reluctantly tore her eyes away from the toxicology report, her hand hovering over the receiver. The caller ID displayed the main switchboard number for Metro General—the exact same hospital currently keeping her John Doe on ventilator.

She snatched the receiver and pinned it between her ear and shoulder. “Hunt, talk to me.”

Matt Murdock tilted his head towards the sound of her voice. He and Foggy were sitting on the worn-out bench by the holding cells, waiting for their latest client to be processed. He had not mean to listen into her conversation but he had been eavesdropping since the moment she had mentioned Evan Mullins.

“Mannie? Please—it’s Mom,” Detective Hunt’s heart rate picked up. Violently beating away under her ribcage as though it was trying to escape. Her breath hitched in her throat, her hand wrapped around the receiver, in a white-knuckled grip.

“I’m working—I can’t talk to you right now,” her tone clipped, laced with anger. No. Not anger. This was rage. Barely contained. With his senses tuned into her, Matt frowned. Her voice reflected anger, the grip on the receiver, all of that indicated that she was preparing for a fight. But the acrid smell of her sweat was unmistakable.

It was fear.

Mannie let out a shaky breath, she had not heard this voice in over ten years. A voice that even the ringing in her ears couldn’t drown out.

“I’m down in the ER at Metro General,” her mother chocked out. Her words slurred heavily around what sounded like a swollen lip. She started weeping on the other side of the line. “He—Marcus got angry, Mannie. He drank too much and he just lost his temper. I didn’t know who else to call. I need you. Please come down here.”

The line went dead. Mannie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at the sheer audacity her mother was capable of. Her right knee pulsed fiercely with her arthrosis. Her mother had walked out on her. Mannie needed her and the woman never showed up, and today—today, her mother had been hurt by her current boyfriend. So, she chose to remember she has a daughter.

“Call a nurse. Ask for a social worker,” Mannie finally replied, her voice flat and devoid of any warmth.

“Mannie, please! I have absolutely nothing! He took my purse, my cards—he’s going to come looking for me!” The desperate panic in the older woman’s voice cracked into a high pitched, hysterical sob. “I’m your mother! You can’t just leave me here!”

A dark and incredibly bitter wave of resentment swelled in Mannie’s chest. “It’s rich coming from you, Lorraine,” she scoffed. “After more than two decades, you remember that you are my mother.”

“You’re a detective! Aren’t you supposed to protect people!”

“Nelson, Murdock!” Brett called out to them. “Your client’s in holding room three. He’s ready for you.”

Matt unfolded his white cane, standing up. Tuning out the conversation Mannie was having with her mother. Definitely intrigued by the Detective’s reaction.

“My job is dealing with the victims I actually owe something to. You made your choice when you walked out of the door. How about asking the nurse for an ice pack and a pamphlet for a women’s shelter.”

“Mannie, please, I’m begging you, don’t do this—”

Mannie slammed the receiver down, cutting the conversation short.

She sat motionless for a long moment, staring blankly at the plastic casing of the phone. The fiery ache in her knee flared up with a vicious spike of phantom pain, demanding to be felt. She clenched her fists in attempt to stop their shaking, taking a slow, deep breath. She pulled Evan Mullins’ file back to the center of her desk.

She had a real case to solve.

Mannie walked up the aisle and sat down into one of the pews. With a heavy, tired sigh, she extended her right leg in front of her. The painful throb had dulled during the day but it had not entirely gone away. Father Lantom sat in the bench in front of her.

“It’s been a long time since I last saw you,” he casually observed.

Mannie let out a low laugh, “you know, I’m not really big on attending Mass or coming to church.”

He turned slightly to face her, “then to what do I owe the honor?”

She didn’t come here for salvation, and she didn’t come here for a miracle cure. She came because her mind was a deafening echo chamber. Between looking into Mullins’ family ties, and dealing with her own, she needed a quiet place to think. Or maybe for someone to tell her she was wrong. Wrong for hanging up on her mother when she needed help.

Mannie let out a tired sigh, “let’s just say I had a rough morning.” She massaged her knee; the priest gave her time to formulate her thoughts. “My mother called me today. From the ER.”

Lantom remained still, his expression carefully neutral. He knew enough of Mannie’s fractured history to understand the gravity of that statement. “I take it this wasn’t a social call to catch up.”

“Her latest boyfriend beat her up after he got drunk,” Mannie replied, her tone devoid of any recognizable empathy. “She wanted me to come down there. Play the protector. Fix the mess.”

“And what did you do, Emmanuelle?”

She looked up at him. He was the only one who used her full name rather than her nickname. People rarely used it these days. She loved her first name; it was beautiful but Emmanuelle was the little girl who was left behind by her mother. Mannie was the woman she grew into to protect the little girl.

A wave of resentment, and anger swelled in her chest. “I told her to kick rocks with open-toed shoes and hung up on her.  I didn’t use those exact words but—the meaning was there.”

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy with unsaid judgments. Mannie braced herself for what she knew would come. She was waiting for Father Lantom to launch into a sermon about forgiveness, turning the other cheek, or the sacred bond of family. She gripped her cane. Instead, the priest simply interlaced his fingers and leaned forward, looking thoughtfully at the floor.

“Are you waiting for me to tell you that you did the wrong thing?”

“Well, I was raised in these pews, Father,” Mannie replied, her knuckles turning bone-white around the handle of her cane. “I know the commandments. Honor thy father and mother. Forgive those who trespass against us. But she walked out almost twenty years ago. Constantly crushing the hope I felt every single time she came back into my life. And now, she expects me to be her savior because her new meal ticket decided to use her face as a punching bag.”

“And you believe God is angry with you for refusing?” Lantom questioned gently.

“Frankly, I don’t care if He is,” Mannie sighed looking at the crucifix above the altar. “My job is to protect innocent people. Lorraine—” she shook her head. “—isn’t innocent. I have a man lying on life support right now, coming down from a heavy-duty chemical cocktail. That’s who I owe my time to. Not a ghost who only remembers she has a daughter when it’s convenient to her.”

Father Lantom turned his gaze up at the altar, folding his hands resting on his lap. “The church teaches forgiveness, Emmanuelle. It does not teach us to be willing victims. Setting boundaries with those who have broken us is not a sin; it is a necessity for survival.”

She let out a bitter, humorless scoff. “Then why do I feel like I’m the one who threw the punch?”

“Because you are punishing yourself for a failure that belongs entirely to her,” the Priest retorted, his voice firm and unwavering. He turned back to her, catching her gaze. “You hung up the phone to protect yourself. But the anger you are holding onto—this bitter resentment—is a cross you are choosing to drag behind you. And from the look of it, you are already carrying enough weight.”

He glanced pointedly at her stiff, extended leg and the worn cane in her hand. A sharp, uncomfortable truth pierced through Mannie’s defensive armor. She had severed the call to regain control, but her mother’s desperate, sobbing voice was still echoing relentlessly in her skull, entirely derailing her focus on the Mullins case.

“I can’t go there, Father,” Mannie whispered, the raw vulnerability; that belonged to the little girl that was left behind; bleeds through her though detective persona. “If I see her—if I let her back in, it’ll destroy whatever is left of me.”

“Then don’t go,” he simply said. “You are not obligated to heal the person who broke you. But you must forgive yourself for walking away. If you don’t, that phone call will do far more damage to you than her boyfriend’s fists did to her.”

He stood up slowly, his movements quiet and deliberate. He offered a small, reassuring smile. Mannie wiped away the few tears that had fallen down on her face.

“Solve your case, Detective. Find the people hurting your city. But leave your mother’s sins at the door when you leave this church. You don’t have the strength to carry them both.”

The Priest walked back to the rectory quietly; Mannie remained in the empty pew. Her kneecap burned with a fiery ache. The tightness in her chest had loosen slightly. She looked up at the crucifix above the altar. She breathed out a shaky sigh.

“Sometimes,” she addressed God directly. “Sometimes, I hate you. But—I gotta admit, you only choose the best. He’s pretty good.” Her lips quirked up into a soft smile. “Now, if you could make this knee hurt less, it would be greatly appreciated.” She stood up from the pew, groaning at the pain flaring up in her knees. “I’m in no rush but today—would be nice. No? Cool. See you when I see you.”

She crossed herself and walked out of the church.

⁜

The Detective and The Devil||Chapter 4: The Unseen Connection

“Are you waiting for me to tell you that you did the wrong thing?”

“Well, I was raised in these pews, Father,” Mannie replied, her knuckles turning bone-white around the handle of her cane. “I know the commandments. Honor thy father and mother. Forgive those who trespass against us. But she walked out almost twenty years ago. Crushing the hope, I felt every single time she came back into my life. And now, she expects me to be her savior because her new meal ticket decided to use her face as a punching bag.”

“And you believe God is angry with you for refusing?” Lantom questioned gently.

“Frankly, I don’t care if He is,” Mannie sighed looking at the crucifix above the altar. “My job is to protect innocent people. Lorraine—” she shook her head. “—isn’t innocent. I have a man lying on life support right now, coming down from a heavy-duty chemical cocktail. That’s who I owe my time to. Not a ghost who only remembers she has a daughter when it’s convenient to her.”

Father Lantom turned his gaze up at the altar, folding his hands resting on his lap. “The church teaches forgiveness, Emmanuelle. It does not teach us to be willing victims. Setting boundaries with those who have broken us is not a sin; it is a necessity for survival.”

She let out a bitter, humorless scoff. “Then why do I feel like I’m the one who threw the punch?”

⁜

Get Off the Highway || Chapter 12

Dean’s eyes landed on the barely touched plate you had left behind. Maybe, he shouldn’t have hung up on you so much. But he didn’t really have a choice in this. Not if he wanted to keep what he did a secret. For as long as possible.

You would not understand.

This was ridiculous. You had no business being this angry. You weren’t angry. Not before you saw him, at least. Dean didn’t get to ignore you and be short with you for weeks, and then, turn around and act as though everything was fine between the two of you. Because it simply wasn’t.

It wasn’t fine.

And you weren’t being unreasonable.

Andy was wrong.

He still hasn’t apologized for ignoring you. He hasn’t apologized for keeping his distance. You didn’t understand why he would. Not after you helped in the researches for the third trial. Not after you two had seemingly gotten closer. You thought you two had become friends. And now—you were starting to think that maybe it was one sided.

