.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

DEVIL'S ADVOCATE!

iv. "so you're telling me this is your fucking job?"

    THERE WAS NO DENYING THAT HELL'S KITCHEN CAME ALIVE AT DUSK; a nocturnal beast that reared its head as the sun sank beneath the horizon, waking to feed upon a diet of the city's sins. As the skyline painted itself the mottled anguish of a bruise, monsters crept from the safety of the shadows; shrouded in twilight, rendered anonymous in the dark.

    It was on such a night that Silvia found herself in the warehouse district, which lay quietly festering on the banks of the Hudson river, with the silt-heavy waves whispering from below. During the day she knew the area would have been swarming with people; construction and factory workers, labourers and contractors, each being worn to the bone by their professions.

    But now, as night began to blanket the city, the place was deserted. It was eerily quiet; the only sounds that permeated the chill air being the lapping of the water, punctuated by the lonely cry of ships far-out in the dark.

    Silvia shivered, hunching down into the warmth of her coat as she walked. The wind whipping in from the bay was frigid, giving clear evidence of the late spring refusing to give way to summer's gentle embrace. She pulled up her collar, for once thankful for the gloves that covered her hands, concealing them from the bitter cold.

    Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out Stewart's old journal, opening the page she had bookmarked and scanning the scrawled writing within.

    She handled it carefully, as though the cracked leather binding was coated in poison. Once she had discovered the damning secrets that clung to the object, practically saturated with years of misery, the simplest act of handling it now turned her stomach. Stewart had tried to drown himself at the bottom of a bottle due to his time with Union Allied, and now, Silvia understood why.

    A few hours prior, when the sun had still sat high over the city, she had braved the tactile feel of the notebook without her gloves. With trembling hands, she had brought one fingertip to the leather-clad spine; barely skimming the surface, touch as gentle as a moth's wings.

    Even when expected, the pain was still immense.

    Silvia's whole body had gone taut, muscles seizing as Stewart's pain became her own. It was as though she was falling, away from her unresponsive form lying paralysed at the desk, from the roaring silence of her office.

    Her mind detached completely from the ivory cradle of her skull, spiralling in a tightening descent, a fall from grace; years of pent-up anguish, disgust, guilt – left dormant for years – rising to greet her.

    How could one man's grief be so heavy? How could one person withstand the crippling weight of so much remorse?

    Hands curled into fists, she had become vaguely aware of a dull ache in each palm, seeming to throb with each beat of her fevered heart. Later, when her vision had cleared and her limbs began to regain their feeling, Silvia had slumped onto the desk, head spinning.

    She had only realised afterward how the torn flesh of each palm had left bloodied imprints on the desk's clutter; a crest branded upon snowy sheets of paper, embedded under each fingernail in crimson crescent moons.

    The monster they were fighting had been a faceless, nameless thing until now; shielded by whispered threats and bribes, by disappearances and death. But in that moment, with the echoes of the past hissing in her ear, sinking its claws deep into her skin, she found the monster to be a very real, tangible thing.

    Wilson Fisk, elusive philanthropist, merciful benefactor; merely glittering lies, a fairytale spun in the darkened hollow of Hell's Kitchen.

    Previously oblivious to the horrors the man had inflicted, her– no, their vocation had seemed manageable. Just another job, a way to make ends meet.

    A glimpse into Stewart's past had shattered that illusion, blissful ignorance turning to horror.

    His memories, fractured into shards by the passage of time, had taken on the appearance of a cracked mirror; faint murmurs of the past barely visible beneath the spider's web network of splintered veins. Despite working in finance, he had managed to drink in enough horrors to last an entire lifetime.

    Colleagues, friends, disappearing from their own lives, snatched from thin air as though they'd never existed in the first place. The terror had spiked through her veins as though it had been her own, setting each nerve alight and watching as they burned to frayed splinters. They were quick to replace the missing employees, filling the desks almost as soon as they had been emptied.

