The first thing Matt Murdock noticed was the smell.
Not the coppery tang of blood or the rot of alley trash — though both lingered faintly — but something else. Warm, faintly spiced… like roasted chicken and fresh herbs, layered with the rich aroma of coffee. The kind of smell that didn't belong in Hell's Kitchen's alleys.
His fingers twitched, brushing against coarse fabric — not the cold pavement he remembered collapsing on. His body ached in dull pulses, ribs wrapped, shoulder stiff. Someone had cleaned and bandaged him.
Then came the sound — steady breathing, calm and relaxed. Light footsteps. A soft purring.
Matt stirred, his senses adjusting automatically. The rhythm of a human heartbeat nearby — young, strong, stable. And beside it, another smaller one, faster and feline.
"You're awake," a voice said, smooth, calm, faintly amused.
Matt turned his head toward it. Even through the haze of pain, he could feel the presence — tall, lean but solid, heat radiating faintly from the person like a furnace wrapped in human skin. There was something… off, though. His heartbeat carried a layered echo, an undertone that wasn't quite human.
Matt's lips parted. "You smell like… fire," he murmured.
"Guess that's one way to describe me."
Matt blinked his unfocused eyes, trying to orient himself. He didn't see the young man, but his world painted him in texture and vibration: the faint shimmer of magic in the air like static, the subtle heat distortion around his body, and the heartbeat steady as a metronome.
Then came another voice — soft, melodic, and distinctly feminine.
"Meow."
Matt tilted his head slightly as the cat brushed past him. Her fur was cool silk against his skin, her steps so light even his honed senses barely caught them.
"She's friendly," the man said. "Her name's Nyx."
Matt felt the faint tickle of whiskers against his cheek. The cat purred once — and for a moment, he felt the same strange warmth again. Like magic was breathing beside him.
He sat up slowly, wincing. "Where… am I?"
"In my apartment," the stranger replied. "Found you bleeding near a dumpster. Don't worry, I didn't call the cops — just patched you up."
Matt frowned, steadying his breathing. "You shouldn't have brought me here."
"Yeah, you're welcome too," the man said dryly. "Next time I'll leave the bleeding blind guy on the street."
That earned the faintest smile from Matt. "Blind guy with a stick doesn't usually get mugged."
"Oh, so you knew they were there?"
"I knew," Matt said simply.
The stranger chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Then maybe they hit you harder than you thought. You were out cold."
Matt finally caught the full profile of his rescuer through his senses — around nineteen, tall, maybe six and a half feet, built like someone who actually used a gym, not just posed in one. His presence shimmered oddly, a subtle hum beneath his breath like embers shifting under skin. And those eyes… even Matt couldn't see them, but he could feel the intensity — molten, radiant, something ancient hidden behind casual speech.
The young man spoke again, tone lighter now. "I'm Alan. Alan Ashbourne."
Matt gave a slow nod. "Matt. Matt Murdock."
"Nice to meet you, Matt," Alan said. Then he grinned, that teasing spark back in his voice. "Though I gotta say — the blind guy with a stick can see better than most people I've met."
Matt tilted his head, lips twitching. "Careful. You sound like you know more than you should."
"Oh, I do," Alan said easily. "But don't worry — your secret's safe with me. I don't go around outing vigilantes to tabloids."
Matt stiffened slightly, then relaxed when he heard no mockery in Alan's tone — just calm confidence.
"You're not… scared?"
"Of you? Nah." Alan shrugged. "You're a guy who gets beat up trying to help people. I've seen worse."
Nyx meowed again, curling up in Matt's lap like a peace offering.
Matt exhaled slowly. "You're… strange."
"Coming from the man who dresses like the devil and picks fights in alleys, I'll take that as a compliment."
That earned the faintest laugh.
Alan stood, moving toward the kitchenette. "You hungry? I can cook something. By hand, not magic."
Matt frowned slightly. "Magic?"
Alan froze for a second, then smirked. "Kidding."
…Mostly.
Alan handed him a warm mug a few minutes later — the smell of strong coffee and something savory filling the air.
Matt held it, quietly listening to the other man move around the small apartment, boots scuffing the floor, cat padding along behind.
Something about the sound — the hum of life, the flicker of warmth — told Matt that Hell's Kitchen had gained someone… different.
Someone who didn't just live here.Someone who belonged here.
Matt's head still throbbed faintly, but when he was shoved his suit, the faint smell of detergent and fresh fabric reached him — crisp, clean, almost citrusy.
He tilted his head. "You… washed my suit?"
Alan, crouched by the small window with Nyx perched on his shoulder, looked over with a grin. "Yeah. It was either that or let it smell like wet garbage and regret. I figured even the Devil of Hell's Kitchen deserves clean armor."
Matt gave a quiet chuckle. "Most people would've just tossed it."
"I'm not most people," Alan replied simply.