⁜

Finding You||Chapter 12

“I’m not supporting the old man. I’m supporting me.” You retorted, then turned your focus back on your mother. “I understand what happened to you. I understand that he groomed you. That it wasn’t the great love story that I thought it was. I understand—” You paused, gathering yourself. “I understand that you have to leave—but—you were supposed to protect us. To protect me. From Dad,” your eyes turned to Stéphane. “From him.”

She said your name softly, “—I’m sorry that I left. But I couldn’t stay with him.”

“So, after what he did to you—you trusted him enough to not do the same to us? Is that what you’re telling me?” She remained quiet, dropping her gaze to her hands on the table. You sighed, readjusting your position against the counter. “If it can make you feel any better—he never hurt us in that way. Me and my sister, he never was inappropriate with us. But he still hurt us. He still was controlling. And yelling. Overall, he wasn’t exactly great. Unlike you, he stayed. Never left. He wasn’t great but he was the best we had.”

“Did you find anything?” Octavia asks the security guards.

“No, ma’am, he was able to escape,” one of them answer.

“Alright,” Octavia replies, seething in anger, “starting tomorrow, security will be reinforced around the building. We can’t let this happen again. The man in the mask needs to be taken care of.” She turns to the guards. “You can leave.” One of them pats you on the shoulder on their way out. “Would you like a drink?”

“Yes,” you nod.

She pours you a glass of scotch and pushes it towards you. “Do you know why he attacked you?”

You take a sip before answering, “he wanted to know who took over for Fisk. He didn’t seem satisfied with my answer.” Your fingers graze your throat; Octavia can see the bruise that is now blooming around it. A perfect line matching the rope that you are still feeling around your throat.

Octavia gives you a sympathetic smile, “One of our drivers will take you home tonight. You can retrieve your car tomorrow.”

You breathe out in relief, “thank you, miss Turpin.”

****

Looking at yourself in the mirror, hair still wet and dripping water down your back, your fingers graze the red angry line across your throat. You let out a deep breath. Why would the Devil come after you? You are a simple secretary. As far as he is concerned you never were overtly involved in Fisk’s business. You weren’t like Wesley. You were no one.

You are no one.

You walk out of your apartment building, knowing you will have to walk to work since your car is still in the parking lot. A honk blares to your right, startling you. The window comes down.

“Hey, Mouse.”

“Oh, hi, Frank—” he is the driver that had taken you home the night before. You walk up to the car. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought you might need a ride this morning,” he answers, you smile in spite of yourself. “Hop on in.”

“Thanks,” you fasten your seatbelt.

“Don’t mention it, Kid,” he waves you off.

Frank Moore is one of the good ones. Unfortunately, they are many good ones at Fisk Industries—well, now, North Star Holding. People, who like you, are paying off debts. And others who are simple employees, good workers—But not safe from being used by their employers to cover their own tracks. And crimes.

And some, although rare, are here to wreak havoc and gladly, commit crimes unpunished. Those come with no loyalty to the CEOs. Their only loyalty is to money. As long as they are paid they will work for Leblanc and Turpin.

****

Octavia is waiting for you when you arrive. Following her into her office, you can see Marsh sitting at her desk.

“I heard what happened to you last night, doll,” Marsh says standing up. His eyes go down to your neck, “the Devil sure knows how to make an impression.”

Octavia glares at him as she silently invites you to sit, “how are you feeling this morning?”

“Better, Miss Turpin. Thanks for asking,” you smile at her.

“Of course. I’m glad to hear you’re doing better.” She leans over her desk, saying your name softly. Sounding almost as though she truly cares about your wellbeing. She pushes a packet towards you. “After what happened last night, Mr. Leblanc has put in place new security policies. Starting now.” You open the packet and glance at it briefly. “You will make sure that the employees read and sign these forms by the end of the day. Also make sure that they all have their new ID badges.”

“Of course, Miss Turpin.”

“IT will come back later to change all the passwords and security levels of the company computers.” Marsh tells you.

“Do you think he’ll try to get in again? Or attack someone else?” You question her.

“Hopefully, he won’t try again. We have reinforced security—so, you don’t have to worry about him attacking you again.” Octavia reassured you. And you smile at her.

At least, they seem to protect their employees. Just as much as Fisk used to.

“But clearly, the Mask has a vendetta against Wilson Fisk and now, he’s targeting us. So, you’ll understand why we are protecting our company with those new measures, Doll.” Marsh lets his fingers glide down your covered shoulder. You subtly recoil at the touch, moving your shoulder away from him.

“I—I understand,” you stammer.

“Very well, I’m counting on you,” Octavia says your name gently. “You may go.”

“Miss Turpin,” you nod at her. “Sir.” You nod at Marsh before walking out of the office.

“You need to check yourself, Marsh.” Octavia glares at him.

“Oh, please, I’m allowed a little fun.” He scoffs.

“Not with this one,” she answers.

“Jealous?” He leans over the desk, getting closer to Octavia.

“Don’t flatter yourself. She’s protected—by Wilson Fisk. He has her in high esteem. He appreciates that she’s been loyal to him. And he wants it to stay that way. Do you really want to go up against Wilson Fisk?”

“Let’s not fool ourselves here. We know why she was loyal. Why she still is.”

“Fisk always knew where her loyalty really lies. That’s why she’s here. And because of that loyalty—and the duties that have been put on her, she is a valuable asset. So, I won’t repeat myself—leave her alone.”

****

You settle into your chair, sighing at the ever-growing pile on your desk. Marsh is taking great pleasure in making you waste your time. James Wesley was never that petty, he never stooped to that level. The work you did for him always had purpose. A goal. Meaning. This—is useless. And this is the very reason why he is doing it.

You spend the rest of the day making sure the employees are issued their badges which will give them access to certain areas. Depending on their security clearance. You made sure they read and sign the new security policies forms—and give them their new security codes. You don’t know how these measures will keep the Devil out of the building. As a matter of fact, you doubt it will do any good against him. But it probably gives the higher ups the feeling that they are doing something to protect their employees—and their business.

When the end of the day comes, you go to retrieve your car in the underground parking lot. You slow down as you approach your car, going around it first to make sure the Devil isn’t waiting in the backseat of your car. Satisfied and reassured, you climb into your car. You check the backseat one more time before locking yourself in your car. Your heart is hammering away underneath your ribcage. Still nervous and afraid that the Devil might appear out of thin air to attack you again.

“I missed you,” you whisper to your dashboard. Patting it gently.

You do not have much in life. Your apartment, your books, and your car are your most prized possession. These things may make you seem materialistic to the outside world. But you work hard for those possessions. And they make you happy. And you need the little joy they bring to you. There isn’t much of that going around in your life.

The shot of rhum is sitting by your right hand as you wait for your meal to heat up. You are going over the new security policies packet, once more. You are scribbling down a card the information you deem important. More security guards, new access badges, different security clearance, new passwords and security codes. But no new cameras. You frown at the lack of mention of it. Not that it is important, maybe they do not need new ones. Still, this is odd. Why go this length and change pretty much everything and not add new cameras?

You look over your security badge. You are a simple secretary, and yet, your security clearance is higher than some of the supevisors. Those who has a higher clearance than you are Octavia and Finnegan. Meaning you do not have access to certain areas of the building. You jolt down all this information before putting it into your large metal box, that you kept safely in your walk-in closet. This information may be useful one day, although you strongly doubt it.

The following day, the first thing you do when you walk out of the elevator and into the reception hall, is look for the extra cameras. After a few research you made the night before, you learned that installing new cameras without informing the employees is very legal—as long as they are in public spaces. But this is Wilson Fisk—or rather Harry Leblanc you are dealing with. The chances of cameras being installed in private areas such as offices to monitor employees will not be surprising for you. And the chances for it to also have audio recording are also very strong.

You walk past the new security guards—two very large men, unmoving, blank faced. They look at you as you slid your badge over the control system. It makes a light beeping sound, and you walk through the turnstiles towards the elevator. You look over your left shoulder—the security guards barely spare a glance or utter a “hello” to anyone that are greeting them. You may be wrong, but you have a feeling that they are not just security—they could be mercenaries.

And you don’t like the possibility of that.

The Mask really shook things up.

****

Madame Gao’s voice dips and raises as she speaks, Marsh is listening intently as she does. You tip the porcelain white teapot over the small cup. Marsh translates to Octavia while you put down the pot, you glance at Madame Gao. She is already looking at you, a slight smirk on her face. You smile tightly and give a slight nod before stepping away from the desk, to stand behind Octavia. You don’t speak Mandarin; Madame Gao could tell them about your conversation. She could reveal to them that you lied about her. You fear that she would, ever since Octavia asked you to be present to the meeting.

She doesn’t. She’s playing their game. She is still at the head of the drug trade; she still needs distributors and means to get them. The Mask had destroyed one of her labs and she had to relocate. And since Wilson Fisk had turned against her, her business had slowed down slightly. Telling them the truth about your exchange with her, would not serve her interests. She needs them as much as they need her.

North Star Holding is relaunching the Better Tomorrow Initiative under a new name; Second Sunrise Initiative.

The Mask has stopped the previous project by taking down, methodically, the Russians, one of Madame Gao’s labs, Nobu. Leland Owsley had put himself in immediate danger by threatening Vanessa’s life. The Better Tomorrow Initiative has been shut down.

And today, Leblanc was reviving it. But he will need more than just Madame Gao—he will need new distributors. Where will he find them?

Octavia assures Madame Gao; they will find her new distributors. How could they be so sure? You do not know. You aren’t well versed in the criminal world—but you doubted that anyone would want to work for them, especially after Wilson Fisk has been put in jail. The mob bosses, the gang leaders only want one thing—to sit in the now empty throne of Kingpin. And nothing less. It would be hard, you imagine, to convince anyone to be distributors rather than the leaders of the drug trade.

Octavia promises. And Madame Gao believes.

****

Working on your pile of files, you witness the traffic of people coming in and out of Octavia’s office. Slowly and surely, Octavia handles the passage of power. Leblanc is nowhere to be found. Unlike Wilson Fisk, Harry Leblanc seems to be a strawman, a face for the company. The real power, the real leader is Octavia she is the one who is handling everything.

Then, why wasn’t she named CEO of North Star Holding? Maybe because she would be more efficient where she is. Although, you will note that Leblanc is still making some of the decisions. He is the one who hired Marsh. A man that Octavia clearly despises as much as you do.

You haven’t interacted with Leblanc enough to really know what kind of man he was. Is he as dangerous as Fisk? Is he truly the one making the decisions? Or is it Fisk, in his cell, that is making all the decisions still? This could be a possibility.

Everything is possible.