    You couldn't ask questions, couldn't tell a soul what you were sure was happening behind the scenes. After all, curiosity got you killed, and you never knew which conversations could fall upon the wrong ears.

    It had eaten away at Stewart, she knew now. Had settled into the marrow of his bones, rotting him from the inside out, and Silvia couldn't help but think of one specific line gleaned from the pages of the scarred man's journal; the hopelessness in his words coating her bones in sheets of ice.

    'It's like they're becoming ghosts, one by one... and I know if I talk, I'll be next.'

    But in the end, he had talked. Like a powder keg waiting to explode, all it had taken was a few too many beers and murmured conversation in the darkened corner of a bar. One of his drinking buddies from the office had talked, and Stewart had paid the price for his own fear.

    They had caught him on his way home from work. Ignoring his pleas for mercy, promises of bribes, the men had taken him to the underside of a bridge, and had taught him a lesson. Had made him sorry he had ever opened his mouth in the first place.

    She could still hear his tortured screams. Could still feel the second-hand pain; the helpless agony one could only know when feeling your flesh melting almost off the bone.

    They had left him there, in the shadows beneath the bridge. Discarded, struggling to breathe through nostrils sealed shut, skin roaring red and scorched.

    Now, as Silvia navigated the labyrinth of warehouses, she couldn't shake the unease that had settled that morning; a deep-rooted malaise, rotting her mind from the inside-out. Stewart had faced evils during his time with Union Allied, and she was about to walk right into the beast's bloody maw.

    Glancing around, she ducked into the dark space between two buildings, doing her best to meld into the shadows. A ship's foghorn called out across the bay, its lonely lament hanging in the air; a question awaiting an answer.

    Taking a safety pin from the lining of her coat, the brunette stole a quick look around before getting to work on the padlock. Resembling a twisted hunk of metal, the weathered lock was cloaked in rust, shedding reddish-brown flakes that clung to the fabric coating her fingertips. Silvia moved the pin in every direction, blindly seeking purchase in the shadow of the alleyway.

    A muttered string of curses fell from her lips; incoherent Spanish phrases that would have made even her mother cross herself three times over. In one final attempt she twisted the pin a fraction to the left, grinning as the faintest click could be heard.

    "Gotcha," she murmured, lips curling in a grin. After allowing herself a few seconds of triumph, she set the padlock aside before prying the door open.

    The inside of the warehouse matched the dilapidated exterior; a lifeless husk devoid of light, the shadows standing sentinel over the deserted space. Rummaging around in her bag, Silvia produced a small flashlight, turning it on with a muffled click before making her way to the stairs. The first floor was about the same as the last; emptied of furniture or equipment save for a few old crates, some shrouded in sheets of clouded plastic.

    The second floor, however, seemed more promising.

    Mismatched furniture lay about the room, each object tattered and faded. Sweeping the soft beam of the flashlight over her surroundings, Silvia watched as it brought the room to life; illuminating the scuffed wooden table, the crushed tins of food and old bottles of spirits. Dust motes, disturbed by her hesitant movements, whirled through the air; revealing themselves in the sliver of light before vanishing once more.

    Drawing closer to the table, she drew in a breath at the sheer amount of material before her. Reams of paper littered the surface, covering every inch in envelopes, notepads, even receipts.

    She had hit the motherload of evidence.

    Reaching into her pocket, Silvia retrieved her phone, opening the camera app as her eyes scanned the table. She couldn't afford to take any physical evidence, lest the owners of the pages realise one was missing – but that didn't mean photographs were out of bounds.

    Circling the table, she sifted through the pages, paying close attention to the position of each one. She handled each one with care, held between thumb and forefinger, as gentle as she could be.

    At least that was an unintentional perk of wearing gloves; you never left any fingerprints behind.

    Lifting one sheet, she froze, seeking the reassurance of silence. No, her mind was playing tricks on her. She couldn't possibly have heard–

    Then she heard it again. Not one voice but multiple, an unintelligible hum barely audible from downstairs.

