CHAPTER 18: UNDERSTANDING
I woke in stages, like climbing out of deep water.
First: awareness. I existed. I was breathing. My heart was beating in my chest, slow and steady.
Second: sensation. Soft sheets beneath me. Warm air. The smell of antiseptic mixed with something cooking—eggs, maybe. Coffee.
Third: memory. The Russians. The van. The surge of power. The crash.
My eyes opened. Familiar water stain on the ceiling. I was in Claire's apartment again—the same couch I'd woken up on after the Union Allied attack, weeks ago. Had it only been weeks? It felt like a lifetime.
"Thirty-six hours this time." Claire appeared in the doorway, looking exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes. Scrubs wrinkled like she'd slept in them. Coffee cup clutched in both hands like a lifeline. "You were out for thirty-six hours."
"The Russians?"
"Hospitalized. All six of them." She moved into the room, settling into the chair she'd clearly been living in while monitoring me. "Police are calling it gang violence. A territorial dispute between Russian factions. No witnesses came forward. No one's connected it to you."
Relief flooded through me, followed immediately by a wave of dizziness. I tried to sit up and regretted it instantly—the room tilted, and my stomach lurched.
"Easy." Claire pressed me back down with one hand. "You're still recovering. The crash was worse this time."
"Makes sense." My voice came out rough, scraped raw. "Six instead of three. Bigger surge, harder crash."
"You sound very clinical about it." She studied my face with the assessing gaze of someone who'd seen too many patients pretend they were fine. "How do you actually feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck. Then the truck backed up and hit me again." I managed a weak smile. "But alive. That's something."
"It's everything." She set down her coffee and pulled out a notebook—the same one we'd used to document my powers before. "Tell me everything you remember. Moment by moment. Every sensation, every thought."
The next hour was a debrief.
We reconstructed the fight in detail—how the power had felt when it activated, how strong I'd been at various points, how my body had moved and reacted. Claire asked questions that would have seemed coldly clinical from a doctor but felt like genuine concern from her. She wanted to understand because understanding might keep me alive.
"Three attackers before," she summarized, flipping through her notes from our previous session. "Minor to moderate enhancement. Manageable crash—about forty-eight hours of severe fatigue, then you were functional."
"This time, six attackers. One armed with a knife." I nodded slowly, piecing it together. "Enhancement was dramatically higher. I could feel the difference—like the power was responding to the increased threat level. And the crash..."
"Thirty-six hours completely unconscious. Another twelve to twenty-four before you're fully functional." She tapped her pen against the notebook, thinking. "The scaling isn't linear. More enemies means exponentially more power, but also exponentially worse recovery."
"One Man Army," I said quietly.
"What?"
"The power. That's what I've been calling it in my head." The name felt right, even if I couldn't explain why. "It scales with opposition—the more enemies I face, the stronger I become. Like I'm a one-man army."
Claire considered this for a long moment. "That's terrifying."
"It's useful."
"It's both." She set down the notebook and fixed me with a hard stare. "Roy, this power has limits. The crash alone could kill you if it hits at the wrong time, in the wrong place. If you'd passed out a minute earlier, in the middle of that fight—"
"I'd be dead. I know."
"Do you?" She leaned forward, intensity in every line of her body. "Do you really understand what that means? You beat six armed men, and the cost was thirty-six hours of complete vulnerability. What happens if there's a seventh man? An eighth? What happens if the crash hits while you're still surrounded by enemies?"
I didn't have an answer. I'd thought about it—late nights at my apartment, staring at the ceiling, running through scenarios. But thinking wasn't the same as understanding.
"And there's another concern," Claire continued.
"The upper limit."
"Exactly." She stood, pacing the small room. "What happens if you fight twenty people? Fifty? A hundred? At some point, your body won't be able to handle the enhancement. The power might scale infinitely, but you're still human. Flesh and blood and bone. You'll tear yourself apart from the inside."