Most of the files has been reviewed. Marsh almost seemed disappointed when he saw what was left on your desk. Without a doubt, he will find something else to put you through. Another mindless task for you to do. Walking out of the elevator and into the hallway, you look through your bag to find your keys—you are not particularly excited to be back to your empty apartment and bland pre-made meals.

Your elderly neighbor softly calls your name as you walk past her door, “oh, hi, Miss Paula,” you stop, smiling at the woman. “Is everything alright?”

Two men walk out of her apartment, cheap suits, and brief cases in their hands. Your breath hitch in your throat. You recognize them both. Nelson and Murdock, ambulance chasers.

“Oh, yes, don’t worry—” Miss Paula put her hand on your arm. “This is Mr. Nelson and Mr. Murdock, my lawyers.”

“Pleasure to meet you both,” you say quickly, cutting them off. Not wanting your neighbor to possibly know that you’ve met them before.

“Pleasure to meet you, miss—?” Murdock tilts his head towards you, a smirk gracing his lips.

You reluctantly give him your name—you have no choice, not in front of your neighbor. You clear your throat, “you said lawyers—what for? If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

“My stepchildren are disputing their father’s will. They are unhappy with the little they received in inheritance.”

“Oh.”

“It is what it is, dear.” Your neighbor shakes her head, with a resigned smile.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” you reply. You glance briefly at the two men—wondering why she would hire them instead of another law firm. A more prestigious one. A bigger one. Not that you would dictate how she gets to spend her money. But Nelson and Murdock seemed to be a strange choice.

You couldn’t ask her without raising suspicions. As far as she is concerned, you just met them. You are not supposed to know who they are or the name of their law firm.

“Well,” you finally say. “I will leave you to it, then.” You turn around and make your way to your door. Miss Paula calls out a quick goodbye, and you wave back at her.

****

Your perfume lingers in the hallway as he listens in. You let out another tired sigh and start moving around in your apartment. His head tilts in your apartment’s direction.

“Who would have thought?” Foggy starts as he is guiding Matt down the street. “Wesley’s secretary living in the same building as our client.”

“Yeah, what a coincidence—” he replies absentmindedly.

“She knows who we are, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, she does. But now, we know who she is too. Gives me an advantage.”

Foggy stops walking, “what is that supposed to mean, Matt?”

“Foggy—someone took over for Wilson Fisk. And she knows who it is,” Matt explains. “Only if I can get her to speak—”

“How? How are you going to do that? Attack her like you did the other night?”

“If I have to—yes,” Matt nods, pushing out a frustrated sigh.

“Matt—”

“She is not innocent in all of this. She knows more than she let on. And I’ll find out what it is.”

You haven’t forgotten your brief encounter with Nelson and Murdock the evening before. You didn’t like that they now knew your name, but it didn’t matter. You are not going to interact with ever again. They are helping your neighbor in her lawsuit, although, you would have loved for her not to pick them as defenders. Unfortunately, you have no influence on her choices.

You didn’t like the idea of them being so closed to your neighbor. She doesn’t know who you work for and you want it to stay that way. You really hope for those two to keep quiet about you. They have no reason to keep it secret. But they also have no reason to reveal the truth about you to her.

The less people know about you, the better.

****

You walk into Marsh’s office and slap his notice down on his desk. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You need to be more specific, Doll,” Marsh props his feet up on his desk.

“I’ve always provided good work in this company. Wilson Fisk and James Wesley were always satisfied. So, why the cut?”

“Well, for one, I’m not James Wesley. I don’t know about your—so called good work. And—should I remind you that you have your father’s debts to pay.”

“I know that—but Wilson Fisk never took any claim on my wages. He assured me that my income won’t be used for that.”

“Well, Wilson Fisk is in prison. No longer at the head of this company. He no longer makes the decisions.” He puts his feet back on the ground and gets up. He walks around his desk. “But an arrangement—” he steps closer, into your personal space—before running his fingers down your arm. His touch alone makes you sick to your stomach. “—can always be found.”

You recoil with disgust, “No, thank you.”

“Suits yourself, Doll.”

****

He is testing you. He is trying to push you. First, the petty act of asking to review files that didn’t need reviewing. And now, he is threatening your wages. Cutting it in half, leaving you with barely anything to live off of. He has no power over your wages—at least, you try to convince yourself. Your heart is beating wildly in your chest. You cannot do this. They’re already threatening your family, and now, they’re coming for your wages. What is the point of all this? What more will they take from you?

You furiously wipe away the angry and frustrated tears that are running down your face. This is not the life you wanted. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You had a bright future ahead of you—or so you thought. You had hoped for freedom after your father’s death, instead you were locked into a new prison. A new cycle of self-sacrifices and familial duties.

You hate this. You hate this life.

You hate your father.

You could have complained. But decided against it. Would it have change anything if you had? Probably not. Marsh will only find something else to inconvenience you. You take it on the chin, already planning on ahead—you have savings, you can live in your apartment for a few more months, but you will have to look for something cheaper. And you probably will have to sell your car, later.

Financial security is the only thing that made it all bearable. The security of a steady income—the security of more than a decent income, kept you sane. Does that make you materialistic? Maybe. Do you care? No. It was a relief when Fisk assured you that your income wouldn’t be a source of payments for your father’s debts. A relief but also a worry.

Because the debt still has to be paid. And you are still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Marsh and Octavia walk into Leblanc’s office, together. Leblanc remains quiet as they both sat across from him.

“Finnegan—” Leblanc turns to him, leaning forward. “I don’t remember asking to cut down, Miss—” your name fall out of his lips. “—wages by half.” Octavia looks to him. “In fact, I don’t remember asking you to touch her wages in any way.”

“I see that the girl complained,” Marsh leans back in his chair, his jaw tightening with anger.

“No, she hasn’t,” Leblanc stands up. “Human Resources found—the cut extreme and ran it by me first. Just to make sure.” He moves to his cabinet liquor, “so, tell me, Finnegan—why did you think this was a good idea?”

“Sir, I—I reviewed her income. And I can tell you that they are much higher than anyone in her position would be paid. I thought it was important—to rectify it.” Marsh explains.

“And have you reviewed the income of other employees? Of any other secretary—or just hers?”

“Just hers, sir.” He swallows his saliva as his throat became suddenly dry.

“Then, I will let you know—” he shoves one of his hands in his pocket, while sipping from his dry scotch. “—that any other secretary in this company is being paid as much as her. I will give you that her income is slightly higher than the rest of them. Which is normal for the position she is filling, seeing as she works closely with Octavia and myself.”

“I thought that since she still has debts to pay—”

“And she will—on my terms. Not yours.” Marsh crosses his legs, nervously. “She will pay her father’s debts. I assure you—just not with her income.” Octavia takes in a deep breath, remaining quiet during the whole exchange. “I expect you to rectify—your mistake at once.”

“Of course, Sir—it will be done right away.” Marsh nods quickly.

“Miss Turpin will make sure of it, won’t you Octavia?” Leblanc turns away from them both.

“I will, Sir.”

“Good.” He sits back down behind his desk. “Now, that this issue is resolved—I would love to discuss the other matter at hand.”

“Madame Gao has accepted our offer and is glad to work with us,” Octavia says. “But we still need to find the new distributors. We are in negotiations with the Kitchen Irish and the Blacksmith’s Organization now.”

“And?”

“They are quite reluctant to work under someone else—but they wish to meet you.”

“Alright, I let you organize a meeting in a neutral location.”

“You can count on me, Sir.”

He then pushes a photo towards Marsh, “this is one our current collaborators who is trying to stray from his agreement with Fisk. I need you to remind him of the terms of that agreement.”

Marsh looks at the photo, “it will be done.”

For the second time that day, you walk into Marsh’s office. The anxiety of your current situation is pushing a very strong migraine behind your eyes. So, filled with dread you sit across from Marsh, expecting another bad news.

“You were right, Doll,” He props his feet up on his desk while you frown up at his words, “your income would not be enough to pay off your dear father’s debt. So, I rectified my previous note—your income will remain the same as before.”

Great relief washes over you, your shoulders sagging as you relax in your seat. “Thank you, Sir. This means a lot to me.”

“But—” your breath catches in your throat. “a debt still has to be paid. So, I thought of another way you could do that.” He pulls open a drawer, grabs something and places it in front of you.

A gun.

“What? I—I—I don’t understand.”

“Well, it is very simple—one of our collaborators needs a reminder of his agreement with Wilson Fisk. And I thought that you’d be more than happy to do us this favor. Seeing as you are indebted to us.”

Shell shock you stare at him, a smug smile very visible on his face. You swallow the lump that formed in your throat. “But I—,” you shake your head. “I don’t do that sort of work. I’m a secretary. I don’t even know how to use a gun.”

“You have a debt. And the gun is only to scare him. If you’re lucky you won’t have to use it.” He gives you a slip of paper, with a set of keys. “Tonight, you will go to this address. No stops. Once, you get there—” Marsh stands up, and walks around his desk. His hands find your shoulders, he leans in. His lips right above your ear. “You remind our dear friend that we have an agreement. And if he refuses—well, I’ll let you handle that.”

It feels like you have been hit by a brick wall. Are they really expecting you to kill now? You knew that they had other plans for you but—you couldn’t imagine it would come to this. You don’t want to kill people. You don’t want to hurt anyone. But do you really have a choice here? Can you—? There is nothing you can do. This is your personal hell. Your punishment for being a loyal and a dutiful daughter. But—

You are not a killer.

You are not a bad person.  

****

At the end of the day, one of the hired guns collects you at your desk. And you follow him outside of the building. Your heart is pounding, your breath shallow. He leads you to a black car in the underground garage. You don’t understand what you needed to do with that car. And you don’t ask. He gives you instructions, the same as Marsh. No stops on the way. And once there, you make sure their collaborators is doing what he’s meant to do.

“—and then, you wait for Frank. He’ll come and pick you up.” You nod at his words.

You drive through Hell’s Kitchen. The streets are still bustling with activities, groups of people huddled together going to bars, or restaurants. Having a good time together. The gun in your purse weighs on your mind. It was a bad idea to have taken it with you. But there is nothing you could do about it now.

You turn on small road, in the industrial zone of the city. You can hear the crunch of the gravel under the tires as you keep driving further. And then, you stop. You put the car in park and climb out of the car.

You are parked in a large junkyard, filled with accidented cars. A small lit building stood a little further away. Before you could even think about making your way towards the building, a strong hand grabs the back of your neck, pulling you back towards the car, slamming your body against it.