    She put the page down, stopping dead as the voices drew nearer. It sounded like there were quite a few of them, all male, by the sound of it.

    "Shit!" She hissed, scrambling to photograph the remaining pages. Brown eyes widening in panic, she searched the barren room for somewhere, anywhere to hide. There were no other rooms to flee to, nor secret spots to conceal herself in.

    Darting across the room, she had just managed to duck behind one of the crates before the group of men entered the room; their keen watchfulness reminding her horribly of pack animals on a hunt.

    "No need to hide," one of them called out, holding up an object that made Silvia's stomach drop to the soles of her feet. He dangled the padlock from one tattooed hand, swinging it from side-to-side like a pendulum. "We know you're here. Come on out." His voice was thickly accented, slurring slightly as though he had been drinking.

    She couldn't run for the exit without revealing herself, and they didn't seem to be leaving any time soon. Silvia slowly got to her feet, gritting her teeth as the men's eyes fell upon her.

    The tattooed one stepped forward, the harsh fluorescent bulb bathing the scarred terrain of his face in a stark light. "Well, it seems like it's our lucky day,"

    Silvia knew he could have simply spoken Russian if he wanted to keep the conversation private. He was speaking English merely for her benefit, of course. Making sure she understood the weight of each and every word that passed his lips.

    Another spoke up, mouth splitting in a leer that revealed small, discoloured teeth. "How did something so beautiful manage to wander in here?"

    Silvia's heart began to beat faster, hammering against her ribcage in a painful rhythm. She had dealt with similar comments before, of course she had, but this was different to the catcallers she usually had the misfortune of encountering. She wanted to yell at them; let loose a torrent of anger, call them every foul name under the sun.

    But here, in the neglected confines of a warehouse, cornered by the enemy? Her mind was barren, every venomous insult forgotten with the threat of danger. Hell, it seemed as though her own body was betraying her too; muscles bound as tight as a coil of wire, legs like lead weights beneath her.

    Silvia opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out; words stolen by terror's cruel touch.

    The men began to laugh, nudging each other roughly, voices rising in a taunting chorus. They could be as loud as they liked, after all. There was no-one around to hear.

    "Look at that, she's shy!" One crowed, eyes alight with vicious glee.

    "What's that you have there, Krasotka?" The nearest asked silkily, gaze flickering to the notebook Silvia now clutched in one shaking hand. The softness in his voice sent chills down her spine; the delicate words not enough to veil the coldness that lay beneath. "It's a present for us, no?"

    Use your brain, for God's sake! Some part of Silvia screamed, breaking her out of the terror-induced stupor. Calm the fuck down. Breathe. Try and think; what would Dad have told you to do?

    She ran her tongue over dry lips, eyes shifting around the room, searching for an escape route. "You wouldn't like it, sorry." She said, feigning nonchalance. "Not much of a plot, to be honest."

    "Ah, I wouldn't be so sure of that," he inched closer, running his gaze over her body as she cringed, and she caught the glint of the knife he clutched in one tattooed hand. "Tell you what, how about we read together and see? Just the two of us?"

    "Hard pass, you don't strike me as the reading type. How about you start with something easier, like The Very Hungry Caterpillar?"

    The smile slid from his face, mouth setting in a thin line. Insincerities abandoned, his voice took on a cold edge. "It's not wise to test me."

    "Look, I didn't mean to offend you, alright?" She began to inch backwards, one step at a time. Running would be her best option – bolt and get out of there before things got messy. Another tiny step back. "You just don't seem like... very intelligent people."

    She heard the blow before she felt it; a sharp smack that whistled before it hit home, the singing of an explosive before it obliterated its target. Crack. The sound rang throughout the room as Silvia's world blurred around the edges, a gasp leaving her lips as his skin made contact with her own.

    The sensation, although brief, tore through her body in waves; crashing from the point of contact right down to the tips of her toes. The man's rage, white-hot and searing, hit her like a jolt of electricity. She was the conductor, metal in a storm, while he was the bolt of lightning, bringing her whole world down in shades of blinding white.

