Chapter 4 : The Devil's Advocate
The stairs creaked under my feet. Third floor, end of the hallway, past a dentist's office and what looked like an accountant who'd given up on life. Nelson & Murdock's door had frosted glass and gold lettering that was starting to peel.
I knocked.
"Come in!"
Foggy's voice. Warmer than it had been at Josie's, like he'd been looking forward to this. The door stuck on the first pull—I had to jiggle the handle and shoulder it open.
The office was smaller than I'd expected. Two desks facing each other, filing cabinets that had seen better decades, a window with cardboard patching one corner. Law books lined makeshift shelves. The whole place smelled like old paper and determination.
Foggy stood from his desk, grinning. "Roy! You actually came."
"I said I would."
"Yeah, but people say a lot of things." He crossed the room to shake my hand. "Especially after whiskey."
The other desk's occupant rose more slowly.
Matt Murdock was taller than I'd imagined. Lean, with the coiled stillness of someone who knew exactly where his body was in space. His red-tinted glasses hid his eyes, but they didn't hide the way his head tilted—listening, always listening—as I stepped into the room.
"Mr. Smith." His voice was pleasant. Measured. "Foggy's told me about you."
"All good things, I hope."
"He said you hate corporate lawyers and know baseball." A slight smile. "High praise from him."
We shook hands.
The moment our palms touched, something shifted in Matt's expression. Subtle—a micro-tightening around his jaw, a fractional tilt of his head. Like he'd heard something he wasn't expecting.
I filed that away. I knew what Matt Murdock could do. The question was how much of me his senses could read.
"Please, sit." Foggy gestured to a chair that had probably been rescued from a dumpster. "Coffee? I should warn you, our machine is—"
"Broken," Matt finished. "Has been for two weeks."
"I can do instant," Foggy offered. "It's terrible, but it's caffeinated."
"Instant's fine."
Foggy disappeared into what passed for a kitchenette. Matt remained standing, positioning himself against his desk in a way that felt deliberate. Casual, but with clear sightlines to the door.
He's assessing me, I realized. The same way I'm assessing him.
"Foggy mentioned you're interested in investing in Hell's Kitchen," Matt said.
"That's right."
"Why?"
The question was simple. Matt's posture said it was anything but.
"Because the neighborhood needs investment. The right kind." I kept my voice steady. "I inherited money I didn't earn. Using it to help people who actually need it seems better than buying a yacht."
"Philanthropic."
"Practical. I want to live in a city that works. That means the broken parts need fixing."
Matt's head tilted again. Listening to my heartbeat, probably. Checking for lies.
I wasn't lying. That was the trick—tell the truth, just not all of it.
"And you want us to handle your legal work," he said.
"I want ethical representation. Someone who won't cut corners or look the other way when developers try to screw over tenants." I leaned forward. "Your reputation says that's what you do."
"Our reputation." There was something dry in Matt's voice. "We've been open less than a year."
"Word travels. The Ramirez case—that tenant who was being illegally evicted? You got her back in her apartment and got the landlord fined. That's the kind of work I want to support."
Foggy returned with three mugs of something that smelled like it might have been coffee in a previous life. I took a sip without comment. Bitter, thin, vaguely chemical.
Matt noticed. I could tell by the way his mouth twitched—most wealthy clients would have complained.
"Mrs. Ramirez is still fighting to keep that apartment," Foggy said, settling into his chair. "The landlord's appealing. Legal fees are eating her alive."
"How much does she owe in back rent?"
"About three thousand. Why?"
"Pay it. Anonymously." I set down my mug. "Consider it a gesture of good faith."
Silence. Foggy and Matt exchanged a look—or whatever passed for a look when one party was blind.
"That's generous," Matt said carefully. "But we don't know anything about you, Mr. Smith."
"What do you want to know?"
"Where your money comes from. What you actually want. Why you're really here."
His voice hadn't changed. Still pleasant, still measured. But underneath it, I could feel the pressure. Matt Murdock didn't trust easily. He'd learned the hard way that everyone had an angle.
"My parents died six months ago," I said. "Car accident. They left me more money than I know what to do with and a lot of questions about what kind of person I want to be." I met his glasses, even knowing he couldn't see me looking. "I'm here because I want to do something that matters. And because Foggy told a really good joke about a lawyer and a priest that I'm not going to repeat in polite company."
Foggy snorted. "It was a great joke."
"It was inappropriate," Matt said, but his mouth twitched again. "Mr. Smith—"
"Roy. Please."
"Roy." He tested the name. "I appreciate the offer. But we need to understand the terms before we can agree to anything."
"Then let's talk terms."
We talked for an hour. Matt asked sharp questions about my financial situation, my expectations, my plans for the neighborhood. I answered honestly where I could, vaguely where I couldn't. He caught every evasion—I could see it in the slight tension around his eyes—but he didn't push.
Foggy played mediator, smoothing over the moments when Matt's skepticism threatened to derail the conversation. He was good at it. Better than Matt probably gave him credit for.
By the time we finished, nothing was decided. But the groundwork was laid.
"I'll send a formal proposal," I said, standing. "Everything in writing. You can have whatever lawyers you want review it."
"We are the lawyers," Foggy pointed out.
"Then review it yourselves." I shook his hand, then Matt's. "Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."
Matt's grip was firm. Controlled. "We'll be in touch."
I left the office with the distinct sensation of having been X-rayed. Matt Murdock might be blind, but he saw more than most people with working eyes.
The question was how much.
The stairs creaked again on the way down. I pushed through the building's front door into the October afternoon, the air cool against my face.
Behind me, I heard voices through the thin walls.
"What do you think?" Foggy's voice.
"I think he's hiding something." Matt's, quieter. Harder.
"Everyone's hiding something. Doesn't mean—"
"Find out what you can about him. Background check. Financial records. Anything that's public."
A pause. Then Foggy: "You really don't trust him."
"I don't trust anyone. But there's something about him..." Matt's voice dropped too low to hear.
I kept walking. Didn't look back.
He's going to dig, I thought. Good. Let him dig. He won't find anything that matters.
The transmigration hadn't left a paper trail. Roy Smith's history was clean—orphaned heir, recovering from tragedy, looking for purpose. All true, technically.
The parts that weren't true—the memories of another life, the knowledge of futures that hadn't happened yet, the sense that my body was capable of something I didn't understand—none of that showed up in background checks.
Matt could search all he wanted.
He'd find exactly what I needed him to find.
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