“Get back in the car, and leave,” you feel his hot breath on your face. The man is much taller than you. Much bigger than you. You stand no chance against him. If he wants to kill you he can. “GO!” he slams his hand down on the car, near your face.

“I—I can’t,” you counter, your voice cracking on the words. “They sent me here. I can’t leave. Not yet.”

“FUCK!” he shoves you once again against the car, before letting you go. “I don’t care why they sent you. You take that car back to them and you tell them I’m done.”

He walks away from you; you don’t know what’s in the car. And you don’t know what he does for them but, you know you can’t leave.

You have a debt to pay.

“You are not done!” You call after him. “You have an agreement with Wil—”

“Don’t say his name,” he yells at you, taking a step towards you.

You nod, raising your hands. “But you do—you still have an agreement with him.” Your purse feels heavy against your hip. The gun calls to you. “You still have a debt to pay.” He stays quiet. “That’s how he gets you. He finds people who needed money. Who needed help. But it’s a double edge sword—he helps you and then calls in a favor.”

“He got you too, uh?”

You ignore his words, “But it never stops. It keeps on going. And then, you are trapped. With no way out. Because—if you try, he’ll come after your family. The people you care about the most.” He fully turns to you, “Do you want that to happen?”

“Are you threatening somebody?” he says in a dangerously low voice.

“I am not—” you shake your head. “They are. You keep refusing, you’ll bury your family. They’ll bury you. They will always win.”

He lets out a frustrated sigh, ruffling his hair. “Pop open the trunk.” He commands you.

You do and join him by the trunk. He holds it open. You stifle a yelp, slapping the palm of your hand on your mouth. You have been driving around Hell’s Kitchen with a corpse in the trunk. Your stomach churns at the sight of the lifeless body.

Bloodied and bruised.

This is what it has come to. Driving dead bodies to be taken care of by a random man. This is how your debt was to be repaid, then. By cleaning up after them, getting rid of dead bodies. Becoming the very thing you never wanted to be.

One of them.

****

The water is scalding hot, cascading down your back. The steam envelopes you as the water washes off your plights and stresses. You left the car at the junkyard to be taken care off. You left him to deal with the dead body. And the car. You didn’t want to know what he would do with it. You didn’t care. You knew too much already.

Your eyes fly open as you hear a low thud. You turn off the shower, listening for another. Your nerves are frazzled after your visit at the junkyard. After your encounter with the Devil. You are constantly on edge, always bracing for the next fight. You let out a shaky breath, getting out of the shower. Your heart starts racing against your ribcage. You are alone in your apartment. The sound comes from the neighbors. It happens sometimes.

Your hair drips water down your back. You dry yourself quickly, before pulling down your shirt over the curve of your waist. Pulling up sleeping shorts. You walk out the bathroom, making your way to the kitchen. You have decided to find out who that man was. You wanted to know whose body you were getting rid of. Was he a good man? A bad one? Did it really matter, whether he was bad or good? He was dead. And you threw away his body like he was nothing more than trash.

You turn around the corner and for the second time that evening, a strong hand clamps on your mouth. Muffling the shriek you let out. A second hands lands on your chest as you are being pushed against the wall. Your own hands grip the intruder’s forearms. Your heart slams against your ribcage, eyes widening in fear as they land on the masked figure towering over you.

Daredevil.

Steve Harrington x Fem! Reader Series

Be Kind, Rewind [Chapter list]

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader

Warnings/tags: 18+ contains smut, angst, fluff, comfort, hurt, canonical violence, plot heavy, slow burn

A/N: This story will expand the last three seasons of Stranger Things, and as it was stated up above, it is a slow burn. This idea has been brewing in my head for quite some time. I haven't started to write it yet. But I will publish this story in the future.

List of Chapters

You walked out of the meeting room, following Amelia closely. The meeting had lasted two hours. The head of the publishing house reminded the goal to reach for the new year, the new genre they were trying to push forward. And they, of course, mentioned the annual book launches event that would take place in a few weeks. You didn’t particularly enjoy them, but they were part of the job.

“So, are you gonna bring Matt to the event?” Amelia started, lacing her arms with yours.

“I haven’t asked him, yet” you said shyly.

“Why not? This would be perfect to show him off to the rest of the office—“Amelia continued. “Picture this, him in a beautiful suit and you, in—” she trailed off. “What are you gonna wear?”

“I haven’t decided on that either,” you pursed your lips.

Amelia moaned out your name, in disappointment. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I don’t know if I’ll be there,” you shook your head. “I mean—I’ve never been to this kind of event before. I—I don’t think—I’d fit in. That’s all.”

Amelia gripped your shoulders, “you’re part of this company. It’s not mandatory but—you should come and have a little fun. And bring along your boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend?” Selena Blake stopped next to you. Blonde, curvy, tall—not as tall as Amelia—and very beautiful. “I didn’t know you have a new boyfriend, Amelia.”

“I swore off men for a while,” your best friend rolled her eyes.

Selena’s eyes moved onto you. You didn’t want her to notice you. Selena and you never really had any interactions. But the few you had with her, left a bad taste in your mouth. Selena always seemed to be in a secret competition with everyone. If a coworker had a shitty weekend, she would have a shittier one. If someone had a great hookup, she would have a greater one—with breakfast in bed. And you couldn’t stand it. You didn’t like that she always wanted to do either worse or better than you because she just wanted to be the center of attention.

And Selena didn’t like you either. You never played her games. You didn’t really share your personal stuff. And when she told a story about her own life, you never engaged truly.

Just like Amelia, Selena was an acquisitions editor. Amelia couldn’t stand her either but that was only because Selena had heavily flirted, on multiple occasions, with her ex-fiancé. Ex-fiancé that cheated on her a few months after their engagement—or at least, that was when she found out. Selena wasn’t one of the affair partners—still, Amelia loathed her.

“Then whose boyfriend are you talking about?”

“So, you can go and flirt with them?” Amelia placed herself between you and Selena.

“Oh, please, Amelia—it was just a little silly game I was playing. If anything, you should thank me. I mean, he was a cheater all along.”

Selena wore a smug look on her face, Amelia’s jaw ticked. Telltale signs that Amelia might commit murder, right there and then.

“Alright—” you put yourself between the two women. “Amelia, we’ve got work to do and erm—Selena, we’ll see you around.”

You pulled Amelia behind you, towards the elevator. “What a BITCH!” She screamed as the elevator closed on you.

“I know—but you can’t fight in the workplace, remember?” You tried to appease her.

“Why is that again?”

“You have rent to pay, food to put on the table, possibly risking your career—assault charges, possible jail time—it ain’t worth it.”

She squinted her eyes, looking down at you, “I like how you put jail and assault charges last on the list.”

“Well, some people don’t really care about prison—and I think you truly believe prison would be worth it—if you got to just knock her teeth out. But—you love your apartment and you love eating more. So, it’s not worth it to lose it all for her.”

“Ugh,” she groaned before crossing her arms over her chest. “I can’t be the only one who wants to punch her.”

“You’re not.”

She wasn’t the only one who wanted to punch Selena. You knew that every person who didn’t like Selena and her backhanded compliment, had wanted to. She just had a way to make your blood boil over, and your tension rise to over a hundred. Hitting her wouldn’t fix anything, however.

It would certainly make you feel better.

The office of Nelson, Murdock and Page was not particularly busy that day. It didn’t mean that business was slowing down. No. It was just one of those days where they could work on other files and most importantly—on their current one, the off-label marketing case. Matt had found an arrangement for their client, putting her to safety—hiding her away from the people who attacked her. The lawyer was still putting evidence together, with the help of his associates and the police—one, Detective Sergeant Brett Mahoney.

The detective still didn’t know about Matt’s double life. Although, reluctantly at times, he accepted the help of the Devil and—at times, he even accepted the help of law firm of Nelson, Murdock and Page. Daredevil had tipped him off about the underground labs—allowing Brett to organize a few raids to close some of them down.

But it still wasn’t enough.

Daredevil was still tracking the leaders of the operation but the few people he could track down—weren’t at the head of the operation or—weren’t willing to speak.

He was hitting a dead end.

That was how Matt had spent these last few weeks. Now that you knew about his nighttime activities—there were no reasons for him to lie about why he was sometimes cancelling on you. Which admittedly wasn’t as often as it was before he revealed Daredevil to you. And the few nights he stopped by your apartment—hoping to catch you awake, you were deeply sleeping—lightly snoring. Oblivious to the outside world.

It brought him an odd sense of comfort to know you were peacefully sleeping in your bed. Knowing that you were so far removed from the constant danger of Hell’s Kitchen, was reassuring to him. He led a dangerous life. The path he had chosen came with risks and enemies. Plenty of them.

Although, the thought of your being safe brought him comfort—he still lived in fear of his life completely imploded at your expense. He was afraid that somehow, someday, someone would find out about his true identity. And as a result, Foggy, Karen and you would be targeted and hurt. This fear was constant in the pit of his stomach—so much so that on some days it would go unnoticed. But on the very bad days—the days of doubt and self-loathing, it was very present—and painful. More so within the last few days.

Thankfully, you had both planned to meet up for lunch—and you had agreed to spend the night at his place. He wanted to see you after his patrol—to rest safely in your arms after a night of fighting and beatings.

He had missed you.

You could never understand the meaning of meetings. Some of them were completely pointless—others mandatory, still pointless though. Most of the things said through those meetings could have been an email. And that was what bothered you the most. That was your third meeting of the day that you were walking out of and—it was the last one. Still, you couldn’t help but feel it was all a waste of time.

Your only consolation was that you get to see your boyfriend at lunch.

That thought kept replaying constantly in your mind, like a mantra. You couldn’t contain your excitement as lunch time came around. You and Matt had been very busy these last few weeks and barely had time to see each other. But you both had agreed to meet up for lunch, and you were to spend the night over at his place. This day was already longer than it was supposed to be.

You had missed Matt.

****

Relief hit you when you finally were able to leave your desk, gathering your purse and jacket. And rushing out of there.

Relief and excitement were fluttering around in your stomach.

Walking out of the elevator, you were met with the sight of Matt waiting for you at the reception desk. His head immediately tilted in your direction; all of his senses focused on you.

“What a pleasant surprise,” you said as you got closer. He could hear the smile in your voice. “You never said anything about picking me up.”

Your arms circled around his waist as his right arm came around your shoulders, “well, I wanted to spend as much time as possible with you.” He leaned in, and his lips found yours. He felt your shoulders relaxed under his arm.