    "Don't–" Silvia choked out, false bravado abandoned, arms raised in defence. "Don't touch me, please."

    "What's the matter, Krasotka?" He purred, bringing one hand up to brush her hair out of her face, spurred on by the laughter of his peers. "We're just being friendly."

    The light flickered overhead, its stuttering heartbeat making a few of the men look up.

    "I'd rather die than be friends with people like you." She narrowed her eyes, the venom laced in her words juxtaposing the desperate tremours wracking her hands.

    "That can be arranged."

    He had barely raised the knife when the lights went out completely, throwing the room into utter darkness.

    Rendered sightless in the choking shadow, Silvia began to back away slowly, not caring where she ended up as long as it was far away from the tattooed man. For a seemingly endless few moments, the only sounds that permeated the air were the confused murmurings of the men, and her own tense breathing. Another ship cried out across the bay, eerily loud in the silence, and this time it didn't sound like a lament, but a warning.

    Then, as though time was catching up with itself, everything seemed to happen at once.

    A dull thud broke the men out of their stupor, snapped into action by the unmistakable sound of a fist connecting with flesh – followed by another, and another.

    Silvia strained to discern what the hell was happening, heart rate picking up at the sound of the scuffle happening mere feet away. The men's voices could be heard, forming an indistinct tangle of cries and curses as they struggled against their unseen assailant. One screamed – whether out of sheer terror or pain, she didn't know – and she winced at the sound; rising in a crescendo of fear before cutting off with a gurgle.

    The amount of punches traded seemed to ease, until something fell to the floor with a muffled thud.

    After what had seemed like an eternity the lights flared back to life, making Silvia screw her eyes shut against the horribly bright glow. Opening them slowly, she stared at the men lying unresponsive on the ground, before drawing her gaze to the last one standing, brown eyes widening at the sight.

    The lone figure – a man – stood in the aftermath of the chaos, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. Clad all in black, the only sliver of humanity visible amidst bloodstained material was the lower half of his face; jaw set beneath the dark fabric that concealed most of his head.

    "What the fuck–?" She muttered, shamelessly staring at her silent – and somewhat scary – saviour.

    The man regarded her wordlessly, tilting his head to the side as a muscle jumped in his jaw. Silvia watched as a rivulet of blood trickled from underneath the dark fabric of his mask, working its way from the concealed edge of his cheekbone, where he must have been cut in the scuffle that had ensued.

    "If I were you," he said, an unmistakable air of annoyance clear in his low voice. "I'd keep my nose out of this mess from now on."

    Silvia blinked. "I'm sorry, what? I'm just trying to do my job–"

    "And I'm trying to do mine," he snapped. "You're going to get yourself killed."

    She looked him up and down, eyebrows furrowing in distaste as she took in the nondescript black clothing, the bloodstained coils of rope wound around each fist. "So you're telling me, this is your fucking job?"

    "That's not important." The man sighed in exasperation. "Plus, I don't think they discriminate based on career," he gestured to the unconscious men scattered around the room, their stationary forms reminding Silvia of broken dolls. "Just keep your head down. You have no idea who you're messing with."

    Opening her mouth in retort, she halted as something moved in the corner of her vision. One of the bodies, which had been lying stationary on the chilled concrete only a few moments before, was now stirring. The tattooed man inched across the ground slowly, face painted in a mess of his own blood, body contorted as he reached for his fallen gun.

    Without thinking, Silvia's foot lashed out in a swift arc, connecting with the man's face with a sharp crack. The contact between her boot and his jawbone sent shockwaves running up her leg, making her wince in spite of herself.

    "Sweet dreams, Krasotka," she spat, watching as he fell in a crumpled heap once more, before turning back to the man in the mask.

    "I might have no idea who I'm dealing with," She said quietly, catching the gun with the toe of her boot and kicking it across the lot towards the man in black. "But neither do they."

