Hell’s Kitchen was no Wall Street, in Felicia’s (not) humble opinion.

What was Kingpin’s deal? She wondered, sulkily regulated to stakeout duty in order to protect her prize. The courier was taking great care to hide the painting Fisk had set his eyes on as an apology to his wife. Mrs. Fisk never took kindly to her husband’s activities. As a compromise, Kingpin was making a big show of legitimacy. This, apparently, involved buying her off with an expensive piece of art. (If that was marriage, Felicia wanted no part in it.)

"Why does your wife need Madonna and Child?” Felicia had asked as derisively as she could get away with, one hand poised on the fire escape. A Benson painting was a treasure—she expected nothing less for someone as rich as Kingpin, but it still came as a surprise.

"It’s a gesture," Kingpin had answered from his desk, lighting another cigar. Behind her mask, Felicia gave him a dubious look, enough to make her boss laugh. This was part of the dance. Felicia was always baited, and Kingpin always explained. It was a good system, no matter what the Spider said. (Felicia didn’t know anyone just as preachy. He was lucky he was cute.) "The man you’re stealing from decided he is no longer my business partner," Kingpin elaborated, features taking on a petulant edge. "I want some misfortune to befall him for this mistake, Ms. Hardy. Do you understand?"

Felicia understood. One, you never refused a crime lord, not unless you wanted to drop off the face of the earth or had a miracle up your sleeve. Two, it was clear that she was made for this job.

Below her, the transport blew a flat. Felicia allowed herself a grin, watching the truck pull over. “Of all the rotten luck,” she murmured, rappelling down an alley wall. Landing on her feet, she approached the truck, plucking the phone from the driver’s hand. The driver was taken care of next—shoved violently against the van until he passed out, of course, Felicia was no killer—before she strode to the back doors.

Felicia was more than ready to cart her prize off for safekeeping, but in one moment, it seemed like bad luck had caught up to her.

Yanking the cowl back for a moment, Matt took a slow, even breath, letting his concentration sink into the old watertower he’d perched on. Drift with it, and outwards. There’d been a time when reaching out like this left him with a shrieking headache. Experience and a centre - the deep, almost-still water - that helped. But there was always so much. Rust and smog, brickdust and drying laundry on the air, the sour reek of trash. Cats hissing, rats scratching in drywall, snatches of conversations and arguments. Ringtones and music. Steps, traffic, the subway. Smell and sound and taste and the texture of the air, that rippling awareness of movement, space, contour... it all swirled together, a sensory ocean to swim through.

He surfaced abruptly, twitching as a noise burst through the rest, loud, close by. A tire blowing out. To his left, towards the Hudson. Maybe a block away. Didn’t seem like anything to be too concerned about, until a thick slam followed, from the same direction - somebody hitting something harder than they were. That, that was worth worrying over.

Those new cables got another test as Matt tore off, tugging the mask down. Another slam helped him zero in, and a couple sharp swings took him to the corner of a rooftop, his senses diving off ahead of him into the narrow alleyway below. One sluggish heartbeat, a second that was quick, but even. That dull pulse belonged to a slumped figure, out cold. Didn’t seem to be badly hurt. No blood, no grinding bones, fairly regular breathing. Gun oil clung to him, but Matt hadn’t heard any shots, not even the spit of suppressed fire - the guy must have been knocked out before getting the chance to draw. An attacker with solid hand to hand skills, then. Efficient, nonlethal. Just clearing the way to what she was really after: an armored truck, the blocky shape recognizable as his radar grazed around it.

So, a solo heist, in a neighborhood notorious for vigilante activity. An ambitious perp, maybe, but a professional. It showed, in the choice of target, the way the guard had been taken down, in her scent, even: next to the herby sweetness of lavender, he’d picked up a whiff of money, that distinctive, heavy ink. Matt recognized it from run-ins with bounty hunters, mafia captains. People collecting major payments, the old fashioned way. This thief must have been handling a considerable amount of cash for the smell to stick around like that. A considerable amount. Who was paying, and for what, exactly, those were good questions. But he’d have to catch her first.

The thief’s heart skittered, just a bit, as he stepped up to the edge of the roof. She stood her ground, though. Between him and the score. Snarking in his direction. A smile playing around his lips, he kicked off. Rebounded against a fire escape, spun into a neat landing on top of the truck. He kept his stance relaxed, unaggressive, but his grip on the billy clubs was solid. The pros rarely gave in without a fight, in his experience; Matt didn’t like his chances of talking her down, but, still, he always felt like he ought to try. On the rare, rare occasions when the opportunity presented itself. Straightening up, he gave her a smirk, cocky, meeting her confidence with his own.