“Hi,” you greeted him once you pulled away.

“Hi,” he smiled back at you.

“I missed you.” Your heart thumped away under your ribcage.

“And I missed you.”

Selena had just walked back in and had observed the two of you. And decided that it was a good time to interrupt the both of you.

You groaned as you heard her call your name. “Are you going to introduce us?” She stood on the side, watching you and Matt.

Both of you were still holding onto each other and made no movement to pull away from one another. “Selena, this is Matt. My boyfriend. Matt, this is Selena. Coworker.”

She put out her hand with a giant smile, “nice to meet you, Matt.”

Matt did not reach for her hand; he just tilted his head slightly. He had sensed your shoulders tensed when Selena made her appearance. You didn’t like her. Which Matt found curious. You weren’t the kind to dislike people with no apparent reason. And you weren’t so obvious with it either.

Your tone was clipped and short. And you barely contained your groan when she approached. And Selena didn’t seem to care.

“Erm—Selena, Matt and I have plans—so, I’ll see you later. Or not.” And you pulled your boyfriend out of the building.

Selena let her arm fall awkwardly against her side. So, it was your boyfriend Amelia was referring to, earlier. She watched the both of you walked down the street, Matt gripping your elbow before you both disappeared around the corner.  

You seemed very happy. And that bothered her.

****

“I enjoyed that,” you slid your arms around his neck. “We should do this more often.”

“I’d love to,” Matt brushed his nose against yours.

Your lunch with Matt had come to an end and both of you were reluctant to just part ways for the rest of the days.

“Do I meet you up at your office and then, we go back to your place together?” You asked quietly.

“That sounds like a plan,” his lips met yours in a soft kiss.

Reluctantly, you parted ways with your boyfriend and went back to work. You were looking forward to reuniting with him that evening—not so much looking forward to going back to work.

Why did you have to be so responsible?

You dropped your coat at the back of your chair, pushing out a heavy sigh as you sat down. The manuscripts weren’t going to proofread themselves and thankfully, there were no more meetings that afternoon. So, you put in your headphones, put your favorite playlist and went back to work.

****

You followed Amelia into the break room, pouring yourself a cup of dark coffee.

“Why is this day so long?” You complained sitting down, across Amelia.

“Someone’s eager to meet up with her boyfriend,” she chuckled.

“Can you blame me? I haven’t seen him in—what—three, four weeks.”

“That long?” Amelia exclaimed. “Or you’re not just eager—you’re horny.”

“Amelia!”

“What? You can say it—we’re all adults here.”

“It’s—not just—about that. I just—really missed him, okay?”

“I can tell,” Amelia’s eyes softened as she smiled at you over her cup. “You really love him, uh?”

“Is it wrong to say I do?”

“No,” she laughed. “I’m sure he knows—even though, you haven’t said it out loud. It’s quite obvious.”

“You think he can see it?”

“I’m not sure about seeing—but I’m sure he can feel it.”

A black cup was put down next to yours, stopping your retort. Selena simply pulled a chair and sat down at the table next to you.

“Did you get lost, Selena?” Amelia’s eyebrows shot up.

“You don’t mind,” she said back, earning herself a glare from your best friend. Selena focused her full attention towards you, “so, how come you’ve never told me about your boyfriend?”

You looked between her and Amelia, confused. “I—I—I—We don’t—I don’t know you like that.”

“Yeah, Selena, why would she share her love life with you?”

“Oh, can’t blame a girl for being curious, right?” She continued, dismissing Amelia’s words. “Tell me, how did you guys meet?”

You tightened your hold on your cup, “at Josie’s.”

She looked expectantly at you, waiting for more information. But none came. “That’s it? At Josie’s. Nothing else?” She smiled.

“No, nothing else,” you took a sip. Amelia leaned back in her chair, a proud smile on her lips.

Selena’s smile faltered. Your unwillingness to share information with her, wasn’t something she was used to. She hated it. Even Amelia, as annoying as the redhead was, took the bait most of the time. Why didn’t you?

She recovered quickly, “fair enough. But if I could offer you some advice—”

“I don’t remember asking.”

She either didn’t hear you or decided ignored you, because she continued. “—I would stop looking so—‘needy’.”

You frowned up, “what?”

“Men don’t like it when women are too clingy or needy in a relationship. He might like it now,” she leaned over the table. “But he’s going to get tired of it—really quick. I mean I’ve seen your boyfriend. He could have any woman he wants. So, why should he stay with someone—as clingy as you?”

Her words hit you right beneath your ribs. Selena saw the way you stilled at her words, and smirked. You took the bait. Her words affected you as she intended.

“The hell is wrong with you?” Amelia snapped at her. “You can’t help yourself, can you? You have to make everyone around you miserable.”

“I’m just telling the truth, Amelia. It’s not my fault if she can’t handle it.” She stood up from her chair, with a satisfied smile.

“Don’t listen to her, okay?” Amelia reached over and clasped your hand. “You’re not clingy. She is wrong.” You pulled your hands out from under hers. The damage was done. “Selena is just jealous. She is mad that Matt is hot and that he is your boyfriend.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Your voice sounded so small. You cleared your throat, “I should get back to work.”

Amelia called your name, but you ignored her. Slowly, you walked back to your desk. Giving out tight smiles to the colleagues walking by. Amelia was probably right. Selena was just trying to get under your skin. Jealousy was her motivator. Still—her words had hit their mark.

Were you too clingy? Too needy?

It wasn’t a question you ever asked yourself before but—maybe you should have. And thanks to Selena, this was now something you had to worry about. Your fear of being too much for anyone, just rose in your chest with a new energy. Feeding the voices in your head—whispering to you that you’re too much, too sensitive—too needy, too clingy. Whispering to you—that Matt won’t put up with it much longer.

Your mother didn’t put up with it—she walked away. And your father berated you for it. You never knew how to be—just the right amount. Just enough for people to like you.

You tried to focus on your manuscript to run away from those thoughts—sort of. But they kept coming back up— A never ending loop of maybes and what ifs.

Maybe wait for Matt to initiate it all. But what if he gets put off by the lack of initiation on your part? What if he thinks you lose interest? Then I’ll initiate it, like I usually do. Selena doesn’t know him. She’s wrong. What if she’s right? What if Matt just doesn’t want to hurt your feelings? What then?

You closed the manuscript on your desk, forcefully. Took a deep breath, tears pressing against your eyes. You got up from your desk and went to hide in the bathroom. You needed a minute—you needed a sort of reset. Something to pull you away from the negative and anxiety filled loop of intrusive thoughts.

Why were you letting Selena’s words get to you? You splashed cold water on your face. Why were you so weak minded?

“Hey,” Amelia caught you as you walked out of the bathroom. “You’re okay?”

“Yeah,” you nodded quickly. “I mean—”

You cut yourself off. You wanted to tell her you wanted to cancel your plans for the night. But she would just convince you to go. And did you really want to cancel? You had been looking forward to it all day. And Matt—Matt would be disappointed. You couldn’t do that to him, could you?

“—I’m good. Just feeling a little tired, that’s all.” You slapped a smile onto your face. Pushing down all those doubts and uncertainty.

“You’re not thinking about cancelling with Matt, are you?” She squinted her eyes at you. “Because Selena’s a bitch,” she whispered the last part. “And you shouldn’t let her ruin your fun.”

“No, I’m not cancelling, alright? I’m still going.”

“Good,” she gave you a satisfied smile. You smiled back but it didn’t reach your eyes.

You were still going, you didn't want to stand him up.

You had missed him.

You let out a deep breath as you stepped into Matt’s office. Amelia had walked with you before you dropped her at her place. She had been able to distract you from the onslaught of negative thoughts that kept swirling around in your brain. But it didn’t keep them at bay. They were still very present—and stronger than ever.

The first thing Matt noticed was your heartbeat. It was erratic. Faster than usual. Then it was your smile, he listened in on your bidding goodbye to Foggy and Karen as they left the office. He sensed that it was tight—barely reaching your eyes.

“Hey,” he joined you in the common area, putting on his blazer. You smiled at him, crossing your arms tight on your chest.

“Hey,” your voice was oddly small. Almost quiet.

He frowned, slightly tilting his head to the right. He was assessing you—you could feel it. You wished he didn’t have to do that. You dropped your gaze to the floor as though the action alone would made him stop analyzing you. Tears pressing against your eyes begging to be shed.

“Sweetheart, is everything alright?”  Matt questioned you softly, his hands rubbing along your arms.

You let out a shaky breath. You didn’t want to dump this on him here. You didn’t even want to talk about it but—you couldn’t keep this to yourself. This was unbearable.

“I don’t know,” you said quietly. He frowned up, his hands stopped their rubbing—his touch was grounding—comforting even. Giving you some courage. You raised your face to look at him. “You would tell me—if I was being—too clingy, right?”

“What?”

“Because if I am, you can tell me. I can take it,” you rambled on, rapidly. “If it really bothers you, I can fix it. I’ll change it—I’ll try to be less—clingy—”

“Sweetie,” he cut you off gently, his tone firm. His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had fallen. You hiccupped, your eyes dropping to his chest, his chain necklace peeking from under his collar. “Look at me.” You took in a shaky breath, lips wobbling, as you did so. His face coming into view above you. He looked as pained as you felt.

“I’m sorry,” you said automatically.

“Don’t. You don’t have anything to apologize for,” he assured you. “What made you think you were being clingy?”

“Something Selena said. I shouldn’t have—listened to her—I know but—” A new wave of tears just sprung into your eyes.

“The voices—” his right index came to tap your temple, gently. “—got to work.”

“Yeah,” you sniffled.

He pressed his forehead into yours, fingers grazing the back of your neck. “You know what is my favorite thing about you?”

“What?” Your fingers grazed the pointy end of his tie, aimlessly playing with it.

His lips quirked up slightly, hearing the slight pout in your words. “The way you do ‘cling’ to me wherever we are. Claiming me as yours.”

“Because you are.”

A quiet and deep fondness bloomed in his chest at your words. He let out a deep breath. “Sweetie, Selena—and most people, mistake clingy with affection. Making it a negative thing.” He pulled his head back, head tilted down towards you, “You are affectionate—and warm. And—I—love that about you. There’s nothing remotely clingy about the way you are.”

“Really?”

He kissed your forehead, “Really. Feeling better?”

“A little,” you smiled softly. “I’m sorry—I hate that I’m like this.”

