"What's with that look? Are you trying to pry into the Inhuman race?!"
"Matt! This is insane! Inhumans? A princess? We're just a small law firm—a tiny outfit that handles rental disputes and personal injury claims in Hell's Kitchen!"
"Let's call the police! … No, the police won't help. We need to contact S.H.I.E.L.D.—the one you mentioned—or Tony Stark! They've dealt with this kind of thing before!"
Foggy was rambling, words tumbling out incoherently.
He was like a frog tossed into boiling water—thrashing, panicked, desperate.
"It's no use, Foggy."
Matt's voice was unusually calm.
He stood and gently placed a hand on Foggy's shoulder.
"Calling the police? They'll dismiss it as a prank—or worse, chalk it up to hallucinations from some 'mentally unstable' civilian. And reaching out to S.H.I.E.L.D.? That's like laying your neck on their operating table."
"Do you really think they'd let go of living intelligence tied to the Inhuman Royal Family? Contacting them won't save us—it'll drag us straight into an invisible war."
Foggy staggered back two steps and collapsed onto the sofa with a dull thud, hands clutching his head as if trying to hold his thoughts together.
He didn't understand war.
All he knew was that his best friend—his partner—was being pulled into a vortex far beyond anything he could comprehend.
Matt didn't offer comfort.
He knew words wouldn't help now.
Instead, he silently pulled his phone from his pocket.
He didn't scroll through contacts. With practiced precision, he tapped out a number he rarely used—memorized, not saved—his thumb moving with quiet certainty.
The call connected.
No ringtone. Only a flat, monotonous beep… beep… echoing in the stillness of the office.
Foggy looked up, eyes wide and unblinking.
He'd never seen that expression on Matt's face before—not the cold fury he wore when facing Fisk, nor the grim resolve he showed against the Hand. This was something else: cautious, almost reverent hesitation—the kind that came from brushing against something forbidden.
Seconds stretched.
Just as Foggy began to think no one would answer, a soft click sounded through the line.
The connection held.
"…Murdoch?"
An old, gravelly voice crackled through the receiver—weathered by time and secrets.
"Stick," Matt replied, his voice low and steady.
His spine straightened instinctively, like a student standing before a stern master.
"I need information," he said without preamble. "About a group that calls themselves 'Inhumans.'"
A long silence answered him from the other end.
For a long time, silence hung in the air.
The old man spoke slowly, deliberately—his voice even hoarser, lower than before.
"Where did you hear that name?"
There was no curiosity in his tone. Only steel.
"This isn't your area of expertise, son."
Matt's fingers tightened around his phone.
"A 'friend' of mine encountered their royalty. They took a 'clan member' who committed a serious crime in Hell's Kitchen."
"A friend?" The old man chuckled—a dry, hollow sound.
"Murdoch… do you even have friends?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"Those so-called 'partners' of yours? Nothing but sacrificial lambs you drag into hell to ease your guilt. Don't think I don't know. That brat in the Spider-Man suit—and now this one? Bringing you fresh trouble?"
Matt said nothing. His jaw clenched tight.
"Matt. Stop."
Stick's voice turned glacial.
"Some wars aren't won by wearing a mask at night and swinging two short sticks."
"You clean out parasites when you fight Kingpin. You drive out venomous snakes when you fight the Hand. But they…"
He paused, as if searching for a word foul enough.
"They're ghosts. Older than the dirt beneath your feet. More ancient—and far filthier—than the 'beasts' those ninjas worship."
"They've lurked in the shadows for millennia. Watched empires rise and crumble. Watched men butcher each other for gold, for oil, for nothing at all. And they've never truly shown themselves."
"Now their people are on your turf. And you know their name." Stick's voice dropped to a whisper. "Do you think that's coincidence?"
"No, child. It's not. It's a curtain being lifted—and you just happen to be standing in the spotlight. What you see isn't truth. It's bait. A trap dressed as revelation."
"Don't touch it. Don't think about it. Don't ask."
"Bury everything you know. Lock it away."
"Forget the word 'Inhumans.' Go back to being your neighborhood hero. Help widows with their cases. Throw street thugs in jail. That's your war."
Beep.
The line went dead.
Silence crashed back into the office—thick, suffocating.
Matt didn't move. He stayed frozen in the same posture, phone still pressed to his ear long after the call ended.
Foggy watched him, opened his mouth—then closed it again. He hadn't heard the other end, but he felt it: a weight unlike anything before. Not rage. Not fear.
Powerlessness.
The kind that comes from staring up at something vast, ancient, and utterly indifferent.
Slowly, Matt lowered the phone.
A hidden clan. A royal bloodline. Laws older than nations. A city unseen.
They'd existed like ghosts for thousands of years.
And now, because of one unpredictable variable—Joren Joestar—a sliver of that ghost had been torn open before him.
Stop?
Forget?
Matt forced a smile. It twisted into something more painful than a grimace.
Yare yare…
For some reason, the image of that black-haired boy flashed in his mind—ever-smirking, ever-annoying, forever
tossing out that damn catchphrase like a shield against fate itself.
Trouble has come knocking.
How could he possibly forget?
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