I'd thought about this too. The power was incredible—I'd beaten six trained criminals without serious injury—but it was also a trap. The stronger I became, the more dangerous I became to myself.
"I need to train without it," I said. "Matt's teaching me to fight as a normal person. If I have skill, I won't need to rely on the enhancement as much. I can save it for when I really need it."
"You're still going back to training? After this?"
"Thursday night. Eight PM." I managed a weak smile. "If I can walk by then."
Claire shook her head, but there was something like admiration in her expression. Frustrated admiration, maybe. "You're stubborn. Has anyone ever told you that?"
"Once or twice."
She made breakfast. Eggs, toast, coffee.
The eggs were overcooked and slightly rubbery. The toast was burnt around the edges. The coffee was strong enough to strip paint off walls.
I ate every bite and drank two cups.
"You need a cooking class," I said between mouthfuls.
"You need to stop bleeding on my floor." But she was smiling. "Third time you've shown up here half-dead or worse. I'm starting to think you enjoy my company."
"The company's great. The accommodations could use some work."
She threw a dish towel at my head. I caught it—barely. My reflexes were still sluggish, responses delayed by a half-second that would get me killed in a real fight.
"Thirty-six hours," I said, sobering. "That's a long time to be vulnerable. If someone had come after me while I was out..."
"I thought about that." Claire settled into the chair across from me again, cradling her coffee. "Moved you here as fast as I could. Covered the Russians' faces with coats so any cameras wouldn't show their injuries. Wiped down the van's door where you touched it. Got you off the street before any police showed up."
"You're getting good at this."
"I've had practice." She paused. "The other one—the man in the mask—he's shown up in worse shape than you did. At least you were still breathing normally when I found you."
I didn't ask about him. She wouldn't tell me anyway—patient confidentiality, even for vigilantes. But the implication was clear: Matt Murdock had nearly died multiple times, and Claire Temple had been the one to drag him back from the edge.
Now she was doing the same for me.
"Thank you," I said. "Seriously. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Die in an alley, probably."
"Probably." I finished the coffee, set down the cup. "I need to get back to work. The safe houses, the network, the investigation—"
"You need to rest." Claire's voice was firm, brooking no argument. "Another twelve hours minimum. Your body just fought off the equivalent of running ten marathons while being electrocuted. Give it time to recover."
I wanted to argue. There was so much to do—Fisk's investigation was getting closer every day, the Russians would certainly retaliate for what I'd done to their men, Matt was out there fighting every night while I lay in bed healing.
But Claire was right. I wouldn't be any use to anyone if I collapsed again.
"Twelve hours," I agreed. "Then I'm back at it."
The rest of the day passed in a haze of sleep and slow recovery.
Claire went to work her shift at the hospital—she'd already called in sick the day before to monitor me, which made me feel guilty. I dozed on her couch, waking occasionally to check the news on my phone.
Six men hospitalized after apparent gang altercation in Hell's Kitchen. Police investigating, but no suspects identified. Witnesses report hearing sounds of a fight but seeing nothing.
I was safe. For now.
But the Russians knew about me now. Knew I was dangerous. They'd send more next time—or escalate to guns from the start, no hesitation, no conversation first.
And somewhere in the city, someone was tracking my real estate purchases. Connecting dots. Building a picture of what I was really doing in Hell's Kitchen.
Fisk. It had to be Fisk. His people noticing a new player moving into their territory, buying properties, asking questions. I thought about what I knew from the show—his paranoia, his need for control, his willingness to destroy anyone who threatened his vision.
I'd made myself visible. That had been necessary to build the infrastructure, to establish myself as a legitimate investor. But visibility meant vulnerability.
I thought about Karen and Ben, still digging through financial records, still searching for the name at the top of the pyramid. They were getting closer every day—Ben had circled Fisk's name in his file, I knew that much from Karen's updates. When they finally connected all the dots, connected Fisk to Union Allied, to the Russians, to all of it—
Things would get very dangerous, very fast. For them. For Matt. For me.