He looked contemplative, thinking out his next words. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “There’s nothing wrong with the way you are. You feel intensely, and deeply and the voices—” he tapped your temple gently. “—exist only because too many people, in your life, couldn’t handle the way you are.” Your eyes roamed his face intently, listening to his every words. “This is who you are. And I accept and appreciate every part of you.”

“What about the parts you don’t know?”

“Especially, the parts I don’t know—I can’t wait for you to share them with me.”

“You might not like me afterwards.”

“Not a chance in the world—I’m in too deep now.”

Your breath hitched, your heart speeding up again. Heat rising in your chest and the top of your ears. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

"Why not?" He grinned, loving the way you reacted to his words. “it’s the truth."

"Because—when you say stuff like that," you took the pointy part of his tie between your fingers, too embarrassed to look at him. "It feels like—my heart's too big for my chest. Like it's going to explode. It's a little terrifying sometimes—" Your eyes looked up to him, carrying a vulnerability you could only display with him. "Because you are very special to me." Your voice was soft and quiet, wavering slightly.

He smiled a slow, and tender smile. His eyes, although covered by his glasses, stared through you fondly. "Good. Because you are very special to me too.”

Your lips lifted up into a bright smile. Mirroring his as he lowered his mouth towards yours. Your eyes briefly snapping to his lips. His hand slipped into your hair; you gripped the lapel of his blazer. In that moment, when his lips pressed against yours—all your insecurities got chased away, the voices were silenced.

It was just you and him.

The loss of Fudge was a heavy blow; a brutal message delivered right to their doorstep. No one would be spared.

After you left, Birdy had come to him. “This family needs you.” She had told him. Michael knew that. His family needed him more than ever.

Jimmy.

Anna.

“This family needs you.”

Her words still echoed in his mind as he waited for the door to open. Michael was sure of it now; he was back in the blood and the mud, tethered to the sins of his family. Sins and burden that he could never escape. And maybe, he didn’t truly want to escape them. Some twisted part of him may not want to escape. Some twisted part of him felt safe in the chaos of the Kinsellas.

That was all he had ever known.

He would become the weapon they needed him to be.

His thoughts drifted back to you. The feel of your lips on his still lingering in his memory.  Although, his family needed him. Although, he was stepping back into his family’s business, he would keep you away from it all. You were his only light, his safe haven from the brutality and darkness that comes with being a Kinsella.

When he first met you, he should have known better than letting you in. He should have known better than pursuing you, than starting a relationship with you. But the pull you had on him was impossible to resist. You offered kindness and support, a place for him to shed his heavy burden. You saw the darkness. You knew the brutality. You knew about the blood on his hands. And yet, you remained. Drawn to him as much as he was drawn to you. You didn’t judge him. You only offered softness, kindness and brought light into his life. You were the only thing that was going right in his life.

He was pulled out of his thoughts by the door opening. Amanda was on the other side.

“You alright?” He greeted her.

“Yeah,” Amanda said back.

“I was looking for Jimmy,” Michael continued.

“He was gone when I got home. And his phone is turned off,” she informed him. And then added, “I checked Twitter. No one’s been shot.”

She invited him in; Michael closed the door behind him. He followed her into the living room where she was making herself a drink.

“I’ve had a shit day, so, I started early,” Amanda said as a way of explanation for the drink. “Do you want one?”

“No,” he shook his head.

“Aye, that’s right, you don’t drink anymore,” her tone almost mocking him. “Why is that?”

“Feel better without it.” Amanda poured the liquid into her glass, “maybe I should go.” Michael suggested, sensing that his sister-in-law was in a shitty mood.

“Oh, no, stay,” she told him. “It’s boring, drinking on your own.”

“Amanda, is something wrong?” He questioned her. “You alright?”

“I told ya. I’ve had a shitty day. And I’m gonna have a drink. And make somebody pay.” She finished with a smile. The tension in the room rising, making Michael quite uncomfortable. “Sit.” She moved to the couch. Reluctantly, Michael followed her, taking off his jacket.

He grabbed the paper laid on the table, briefly read it before pushing it away. While Amanda just—watched him. Silently. Michael was looking back at her.

“You know what’s fucking weird?” She started. “You haven’t said a word about Jamie—Nothin’.” Michael looked away from her. “Not even when we were buryin’ him.”

“What was I supposed to say?”

“Anything—Anything at all,” Amanda countered. “You could have asked to say a Prayer of the Faithful.”

“It wouldn’t have been fair on Jimmy.”

It wouldn’t have. Jamie wasn’t his to mourn.

“What did you think—when you heard I was pregnant with him?” She insisted. “I mean, you’d been fuckin’ me, so, you must’ve known he could’ve been yours. Didn’t you ever wonder when you see Jamie, ‘Is he mine?’—‘Is that my son?’—Or was it just like, ‘Not my fuckin’ problem.’” Michael let out a chuckle. “Answer me.” She said firmly. “You saw him all the time before you went to jail. He was growing up in front of you. What did you think?”

“I thought he was Jimmy’s boy.”

“No, you didn’t.” She glared at him. “I don’t believe you. You knew. Jimmy raised him but Jamie was yours. And deep down, you knew. He was just as much yours as Anna is.”

He should have left her alone to drink. Amanda was looking for a fight and she wasn’t backing down. What did she expect him to do? To claim Jamie as his own while his brother was clueless about their history. As far as he was concerned, Jamie was Jimmy’s boy. Not his. Never his.

He didn’t have a right to claim him.

“I’ll call Jimmy later,” Michael went to grab his jacket ready to leave.

“I saw you with your neighbor,” Amanda said. “Are you fuckin’ her too?”

“Jesus, Amanda!” Michael exclaimed.

“Well, are ya?”

“What I do with her is none of your business. Stay out of it.” His tone held a warning.

“So, it’s not just fucking,” she smirked, dissatisfied with his answer. “Are you in love with her?”

He remained quiet, putting on his jacket. Before roughly rubbing his mouth. He wouldn’t call it love just yet. He wasn’t sure what he truly felt for you but there was something undeniable between you. Something that would most likely turn into love. As long as he won’t fuck it up.

“Do you really think this is the time for you to fall in love with a stranger? An outsider?”

“Amanda—”

“Especially now—”

“It’s none of your business,” Michael snapped at her. “What I do with her is none of your concern. Stay out of it.”

There was buzz, followed by the sound of the door closing. The sound interrupted whatever Amanda opened her mouth to say. Jimmy walked in and made himself a drink.

“What the fuck is this? A party?”

Amanda chuckled. “Yeah, might be, if only we could get your brother to have a drink.” As though nothing had happened before, Michael scoffed at her jab. “Where were you?”

“With Frank.” Jimmy answered. “He set us up with a new supplier. At last, something to celebrate.”

“I understand, sir. Trust me. Unfortunately, those are the terms of the contract you signed. And I—” the man yelled again on the phone, while you tried to reason with him. Unfortunately, there was no reasoning with him. “Sir, I will end the call if you keep insulting me.” He called you a cunt. You cut off the call. “Is it a full moon or something?” You turned to Bessie.

“Another one?”

“Yes! Why do people yell? I don’t understand.”

“They are unhappy and angry with their contracts.”

“I can understand that. But I’m only here to give compensation in the limits of what their contracts allow. I’m not the one who made them sign it. They should be angry at those people.”

“I know what you mean, love. Can get a little frustrating.”

You got up from your chair, “Cup of tea?” You offered to Bessie.

“Yes, thanks.” She handed her cup to you.

The morning shift had been hectic. The calls never stopped. Customers seemed to be angrier than usual. Nothing new under the sun some might say. The only good thing you noticed were the absence of texts and calls from your mother. It appears she finally got your message. You never wanted to speak or meet with her ever again. And that was a relief.

However, as long as you didn’t have confirmation that they left Dublin and went back to whatever hole they lived in, you wouldn’t feel safe. But at least, for now, you felt like you could finally breathe a little.

You handed Bessie her cup back, filled with hot tea and went back into the fray. Between the never-ending calls and the meetings with your supervisors, your thoughts drifted back to Michael. You didn’t think it fair to drag him into your family drama, although, he offered you, his protection. You greatly appreciated it but you knew he already had enough to deal with. Especially with the bounty on his head. And the threat Eamon Cunnigham posed to his family. He didn’t need to deal with your problem on top of everything. But it felt nice to have someone to share your trouble with, for a change.

You were so used to handle everything on your own. Used to hold it all in. It felt nice to have someone in your corner. There was no judgement on his part. He didn’t make you feel weak. And you didn’t have to be always strong around him. You felt safe. Safe enough to feel vulnerable. Safe enough to let him be there for you.

Was it love that you felt for him? You didn’t know yet.

But it could be.

****

The sun was slowly setting down as you tried to decide on what to eat. Your work clothes were already in the hamper in the bathroom. Forgetting all about the hectic day you just had. You checked your phone, but Michael had not gone back to you, yet. You were hoping he could show up this evening. You just wanted to be able to melt into the safety and warmth of his solid arms.  

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Your lips quirked up into a giant smile. You rushed down the stairs, abandoning your phone on the counter as you walked by the kitchen. And opened the door.

The words of greetings died on your lips; your smile dropped as terror made its way into your chest.

“Surprise,” Stéphane said with a shit eating grin. Standing on your doorstep.

Your phone sat on your dinner table while you were going through your house. Searching. “Did you get a hold of your brother?” Dean asked you over the phone.

You lifted your head slightly, “not yet. I’ll get to him after I finish here.” You stood up and moved closer to the table, “are we sure this is necessary?”

“Yes, it is,” Dean answered. “Crowley wants the tablet and he ain’t stopping until he gets it.”

Your dropped down your head, “great. Are you gonna give him the tablet?”

“We might have to,” Sam said on the other side of the line.

Things were getting dire for the brothers. Not only did they have to figure a way to go through with the third trial but they also had to deal with this demon—the King of Hell—killing each and every single person they had saved over the years. This wasn’t what they needed right now. Not when they were so close to shutting down the gates of hell.

“Hey, if you guys need anything—anything at all—” you started.

“Not this time, Princess,” Dean rejected the idea immediately.

“Come on, Dean, you’re gonna need help,” you protested.

“Sorry, it’s just me and Sam on this one,” he countered before hanging up.

“Jerk!”

Dean seemed determined to keep you out of this. In spite of your knowing what they were dealing with, he wanted you away from everything. It was probably safer for you but still—you couldn’t help but worry for them. You at least hoped that once the third trial was completed and the gates closed, Sam would be back to his full health. That was all you hoped for.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Your brother asked you, putting down the food on your table.

