Chapter 6 : Partners
The coffee machine arrived two days before our final meeting.
I had it delivered to Nelson & Murdock's building with a note claiming it was a promotional item from a coffee company I'd invested in. Technically true—I'd bought fifty shares of their stock that morning specifically so I wouldn't be lying.
"You bought us a coffee machine," Foggy said when I walked into the office. His voice cracked slightly. "An actual coffee machine."
"Client relationship expense."
"It has a milk frother. There are settings."
"The old one was broken."
"The old one was a war crime." Foggy crossed the room and hugged me. Actually hugged me, arms around my shoulders, squeezing tight. "I take back everything suspicious I thought about you."
"Foggy." Matt's voice from across the room. Dry. Warning.
"What? The man brought us caffeine. Caffeine, Matt. The good kind."
I extracted myself from the hug and took my seat at the conference table—actually just Matt's desk with extra chairs pulled around it. Matt was already seated, posture perfect, a stack of documents in front of him marked with Braille labels.
"Shall we begin?" he asked.
We went through the proposal line by line. Matt had questions about everything—funding timelines, reporting requirements, exit clauses. I answered each one, watching his face for reactions he didn't give.
Then came the test.
"One more thing," Matt said, setting down his papers. "Before we finalize anything."
"Of course."
"Are you a criminal, Mr. Smith?"
The question hung in the air. Foggy winced.
"No," I said.
Flat. Simple. True.
Matt's head tilted. Listening to my heartbeat. Checking for the skip that would indicate a lie.
My heart didn't skip. I wasn't a criminal. Whatever else I was—transmigrator, pretender, stranger in a stolen life—I hadn't broken any laws.
"Are you hiding something?"
That one was harder. I let myself react—a slight spike in pulse, a brief catch in my breath. Because denying it completely would be its own kind of lie, and Matt would hear that too.
"Everyone hides something, counselor," I said. "My secrets aren't illegal. They're just... private."
Silence stretched. Matt's jaw worked like he was chewing on something he didn't like the taste of.
"What kind of private?"
"The kind that doesn't affect our business relationship." I met his glasses, even knowing he couldn't see me. "I'm not going to hurt you or your firm. I'm not going to use you for anything shady. I genuinely want to help Hell's Kitchen, and I think you're the people to help me do it."
"Why us?"
"Because you care. About the neighborhood, about your clients, about doing the right thing even when it costs you." I spread my hands. "That's rare. I want to support it."
Another long silence. Then Matt nodded, once.
"Foggy?"
"I'm in." Foggy was practically vibrating. "I've been in since the coffee machine, honestly."
"Then we have a deal." Matt extended his hand.
I shook it. His grip was firm, controlled—no different from before. But something in his posture had shifted. Not trust, exactly. Acceptance.
"Welcome to Nelson & Murdock," he said.
Foggy produced a checkbook and slid it across the table. "First quarter's funding, as discussed. Twelve thousand five hundred dollars."
I wrote the check. The numbers looked surreal on paper—more money than my old self had made in six months, handed over like it was nothing.
Because it was nothing, to this life. A rounding error in the inheritance. But to Matt and Foggy, it was three more months of keeping the lights on. Three more months of helping people who had nowhere else to go.
"There's one more thing," I said, capping my pen.
Matt's eyebrow rose.
"I want to help with a case. Pro bono." I gestured vaguely. "Something small, something I can contribute to without getting in the way. Legwork, research, whatever you need."
"Why?"
"Because money isn't enough. I want to understand what you do." I shrugged. "Call it professional curiosity."
Foggy and Matt exchanged another look.
"We'll keep that in mind," Matt said carefully. "If something appropriate comes up."
"That's all I ask."
We shook hands again, all three of us. Foggy was beaming. Matt was guarded but no longer hostile. And I was exactly where I needed to be.
Step two complete.
The celebration—such as it was—consisted of terrible coffee from the new machine (they hadn't figured out the settings yet) and leftover donuts from a box Foggy had bought three days ago. I ate a stale cruller and listened to Foggy outline their current caseload: three landlord-tenant disputes, a wrongful termination, and a custody battle that was getting ugly.
"Nothing too exciting," Foggy admitted. "But it pays the bills. Sometimes."
"It will now," I said.
Matt was quiet through most of it. Listening, always listening. When Foggy stepped out to use the bathroom, Matt spoke.
"You know something."
I didn't pretend to misunderstand. "About what?"
"About this neighborhood. About what's coming." His head tilted. "You're preparing for something."
My heart rate stayed steady. I'd been expecting this.
"I know Hell's Kitchen is getting worse," I said. "Crime's up. Businesses are failing. People are scared." I paused. "And I know that when things get bad enough, the people with money usually bail. I don't want to be that person."
"That's not what I mean."
"Then what do you mean?"
Matt was silent for a long moment. Then: "I don't know yet. But I will."
The bathroom door opened. Foggy returned, oblivious to the tension.
"So," he said brightly, "same time next week? We can go over the property purchases you mentioned."
"Sounds good." I stood, extended my hand to Matt one more time. "Thank you for taking a chance on me."
"Thank you for the coffee machine," he said.
It was almost a joke. Almost.
I left the office as the afternoon light turned golden through the patched window. The stairs creaked under my feet, familiar now. The door stuck on the way out, and I shouldered it open without thinking.
Hell's Kitchen spread before me, dirty and beautiful and broken.
Somewhere in this city, I thought, Karen Page is about to have the worst night of her life.
I didn't know exactly when. Tomorrow, maybe. The day after. But the Union Allied case was coming, and with it, everything else—the masked man, the Russian war, Wilson Fisk's rise to power.
I had my foot in the door. Now I needed to be ready.
My phone buzzed. A text from Foggy: Matt says you're weird but acceptable. High praise from him. See you next week.
I smiled and typed back: Tell him I said the same about him.
Behind me, in the fading light, Hell's Kitchen held its breath.
And somewhere in a police precinct across the city, a woman named Karen Page sat in an interrogation room, covered in blood that wasn't hers, trying to explain that she hadn't killed anyone.
The case file would land on Nelson & Murdock's desk tomorrow morning.
Everything was about to accelerate.
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