The room was modest — a studio apartment with books stacked neatly in corners, a weight bench near the window, and a coffee pot that had clearly been working overtime. The faint smell of cooked eggs still lingered in the air. Alan himself was dressed in a loose hoodie and joggers, his tall frame filling the space easily. His molten, golden-amber eyes shimmered faintly when the sunlight caught them, like embers beneath glass.
Matt's head tilted subtly, his senses piecing together more of the picture. "You're… young."
"Eighteen," Alan replied. "Nineteen next month."
"You sound older."
"Guess life accelerates you sometimes."
A soft meow drew their attention — Nyx stretched lazily across Alan's shoulders, silver eyes glinting. "She likes you," Alan said. "That's rare. Usually, she hisses at new people."
Matt smiled faintly. "She's got good instincts then."
Alan checked his watch and stood, stretching. "I gotta hit the gym — Rick's Gym, down on 47th. It's small but solid. The owner's an ex-Marine, good guy."
Matt raised an eyebrow. "Rick's? I know the place. My… uh, day job's nearby. Mind if I tag along for the walk?"
"Sure," Alan said, slipping on his jacket. "I'm not used to having company, though. The cat doesn't talk much."
"Count yourself lucky," Matt murmured with a smirk.
They left together, the streets humming with the late-morning buzz of Hell's Kitchen. Vendors shouted, cars honked, and somewhere in the distance, a saxophone tried to compete with construction noise.
Matt walked smoothly, stick tapping the ground in a practiced rhythm, following Alan's subtle cues.
After a block or two, he said, "You move like someone who's trained."
"Kind of," Alan said, glancing at him. "I'm learning martial arts. Boxing, some CQC. Self-taught mostly — plus some experimental stuff I call the 'claw technique.'"
Matt turned his head slightly. "Claw technique?"
"Yeah. Don't ask. It's weird, but it works."
Matt chuckled. "Well, if you're serious about fighting, I can help. I used to coach at Fogwell's sometimes. Boxing, jiu-jitsu — real fundamentals."
Alan blinked. "Wait, you teach martial arts?"
"Blind man's gotta stay sharp," Matt said, a ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. "If you're open to learning, I'll drop by after work. We can trade tips. You teach me your… claw thing, I'll teach you how not to get punched in the ribs."
Alan laughed. "Deal. But only if you join me for lunch first."
They stopped by a quiet diner two streets over — the kind of place that had seen decades of lives pass through. The waitress knew Matt by name, and Alan got curious looks for his height and the little black cat that insisted on curling up in the booth beside him.
Over burgers and coffee, they talked — casually, but not superficially.
Matt mentioned his "law office work," carefully omitting the vigilante details. Alan, for his part, explained he'd moved to New York "for a fresh start," keeping his magic and the whole otherworldly reincarnation part under wraps.
"You've got that… calm energy," Matt said at one point. "But there's something else under it. Like you're waiting for something."
Alan smirked. "You're not wrong. But whatever it is, I'm not rushing it."
"Good," Matt said, sipping his coffee. "Patience wins more fights than anger ever will."
They finished lunch, split the bill — though Alan quietly used Red Queen to pay both without Matt realizing — and went their separate ways.
"See you around, Alan," Matt said, adjusting his cane.
"Yeah," Alan replied, waving slightly. "Try not to get mugged again, Devil."
Matt's lips twitched into a smile. "No promises."
Later that afternoon, Alan stood outside a dealership on the Lower West Side, staring at a matte-black Yamaha MT-07. The perfect blend of power and subtlety.
He ran a hand over the handlebar. "Red Queen?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Do I have enough?"
A faint, smug tone laced her voice. "You could buy three."
Alan raised an eyebrow. "That much?"
"Indeed. Current portfolio value stands at approximately 1.8 million U.S. dollars. Seven months of algorithmic trading, crypto rotation, and low-risk tech investments. You are, in modern terms, 'financially comfortable.'"
Alan chuckled. "So basically, my AI's a better investor than half of Wall Street."
"I would argue I'm better than all of Wall Street."
He grinned, pulling out his phone. "Buy the bike. Full payment."
"Already done. Insurance and registration forged and filed under your legal identity. Would you like me to add modifications?"
Alan thought for a second. "Yeah. Let's give it a charm seal for noise dampening and self-locking ignition."
"Understood."
As he slid his helmet on and revved the engine, the sound was smooth, low — a mechanical purr that matched Nyx's soft one as she leapt onto his shoulder.
Alan looked out at the city before him — Hell's Kitchen's skyline shimmering under the sunset, the streets alive with noise and color.
"Alright," he murmured. "Gym, training, cat, motorcycle, and money. Not bad for an eighteen-year-old reincarnated wizard."
Nyx flicked her tail, unimpressed.
He laughed, shrink the extra helmet to Nyx's size and buckle her up and kicking the bike into gear. "Yeah, yeah. Don't worry. We're just getting started."
The Yamaha roared softly down the street, vanishing into the hum of Hell's Kitchen — a dragon in human skin, hiding in plain sight.