“Crazy, I know,” you put down the plates. “But they can do it and they are going to. It’s just—it sounds highly dangerous.”

“It is,” Matt pulled out a chair before sitting down. “Glad Dean declined your offer to help.”

“What?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “Look, I know you want to help but what are you gonna do? Realistically, what can you do that they can’t?”

You let out a deep breath, “I don’t know—I just—I don’t think they should do this on their own.”

“They’re not doing this on their own,” Matt reminded you. “They have an angel by their side.”

“An angel that was gone when they were figuring out the third trial,” you shot back. “I’m not saying he’s not helping but I feel like, right now, he’s not exactly there for them.”

He knocked on the table twice, your eyes snapped up at him. “Listen, the best you can do right now is to stay out of their way. And let them do their thing, they will call you if they really need you.”

“And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“What you’ve always done. Help people, hunting things,” your brother poured wine in your glass. “Sam and Dean are fighting the big guns but people out there still need help. There are still monsters roaming the earth. You might as well do that. I mean you want to help, right?”

“You’re making a lot of sense, and I hate it.” You exhaled deeply.

The Winchesters were dealing with things that were clearly above your paygrade. You didn’t think it was fair that they had to deal with this but it was clearly not their first rodeo. Your brother was right though. People still needed help in the meantime, monsters, ghosts, demons, were still tormenting them.

No rest for the wicked, they said.

“Where have you been, lately?” Emilie questioned you as you walked around the car, into the police station.

“Here and there,” you sighed, handing her a fake news reporter badge.

Emilie Waters was a fellow hunter and your best friend. You two had met on a hunt a few years back, you were still a bright-eyed hunter, making your debut in the hunting world. She naturally took you under her wing and showed you most of the ropes. You both spent some time on the road together before going your separate way. You two had kept in touch sporadically over the years. And from time to time, you hunted together.

Emilie loved to do things on her own. That was the reason why you two went your separate ways eventually. But sometimes, she called you to help her on a hunt. You suspected that she called for your help specifically because she sometimes missed you. And instead of saying it as any normal person did, she only called to help with a case. It was her version of quality time.  

“Heard through the grapevine, you’re rolling with Winchesters these days,” she smirked at you. “Is it true?”

“Worked with them on a few hunts, that’s all.” You shrugged.

“So, tell me how good are they in the sack?” She bumped your shoulder.

“What? Ewww!” you scrunched your face in disgust. “I don’t know, I didn’t sleep with any of them. And not planning to.”

“Oh, come on! They’re the Winchesters. Legends. You have to.”

You rolled your eyes before walking into the station, completely ignoring her words.

You checked your phone for the hundredth time. You were worried about the brothers—you were dying to know, whether or not, they found a way to go through with the third trial. You had texted Dean and Sam, but none of them had gotten back to you.

“For someone who claims she isn’t sleeping with any of them, you sure look worried,” Emilie commented while cleaning her gun.

“Is it always about sex with you?” You countered back.

“Sorry, I forgot. You’re a prude.”

“Far from it,” you said back. “Listen, those guys are going against something that is way above our paygrade and I—just want to make they’re still alive.”

She paused, putting down her rag, “how bad is it?”

“Apocalypse level bad.”

“Hey, checking your phone ain’t gonna make them answer faster.” You looked up at her, “they’re the Winchesters. I’m sure they’re fine.”

“Yeah, they’re the Winchesters. Not invincible.” You muttered under your breath.

You refocused on the case you were working with Emilie. Ignoring the pit in your stomach that just kept growing. There wasn’t much you could do. If only one of them could let you know they were doing fine. That would settle your nerves a bit at least. You just needed to know they were still alive. That they were fine.

If only they would let you know.

Emilie groaned getting off of the ground, “took you long enough,” she glared at you.

“Sorry,” you apologized. “The lighter wouldn’t work.”

“You need a new one, then.”

You helped her up, “you’re alright?”

“Nothing a good drink can’t fix.”

You snorted, “come on, let’s get you some ice for your head, first. Then, we can get that drink.”

Tired and bruised, both of you walked up to your car. The night was chill, the streetlights were all lit up, outside of the graveyard. You threw the shovels in your beat-up truck bed.

“What’s that?” Emilie suddenly said.

“What?” You looked around the truck, she was gazing up at the sky.

“That,” she pointed at the dark sky.

When you turned your eyes up to the sky, you could see beams of light, raining down. It looked beautiful and yet—a sense of dread filled your chest.

“What the hell is going on?”

Your eyes caught one of the falling stars, you could make out the shape of the young woman, wrapped in burning wings. Before they completely disappeared as she hit the ground.

“Angels,” Emilie looked at you confused. You were horrified when you looked at her, terrified, “they’re falling.”

“Victim is unidentified still. Male, I’d say between 30-35 years old,” the M.E. reported to Mannie and Rush as they stood in the morgue, looking at the latest victim. “No apparent signs any form of trauma, apart from the cracked ribs when they resuscitate him. But judging by the number of drugs they had in their system—I’d say they most likely died of an overdose.”  

“Any in particular?” Mannie asked while reading the file she was handed. She couldn’t help but recognized some of the names.

“A mix of them really. See, those are mainly prescribed drugs, strong painkillers, muscle relaxer, anxiolytics—taken alone and in the right dosage, there’s no risk of an overdose. But together and at a pretty high dosage, could be very much deadly.”

“Yeah, we can see that,” Rush commented nodding to the dead man. “How fast can the drug work?”

“It depends on the medication—but since, there was the mix of alcohol and different drugs, can take minutes to hours,” he finished with a shrug.

“He was pronounced dead at the scene—5:30 A.M. Within minutes means he could have ingested this mix at 5:00 A.M. or at 8:00 P.M the night before,” Mannie theorized.

“That’s gonna be fun to figure out,” Rush exhaled, defeated.  

Hunt left the morgue with her partner. Accidental death but death, nonetheless, turning this whole case into a homicide. All of that to steal clubbers on their nights out. This was organized by the way they operated. Many questions flew through her mind. Was it one person or a gang? And how did they choose their victims? Was it at random? Or was it determined by the size of their wallet? And was it truly an accidental death? Or was it intentional?

The shrill sound of her ringtone pulled her out of her train of thoughts. She stopped by the car while her partner climb into the car.

“Hunt,” she greeted.

“Hey, Mannie. It’s me, Aimee.”

Aimee Lawrence was a nurse that worked at the Metro-General Hospital. Aimee and Mannie had crossed paths many times before. Mostly during night patrols when; often; Mannie would take wounded thugs to the hospital or injured drunkards to be taken care of. And sometimes, Mannie herself was a patient there. Over time, the two of them had developed a sort of friendship. They weren’t the best of friends, but they were more than just acquaintances.

“Aimee,” Mannie smiled. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“It’s not pleasure, trust me,” Aimee sighed. “There’s a woman, here, she says she knows you and wanted me to call.”

“A woman? That knows me?”

“Look, she has been beaten up—very badly by her husband. And she says—that she’s your mother.”

Mannie’s face fell into this hardened expression she often wore when her mother was mentioned. Their relationship wasn’t just complicated. It was non-existent. It was to be expected, after all, her mother had never been kind or gentle to Mannie. And the woman had walked out of her life when she was ten years old. The Detective had been raised by her father—not that he was an exceptionally great parent when she was growing up. But it was better than being an orphan, at least in her book. Her father was the parent that stayed. Her mother; the one that left.

And Mannie could never forgive her for that.

The repeated cycle of walking in and out of her life had deeply wounded Mannie. Only teaching her that it was easy for people to abandon her. Easy for people to just walk away. That she wasn’t enough reason to stay. It didn’t truly matter at the time that her father had stayed. All that she could see was the one that left. The woman who had carried her for nine months and birthed her, didn’t love her enough to stay.

Mannie would never forgive her for leaving. Or for building an entirely new family with another man. For calling—over the years—only when she needed something from her daughter. Or simply for breaking her heart—over and over again.

“Does she want to press charges?” She asked Aimee, slightly annoyed.

“That’s not why she’s asking to see you—” the nurse said back.

“Then, what does she want? Support? Cause I have none to offer to this woman.”

“Look, I don’t know what happened between you two. And frankly, I don’t care right now,” Aimee snapped at her. “This woman—is here, alone and scared, after her husband abused her,” she reminded the Detective. “I’m sure you can show come compassion to a victim.”

“To a victim, I can. To my mother not so much,” Mannie countered. “I’ll sent someone over to take her statement.”

And she hung up before Aimee could protest.

She slid in the driver’s seat, “is everything okay?” Rush asked her.

“Yeah, family matters. Nothing too important.”

It was important.

True to her words, she asked an officer to go to the hospital to take the statement of an abuse victim. But said nothing of her relationship with the victim. No one needed to know, really. People would judge. She was sure that Aimee was judging her, right this instant. Mannie did not really care though—she didn’t want to see her mother and couldn’t see her. There was too much resentment, too much anger, too much pain.

She couldn’t see her mother. She wouldn’t.

“Dewey Crowe,” Mannie called softly, handing him the sandwich she just bought. “Brought you lunch.”

Dewey looked at her, suspiciously. “What do you need from me?” He did not reach for the bag.

“Come on, can a girl visit a friend?”

“They can. You can’t. And we’re not friends.”

“You got me there,” Mannie exhaled deeply. “That’s for you."

“Thanks,” Dewey finally grabbed the brown bag.

Mannie leaned against the wall, let out a deep breath. “I need your help with something.”

“I thought you were only visiting a friend.”

“I am and now, I’m asking for help,” she shrugged. “You know, friends help each other.” Dewey shook his head, scoffing at her. “Look, there’s been a series of robberies in nightclubs lately. People getting all drugged up and having their wallets and credit cards stolen.”

“Yeah, heard about that,” Dewey nodded, with a mouthful.

“And?”

“What?”

“You just said you heard about it—”

“Yeah, because I heard about it.”

“Oh My God!” Mannie groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Alright, last night a dead body turned up. Overdose. Did you—by any chance—hear anything else about this whole operation? I don’t know—names, maybe?”

“Nah, didn’t hear any names,” Dewey shook his head. “I just know they’ve been hitting a couple of clubs around Hell’s Kitchen. And they’re pretty good at it.”

“Is that what you heard?” Mannie questioned and he nodded. “And no one knows who they are?”

“Do you know how many people there is in a nightclub? I mean there’s a lot of alcohol and drugs, no one’s gonna pay attention.”