    The man drew in a breath, turning to face the Russian's now unconscious form. "You broke his jaw," he murmured, and Silvia could have sworn she heard something akin to approval in his voice.

    "Oh, so you're a doctor now, huh?" She raised one eyebrow, before shaking her head. "Hostia puta, este hombre está loco."

    He released air from his nose, the tiniest display of irritation speaking volumes. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

    "Yeah, here."

    "You're being difficult."

    "So are you? Does that little getup of yours give you entitlement powers or something?"

    "I don't have time for this," he shook his head. "Just... get out of here, okay? Because they're going to wake up soon, and when they do, they'll be pissed."

    Silvia glanced at the men's bodies once more, barely repressing a shudder as she imagined the rage of her would-be attackers when they finally regained consciousness.

    "Okay, fine. But-" she held up one finger. "Just let me take a couple more photos, then I promise I'll be out of your hair."

    He said nothing, instead crossing his arms in silent reproach as she resumed taking pictures of anything that could prove useful.

    "You don't have to hang around, you know," Silvia said conversationally, pausing to brush hair out of her eyes. "I'm sure you have other places to be. Muggings to stop, thieves to hospitalise et cetera."

    He let out a short bark of laughter, clipped at the end as though he hadn't meant to show his amusement. "No chance. I'm not leaving until I know you're safe."

    "Suit yourself."

    A few minutes later, the pair returned to the calm night air outside, silence filling the space between them; an oppressive force.

    Surprisingly, the masked man was the first to break it. The words were so quiet, at first Silvia could have sworn she had imagined them.

    "Is your mouth okay?"

    "What?"

    "Your mouth," he motioned to his own face, pointing to a spot at the corner of his bottom lip, mirroring where her own injury must have been. "It's bleeding."

    "Oh," Silvia frowned, bringing one finger to her lip before withdrawing it with a hiss. The flesh felt tender where the tattooed man had struck her, throbbing painfully at her touch. "I didn't even notice–"

    He shrugged. "Adrenaline. It'll hurt by tomorrow though, he managed to land a pretty bad hit."

    "Can't wait," She peered at her finger, eyes narrowing at the bloodstained fabric on the fingertip. "That prick– He cut me!"

    "He was wearing rings, I think."

    The pair continued to walk in silence, until the number of warehouses around them dwindled.

    "Thanks for helping me, by the way." Silvia muttered, stumbling over the words. "I don't think I would've been able to fight that many creeps at once."

    "You don't have to thank me."

    "Still, though." She continued, focusing on the cracked details of the pavement beneath her boots. "Hey, what's your deal, anyway? Like what's your na–" Looking up, she stopped dead, gaping at the empty space beside her.

    She was alone on the street, talking to herself because he had seemingly vanished into thin air.

    "Well 'goodbye' to you too, then." Silvia huffed to no-one in particular, before continuing the long walk home. 

— ¤ —

    The sun had barely risen the next morning, and Silvia was hurrying along the route to South 4th Street, which was becoming increasingly familiar. Despite having an appointment with a client in just under an hour, she had to share the details of the night before with the others.

    Well, the necessary details, anyway. She'd have to veer away from certain aspects of the story, lest Foggy end up worrying himself into the hospital.

    There was a good chance the night before had brought her into Fisk's radar. Which, by default, dragged him and Karen – hell, even Matt – into it too. She had to warn them, if not by a tiny bit.

    Letting herself into the law firm, she peered around the reception area, clearing her throat.

    Foggy emerged from his office, Karen following a few paces behind. In the midst of some anecdote or joke, the pair were laughing, genuine grins adorning each face.

    The detective gave a small wave, not wanting to intrude on such an intimate moment.

    "Jesus, Silvia–" Foggy said, eyes widening at the sight of the woman, smile sliding from his face. "What happened to your lip?"

    She grimaced, running the tip of her tongue over the bruised flesh. "...Let's just call it collateral damage."

    "Are you okay? How did it happen?" Karen asked, concern written across her face.

