Nights in Hell's Kitchen never truly quieted.
Joren moved through the alleyways—a shifting tapestry of neon spill and ink-black shadow.
He pushed open the familiar creaking door to Nelson & Murdock once more.
The stairs groaned underfoot, as if protesting every step like they remembered his weight—and his absence.
Upstairs, the office door stood ajar, spilling dim light into the hall and carrying with it the sharp, bitter reek of cheap coffee gone cold.
Inside, Foggy Nelson paced the cramped space like a bear in a too-small cage.
His suit—already rumpled beyond redemption—looked as though it had been wadded up, soaked, and hung to dry on a fire escape.
At the sound of the door, he whirled.
Tears still glistened in his eyes, but when he saw Joren, disbelief softened the panic on his face.
"You… you're back?" His voice cracked. "But—that madman! The news said St. Agatha Christie's Hospital was— Oh my God. Are you alright?"
He rushed forward, scanning Joren head to toe, hands hovering like he wasn't sure whether to hug him or shake him.
Matt Murdock hadn't moved.
He sat behind the desk, buried beneath teetering stacks of case files, his face turned toward the door—not seeing, but knowing.
"It's resolved," Joren said.
He crossed the room and sank into the chair that had long since surrendered its springs. Those three words cut through Foggy's spiraling thoughts like a blade.
"Resolved?" Foggy echoed, eyes wide. "What—what does that even mean? Did the police catch him? Or…?"
He trailed off, unwilling to voice the darker possibilities.
Joren ignored him. His gaze settled on Matt—on the unnatural stillness of the man, the tension coiled beneath his calm.
"That 'artist'," Joren said quietly. "There won't be another piece."
Matt nodded.
He didn't need to see to know Joren spoke the truth. He heard it—in the steadiness of his breath, the absence of tremor in his voice.
The killer who'd painted Hell's Kitchen in blood was finished.
"But he was taken," Joren added.
That made Matt lean forward—just slightly.
Behind his dark glasses, his unseeing eyes seemed to pierce the gloom, searching Joren's face for what words couldn't convey.
"By whom?"
No answer.
Instead, Joren pulled out his phone, swiped twice, and tapped play.
Wind hissed through the speaker first—cold, distant.
Then a voice: young, urgent, edged with arrogance barely masking fear.
"Please… please wait a moment!"
Foggy's jaw dropped.
The recording continued.
"My name is Christalia Amaquilin."
A pause. Then, quieter, as if confessing a secret meant for gods:
"I am a member of the Inhuman royal family…"
Another breath. "He… is our lost kin."
Foggy stared at the phone like it might sprout wings.
Bewilderment twisted into shock. Shock curdled into something close to horror—then disbelief so profound it bordered on absurdity.
"Inhumans?" he whispered. "The royal family?"
He let out a shaky laugh. "Is this kid quoting a third-rate sci-fi B-movie?"
But Matt didn't laugh.
His expression grew more serious than ever before.
"…Even if there's to be a trial," he said slowly, "it should be conducted by a human court."
"How do I know your 'trial' isn't just about feeding him well for a few days…?"
Then, Matt's ears caught an extremely faint, rapidly shifting buzz—so quiet it bordered on imperceptible.
Foggy felt nothing. All he could hear were the woman's furious screams.
"You're too arrogant!"
The recording ended with a muffled thud, as though space itself had torn open—and the woman's final vow:
"We will keep our promise."
Silence fell.
The seven-minute-and-twenty-three-second recording finished playing.
A deeper silence settled over the office.
Foggy stared, mouth agape, unable to close it for a long moment.
Teleportation… a dog?
Royal… a princess?
Inhumans?
What the hell was all this?!
"Ha…" Foggy let out a dry, nervous chuckle, trying to break the chilling stillness that prickled his spine. "Mr. Joestar, where'd you download this—uh—this radio drama? The special effects are pretty realistic… especially that dog's bark. Sounded almost real…"
No one paid him any attention.
Joren simply watched Matt.
Matt remained silent.
After a long pause, he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
"Inhumans… I don't know."
He shook his head, confusion flickering across his usually composed face.
"In all my years as Daredevil, I've faced Hand ninjas, Russian mobsters, Kingpin's empire… I've even fought people with genuine superhuman abilities."
"But 'Inhumans'? I swear—that's the first time I've ever heard the word."
He hesitated, voice weighted with unease.
"A hidden race living beneath human society… with its own cities, laws—even royalty. They're like a ghost. A ghost that's never made a sound in my world."
And that was the most terrifying part.
An entire civilization of superhuman beings, living among them—and his radar sense, which could detect every heartbeat in Hell's Kitchen, had never sensed a trace of them.
That meant their ability to conceal themselves was far beyond anything he'd imagined.
Joren wasn't surprised.
The world held far more secrets than it let on.
He slipped his phone back into his pocket and stood.
"If you don't know, then forget it."
He'd just have to wait for the princess to contact him herself.
The deal was done.
He'd provided intel on the artist.
And Matt—though he couldn't identify the woman—had at least learned a new, troubling term.
Not a total loss.
"Wait."
Matt called out.
"Send me that recording."
"I don't know who they are… but I know some people who might."
Joren raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. He pulled out his phone again and sent the file without a word.
"Oh—and Wesley," Matt added, his voice regaining its usual calm edge. "He vanished after Kingpin fell. But men like him? They're rats in the sewers. Always leave traces. Give me time—I'll drag him out of his hole."
"Okay."
Joren turned to leave.
Behind him, Matt stood in heavy silence—while Foggy finally snapped out of his daze, groaning
with a sob in his voice:
"Matt… should we move? How about Canada? I heard there are more bears than people up there… so… probably no teleporting dogs, right?"
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