Claire returned at eight with takeout. Chinese this time—proper Chinese from the place on Forty-Sixth, not the cheap delivery stuff.
"You look better," she said, settling onto the couch beside me with a container of kung pao chicken. "Color's coming back."
"Feel better. Still weak, but functional." I took the lo mein she handed me. "Twelve hours. As promised."
"Good." She opened her chopsticks. "Because we need to talk about what happens next."
"I go back to training. Keep building the network. Wait for the next attack."
"That's not a plan. That's hoping for the best and praying it works." She took a bite of chicken, chewing thoughtfully. "You've confirmed your power scales with numbers. You've documented the crash. Now you need to figure out how to use this without killing yourself."
"Any suggestions?"
"Don't fight alone." She set down her chopsticks, met my eyes. "If you know you're going into a situation with multiple opponents, have backup. Someone to cover you when the crash hits. Someone who can get you to safety if you go down."
"Matt?"
"Maybe. Eventually." She shrugged. "Right now he doesn't know about you. Neither does anyone else except me. You're operating in isolation, and isolation will get you killed."
She wasn't wrong. I'd been keeping my powers secret out of instinct—the transmigrator's paranoia, the fear of revealing too much and changing things I shouldn't change. But secrets had limits. And if I collapsed in the wrong place at the wrong time...
"I'll think about it," I said.
"Think fast. Because the Russians won't wait forever." Claire picked up her chopsticks again, but her eyes stayed on me. "You hurt six of their people, Roy. Put them in the hospital. That's not going to go unanswered. They'll come back with more men. More weapons. Maybe guns next time instead of fists. And they won't be trying to send a message. They'll be trying to kill you."
"I know."
"Do you?" Her voice sharpened. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're treating this like a game. Like you've got some special power that makes you invincible. But you're not invincible. You're human. Enhanced, sure, but still human. And humans break."
The words hit harder than any of the Russians' punches.
She was right. I'd been treating my power like a cheat code—something that would always save me when things got desperate. But the crash was real. The limits were real. And if I kept pushing without understanding those limits, I'd end up dead in an alley with no one to save me.
"I hear you," I said quietly. "I'll be more careful."
"Careful isn't enough." Claire leaned forward. "You need a plan. A real plan. And you need people who know what you can do and can help you stay alive."
"I have you."
"I'm a nurse. I patch people up after they've been broken." She shook her head. "You need people who can keep you from breaking in the first place."
I left Claire's apartment the next morning.
The sun was rising over Hell's Kitchen, painting the old buildings in shades of gold and amber. Beautiful. Strange how I'd never noticed how beautiful this city could be until I'd nearly died in it twice.
My body still ached—the crash's lingering effects—but I could walk. I could think. I could function.
Six opponents. Power confirmed. Crash documented. Scaling understood, at least in basic terms.
Now I knew what I was dealing with. A gift and a curse wrapped together, inseparable. The stronger I became, the harder I fell. The more enemies I faced, the more dangerous I became to myself.
I needed Matt's training more than ever. Needed the skill to survive without relying on my enhancement. Needed the technique to end fights quickly, before the crash could catch me exposed. Every punch he taught me, every defensive move, every footwork pattern—those were the tools that would keep me alive when my power wasn't enough.
And I needed allies. People who knew what I was and could help me stay alive. Claire was the first. Matt might be the second, eventually, if I could figure out how to tell him without revealing everything else.
Hell's Kitchen was going to war. Wilson Fisk was consolidating power in the shadows while the Russians bled out in the streets. Karen and Ben were closing in on a truth that could get them killed. Matt was out there every night, pushing himself toward the breaking point.
And I was going to be ready. Whatever it took. Whatever it cost.
I pulled out my phone, typed a message to Matt: Thursday still on?
His reply came seconds later: 8 PM. Don't be late.
I smiled despite everything. Despite the aching muscles and the lingering fatigue and the knowledge that worse was coming.
Thursday. Training. Progress.
One step at a time.
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