    "I... may have gone to the location Stewart mentioned in his journal."

    "You did what?" The pair's voices rose in unison.

    With impeccable timing as always, Matt appeared in the doorway of his own office, and Silvia fought to repress a groan. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms without a word.

    Trying her best to ignore his presence, she continued. "I had a look around one of Union Allied's locations; an old warehouse on the docks."

    "On your own–?" Foggy spluttered. "Silvia, did someone attack you?"

    There was a pause.

    "I handled it."

    Matt raised one eyebrow, obviously not buying it.

    "Okay, fine. Someone helped me... some crazy guy in a mask."

    Karen started slightly. "Did it cover the top half of his face–" she gestured from her own nose upwards. "–like this?"

    "Hold on... Karen, you've seen this guy too?"

    "Ohhh, the kook that saved you a week or so ago!" Foggy snapped his fingers, recognition stretching his words. "Does that mean Matt or I could be his next damsel in distress?"

    "At this rate, I wouldn't be surprised."

    "Look, I've got a client soon, okay? I just wanted to drop by and tell you in person." Silvia glanced at the clock with a sigh. "I took some photos of the stuff I found, they should be printed in the next few days."

    "Okay, but... be careful next time." Karen wrung her hands.

    The other woman smiled slightly, putting one hand on her heart. "Always."

    A few minutes later, as she made her way back down the stairwell and onto the street, Silvia realised what had been so odd about the conversation in the office – Matt had stayed completely silent the whole time, uncharacteristically quiet. He hadn't asked a single question, hadn't even made his usual snarky comment or two. 

    Weird.

— ¤ —

    That evening came quickly, and soon enough Silvia found herself back in the comfort of her apartment. Sure, it was cramped, she could barely meet rent most months, and it did little to keep out the bitter cold during the winter months, but it was hers all the same. Her own space, her sanctuary; offering peace while life outside brought turbulence.

    Curled up at one end of the faded couch she stretched, muscles going taut until she felt a satisfying pop. Cradling a mug of coffee between her hands, she relished the feeling of the chipped ceramic surface against her bare skin. How, without her gloves, the smooth mug was almost hot enough to burn; the warmth dizzying in its rarity.

    She let her mind wander, the events of the night before replaying in her head like a broken roll of film. Worrying her cut lip with a frown, Silvia found herself thinking of the man in black for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. How he had managed to take down an entire group of men in the pitch dark was a mystery to her, as was the case of his identity – or lack thereof.

    The Russians had seen her face, she thought numbly, setting her mug on the coffee table with a sigh. She couldn't afford to make that mistake again. Not if she wanted to keep her blood inside of her body.

    Getting to her feet, she padded to the bedroom, the briefest sketch of an idea forming in her mind. She opened the doors of her wardrobe before beginning to dig around inside, pushing aside the racks of moth-eaten coats and winter clothes with growing eagerness. Fingers closing around a particular item, Silvia drew it out to reveal an unassuming ball of material, unfolded and riddled with creases.

    The old fencing uniform was cold from spending god-knows how long at the back of her wardrobe, and a peculiar blue-grey colour as a result of being accidentally washed with a blue sock. It didn't take long to find the matching visor, and soon she had the entire uniform laid out before her.

    If Silvia was going to continue investigating the case, she needed one thing – complete and utter anonymity. And maybe, with the full disguise of the old uniform lying before her, it seemed as though she had finally achieved just that.

hostia puta, este hombre está loco. – holy shit, this man is crazy.

krasotka – gorgeous.

author's note!

so maybe matt doesn't hate her as much as he lets on?  we'll just have to wait and see to find out...

anyway allow me to leave this here:

 so if you saw me publishing this at 1am,,,,,,, no you didn't <3 votes and comments are appreciated as always, i love hearing what you think :') (also since this chapter was long as hell,,,, pretty sure it took a piece of my soul but whatever.) as always, i hope you enjoyed!!

— ¤ —