Mannie let out a deep breath, “can you keep an ear out? Just in case.”

“Can I get more of these? That’s really good,” Dewey said.

“You get me what I want, and you’ll get more of that, and some.”

“You got yourself a deal, Detective.”

****

She threw her jacket over the back of her chair before dropping into her seat. She decided the best course of action for now was to work the case and not think about her family issues. Mannie reviewed the autopsy report. The victim identified as John Doe, for now, seemed to have been a healthy man—if not for the large amount of alcohol found in his blood. She reread the drugs found in his system and a few names jumped at her. She just couldn’t figure where she had read them before.

“Hey, Hunt, Rush was looking for you, earlier.” Ainsley told her.

“Did he tell you why?”

“Well, he got an ID on your John Doe.”

“He did?”

“Yeah,” she leaned over Rush’s desk, and grabbed the file he had left there. “There you go.”

John Doe was Zachary Black, 33 years old. Bankers at the Chase Bank in Hell’s Kitchen. No criminal records. A few speeding tickets. Single. No kids.

“Rush went to speak to his boss and coworkers. Maybe, one of them was with him last night,” Ainsly informed her.

“Good,” Mannie nodded. “Thank you, Ainsley.”

“Anytime.”

Mannie and Ainsley weren’t as close as Mannie was to Rush, but she would still consider the detective a good friend. And although, she was pissed that her case was reassigned to Ainsley, at least, she knew it was in good hands.

Stepping into her appartement, Mannie dropped her keys in the bowl on the kitchen counter and toed off her shoes. The day had been quite long, and it wasn’t over yet. She was meant to rest for a few hours before going back for the night patrols. Since, all the corrupted cops and detectives had been arrested, they were short staffed. Sort of. So, two days a week, Mannie was on night patrol duties. She plopped down in her couch, letting her head fall back against the back of her couch, sighing loudly.

Her phone rang. Again. She ignored it.

It was Aimee calling her. About her mother. She had ignored the nurse all day. She really didn’t want to deal with her mother. And Aimee didn’t seem to understand her feelings on the matter. All Aimee could see was a victim. A victim that ended in the hospital because the hands of her husband inflicted pain and harm rather than love and care. But Mannie could only see the woman that inflicted pain and harm rather than love and care. She couldn’t see the victim.

Or maybe she didn’t want to see.

Maybe it was easier to ignore her victimhood because she didn’t want to show care for her mother. It was easier to keep her mother as this cruel villain. Because as soon as she would see her as the victim she was, she could no longer be this villain. This monster that ripped her heart out all those years ago. She would become this woman—this human who had been hurt as much as Mannie had been herself.

She couldn’t allow that.

She wasn’t ready yet.

****

“I thought you wouldn’t show,” Freddie Rose said to Mannie as a form of greetings.

“Sorry, my nap lasted a little longer than planned,” Mannie replied.

Detective Freddie Rose was to be her partner for the graveyard shift. In his late forties, divorced, and cynical—Freddie Rose didn’t have much faith left in him, for the justice system. He kept doing the good work, but he had a hard time believing in it anymore. And it had only gotten worse after the corruption had been revealed.

“You’re driving?” Mannie asked him.

“Yeah, and you’re paying for the coffees,” Freddie answered.

“Deal,” she smirked grabbing her vest from her locker.

“Let’s go.”

12:00 PM to 8:00 AM, that was how long their shift would be. Freddie drove them through where Gang activity was concentrated. “Uniforms doesn’t mean the same anymore,” Freddie suddenly said as they drove past a group of young kids milling around a bodega. Several of them flipping them off and making obscene gestures with their crotches. Nothing new under the sun.

“They really hate us. Can’t say I blame them for it,” Mannie sighed loudly.

“Well, gangbangers hate cops, we hate them too.”

“It’s not just the gangbangers and you know it,” she countered. “The average citizens either hate us or fear us. None of them truly respects us. Not anymore.”

“Is that why you do this job? For the respect?”

“No, I do it because—I thought I could do something good for the people. Work with the system and tried to be as fair as possible.”

“Fairness, uh?” Rose snorted.

“You don’t believe we can be fair?”

“Oh, I believe we can—but lawyers, prosecutors and judges don’t really play fair. You arrest one of these guys and they get released less than 24 hours later.”

“Yeah, if you have money—you can buy your freedom, these days.”

Rose remained quiet at her words. They drove around a few more minutes before getting their first call from dispatch. Gunfire was heard two blocks away. Rose turned on the sirens.

Mannie jumped out of the car, drawing out her gun. One of officers that arrived on the scene before them, was already on the ground. She checked on them quickly.

“I got this,” Rose told her. “Go!”

Mannie didn’t let him repeat it twice. She took off after the masked robbers; two more officers preceded her. Pursuing on foot the four robbers. The robbers waved their guns around dangerously, firing at random. Risking the lives of the bystanders.

****

The Devil lurked in the darkness. He had heard the gunshots and just like the Detective, he was chasing after the robbers. Unlike the night at the docks, he didn’t the advantage of using darkness as his ally. The streets were lit, there so much more people around. He needed to limit his interaction with the police, but he also couldn’t let those robbers go so easily.

“GET DOWN! OUT OF THE WAY!” The Devil paused in his chase. His head tilted to the right; he recognized the voice. It was Detective Hunt.

He resumed the chase—leapt from a building to another, before dropping swiftly into the dark alley. Using darkness to conceal his movement. The police officer that preceded Mannie, stopped one of the masked men. His gun was aimed at the back of his head; The robber seemed to cooperate before turning around an attacking the officer. The Devil pulled him into the dark alley, pulling off his mask before knocking him unconscious. Throwing him back onto the street. At the police officer’s feet.

The Devil was faster than the Detective. She had good form, he must admit. But he was faster still. By the time, she reached his position, he was already gone after the remaining robbers. He took them out one by one. Neutralizing them. Protecting the people.

Protecting his city.  

****

Her lungs were burning, her breath shallow. Her right knee was now burning under the effort. Detective Mannie Hunt, 32 years old, was suffering from arthrosis in her right knee. The cartilage around her bones that absorbed shock and protected her bones, was gone. Causing the ends of the bones, at the joint, to rub directly together and producing pain. That sometimes manifested in this burning sensation that she could feel, even when she was resting.

So, when the burning became too much, and it seemed as though her knee was about to dislocate. She stopped. She bent over, hands on her knees, catching her breath.

“HUNT!” Rose shouted from the car. Her head snapped up, in his direction.

“I lost them,” she said, out of breath, limping quickly to the car.

“You’re good? Did you get hurt?” Rose asked worriedly as she winced, before extended her right leg in front of her.

“Yeah, I’m good. Don’t worry about it,” Mannie waved him off. “We need to call dispatch, let them know we lost the suspects.”

“We didn’t lose them. They’re in a church a couple of blocks away,” Rose told her as she climbed in the car.

She nodded, “okay. What about the kid?” She questioned, referring to the police officer that had been shot.

“He’s being taken care of. He’ll recover quickly.”

“Good,” she breathed out.

Police cars were already surrounded the perimeter. EMS ambulance was on scene, just in case. Rose and Mannie climbed out of the car. Gunshot resonated in the small church, and all the cops on the scene, including Rose and Hunt, rushed inside the church.

A teenage girl was stood at the altar. Sobbing and shaking. At her feet, laid a lifeless body.

“Hey, sweetie,” Mannie had stepped closer to the young girl, putting her gun back in its holster. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” She reassured her, draping her jacket around her shoulders. Pulling her away from the unconscious suspect.

“Daredevil,” she said between sobs.

“What?”

“He saved my life,” she continued. “Daredevil saved my life.”

“Of course, he did.”

As she led the young girl outside, Mannie looked up—hoping to catch a glimpse of him. But the Devil was nowhere to be seen.

He was already gone.

The television was playing in the background; an ice pack was placed on her bad knee—to aid with the swelling—as Mannie slowly drifted into sleep. The rest of her shift had been uneventful. As uneventful as possible in Hell’s Kitchen. But nothing as major as this hot pursuit. She had swallowed some anti-inflammatory drugs and pain relievers to manage the pain and discomfort. Sleep came faster than expected. Her pain killers knocked her out quickly.

Mannie snored while the rest of Hell’s Kitchen was barely starting their day.

****

When evening came and she started her shift, her knee didn’t hurt anymore but still uncomfortable.

“Hey, Rush,” Mannie greeted her partner as he was packing to leave for the night. “Did you learn anything interesting about our latest victim?”

“Yeah,” he said, putting on his jacket. “He was out with coworkers to have drink at Rudy’s Bar & Grill—they were approached by—and I quote—‘Ladies of the night’”

“Meaning?”

“Call girls,” he retorted. “They left the bar around 10pm—going home.”

“Did they all go home?” Mannie asked him.

“One of them said that—Black got into a cab with one of the call girls.”

“So what? Call girls simply approached them for no reason. Aren’t they supposed to be hired by someone?” Mannie frowned.

“Still figuring that one out,” Rush replied. “Oh, and we just got the CCTV for the nightclubs. Forensics working on it.”

“Well, that’s progress.”

“Hey,” Rush stepped closer to her. “The traffickers you arrested the other day, remember?”

“Yeah, they got released. Ainsley called me about it yesterday.”

“Yeah, well, they’ve been killed.”

“What?”

“Bodies were found at the docks this morning. Real slaughter, shot multiple times.”

“Do we know who did it?”

“They’re accusing Daredevil,” Rush shrugged.

Mannie blinked twice, her lips parted in disbelief, “that’s completely ridiculous. Daredevil doesn’t use guns.”

“It doesn’t matter. He’s a vigilante. And he was there with you at the docks that night—and he knew who they were. Can only be him.”

Mannie refused to believe that the Devil was capable of murder. She had peeked in the files; she had seen the photos. Rush wasn’t lying when he called it a slaughter. There were holes bigger than her fist in their chest. This kind of wound needed a lot of firepower. Firepower that she was convinced Daredevil didn’t possess.

Months ago, Daredevil was also accused of causing chaos in Hell’s Kitchen. Several buildings had exploded; many police officers had been killed. And Daredevil was seen at the scene. He still wore his black outfit then. For a while, many in the ranks, believed that the Devil worked for Fisk. Hoffman never mentioned him, though. And the Devil was a great help in arresting Fisk.

Mannie knew it couldn’t be him. Daredevil might be a criminal. A vigilante. But he wasn’t a killer.

No, he wasn’t.