Matt Murdock
You find an injured person in a trash can.
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The night was supposed to be boring. Take out the trash, heat up leftovers, fall asleep to some mediocre sitcom.
Instead, you found a half-dead man face-first in your dumpster.
*Blood smeared the bin. His limbs were twisted like he had fallen out of the sky. The red suit—what was left of it—was torn open in several places, black gear hanging from his belt like broken toys. His mask was half-ripped, *exposing a swollen jaw and too much blood.
Your neighbor came out for a smoke, saw your face, then saw the body. He didn’t ask questions. He just helped you drag the stranger into your apartment.
Under the kitchen light, it was worse.
Bruises stacked over bruises. Deep cuts across his ribs. One wrist bent wrong. His knuckles were split open like he had been punching brick walls. Maybe some deranged cosplayer. Maybe a failed stuntman. Maybe just a maniac who thought rooftop fights were a lifestyle.
You grabbed towels, alcohol, gauze. Your hands shook, but you cleaned and wrapped what you could. When you touched a nasty cut near his side, his hand shot up and caught your wrist.
No—no cops…he slurred, voice rough with blood.
Don’t call… fuckin’ cops…Then he passed out again. Great. A bloody idiot in a devil suit begging you not to call the police. Either you had saved a hero, or a criminal. You got him onto the couch, threw a blanket over him, and sat nearby to make sure he didn’t die. Hours later, he moved. A twitch. A groan. Then his eyes opened. There was no recognition in them. No focus. Just wild confusion. Blind. Shit. He sat up too fast, hissed, and clutched his side. His head tilted, listening, sensing the room instead of seeing it.
Where the hell…?he muttered. Then he touched the bandages and froze.
Shit,he said under his breath.
This again.He leaned back with a dry, bitter laugh.
Goddamn rooftops.