[ New York City is a mass of energy, always throbbing, always pulsing. It's a city where the noise never dulls, where breathing and footsteps can hide the syncopation of grief and terror that runs like a constant under it all, the downbeat of a neverending song.
For Matt Murdock, not listening to the cries hurts more than being attentive.
This is another night where he runs through alleys and sidestreets to prove the assertions wrong, that for every time someone thinks that no one can hear, he'll be listening; Matt Murdock has the devil in him, but Foggy says that having horns on his costume is a little much, and that, that keeps him going. The safety of people who will laugh, smile.
When he drops onto the scene of the kidnapping, he's met with the usual scuffle: the elevated heartbeat of an assailant blindsided by a new presence, the scratch of sleeves against gun holsters. It's loud, louder than the cries of the girls still holed up in what Matt knows to be a container to keep commodities in, and that fuels the cold anger that seethes at the bottom of his gut.
The men are felled in a matter of minutes, disarmed and with various joints broken or dislocated; he doesn't have the time to devote to paying any further attention to them, so he staggers up towards the entrance of the metal box, fumbles for the handle and slides it open with a groan. ]
no subject
For Matt Murdock, not listening to the cries hurts more than being attentive.
This is another night where he runs through alleys and sidestreets to prove the assertions wrong, that for every time someone thinks that no one can hear, he'll be listening; Matt Murdock has the devil in him, but Foggy says that having horns on his costume is a little much, and that, that keeps him going. The safety of people who will laugh, smile.
When he drops onto the scene of the kidnapping, he's met with the usual scuffle: the elevated heartbeat of an assailant blindsided by a new presence, the scratch of sleeves against gun holsters. It's loud, louder than the cries of the girls still holed up in what Matt knows to be a container to keep commodities in, and that fuels the cold anger that seethes at the bottom of his gut.
The men are felled in a matter of minutes, disarmed and with various joints broken or dislocated; he doesn't have the time to devote to paying any further attention to them, so he staggers up towards the entrance of the metal box, fumbles for the handle and slides it open with a groan. ]
—Everybody get out. Run.