At first, Matt Murdock wasn't entirely sure. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe his hearing was playing tricks on him.
But now, after encountering that strange young man twice, he was nearly certain of it.
Robert could control his heartbeat. Voluntarily. Rhythmically. Musically.
The first time, Matt thought it was a fluke—his super-hearing picking up an odd rhythm. But the second time?
Beethoven's Ode to Joy, echoing through Robert's chest cavity like a ticking symphony. That wasn't just bizarre. It was intentional.
Even if the great Beethoven himself had risen from the grave, his heart wouldn't keep time with a full orchestral score.
Matt's expression grew darker as he stood silently in the alley, the weight of realization settling on his shoulders. Robert had been targeting him specifically. That heartbeat trick? It wasn't just for show. It was a message.
He knows.
He knows about my ability.
That meant Robert had figured out Matt's secret—that he could detect lies and intent by listening to the heartbeat of others. That was his edge, his advantage. One that no enemy had ever understood.
Until now.
But how? They'd only crossed paths once—barely exchanged a few words. There was no way Robert could have pieced together all of that from one meeting...
…Unless he already knew everything.
Matt clenched his fists unconsciously, his shoulders tightening. If Robert knew about his hearing, he likely knew about other things too.
Like who he really was.
Matt Murdock. Attorney. Daredevil.
A secret Matt had guarded from the world, hidden even from Foggy, his closest friend. No one outside his private war with crime knew. Or so he thought.
Behind him, the gangsters scurried away, dragging their half-naked comrade along. Robert had casually demanded they leave the man's clothes behind, and the thugs didn't dare argue. They stripped their friend on the spot—even his underwear—and fled like frightened mice.
Frank stood at the edge of the alley, staring down at the yellowed briefs with no expression.
Matt didn't say a word.
The air turned thick with tension, the kind that made even breathing feel like a mistake.
Robert broke the silence first, leaning against the wall casually and grinning. "What's wrong, Counselor? You look like you just remembered it's tax season."
Matt exhaled slowly. "My surname's not Ma."
"Sure thing, Lawyer Ma."
Matt twitched.
He was a devout Catholic, known for his restraint. But even his faith had limits.
After a pause, he finally asked, "How do you know who I am?"
Robert lifted a brow. "That's a long story, but if you insist—"
He stepped forward, launching into a tale with dramatic flair. "So there I was, walking through Hell's Kitchen one night, just minding my business like any good citizen. Then I saw a blind guy with a cane walking toward an alley. Naturally, being the upstanding young man I am, I thought, 'He might need help!' So I followed."
Robert paused, smirking. "But what do I see?"
Matt already had a sinking feeling.
"This blind guy suddenly runs—I mean Olympic sprinter fast—then flips his cane, vaults onto a dumpster, springs off a wall like a parkour legend, does a split in midair, pirouettes—" Robert mimicked an elegant twist—"and lands on a rooftop like some kind of Spider-Man-Batman hybrid."
"I've never done a split," Matt muttered.
Robert kept going like he hadn't heard. "Then he scampers up the next roof, butt-first, like it's just another Tuesday. And I thought to myself, 'Damn, either this guy is secretly Daredevil… or I've just witnessed a miracle.'"
Matt rubbed his temple. "That's not how it happened."
"It's how I saw it."
Still unconvinced, Matt fell back on his usual tactic: listening to the heartbeat.
He focused his hearing on Robert's chest, waiting for the telltale signs—rapid beats, skipped rhythms, the subtle betrayals of a liar.
Instead?
Boom-boom-boom ba-dum boom-boom.
Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.
Matt grimaced. "Not again..."
Once again, the melody was unmistakable. A clear rhythm shaped deliberately, note by note, from Robert's beating heart.
Matt sighed and cut off his enhanced perception. There was no use. As long as Robert could control his own heartbeat with that kind of precision, Matt's lie detection ability was worthless.
"What I don't understand," Matt said, "is how you know about my abilities in the first place."
Robert tilted his head, as if amused by the question. "Come on. You're a blind guy who can dodge bullets and climb walls. You think no one's going to suspect you have some kind of super-sense?"
He tapped his temple.
"I've seen enough wuxia dramas. You're basically a walking 'Blind Monk of the Northern Temple.' Just swap the bamboo flute for a lawyer's license."
Matt tried not to look offended. "That's not a real title."
"Could've fooled me."
Matt folded his arms. "So what? You just guessed I had enhanced hearing?"
"Kind of. But it was more than that. I noticed something when I tried to sneak up on you."
Robert stepped side to side, then crouched, mimicking earlier movements.
"You kept tracking me—without looking. You never turned your head the wrong way. You always knew where I was."
He snapped his fingers.
"Conclusion: you can hear every move around you. It's better than any radar."
Matt didn't respond.
Robert leaned in and added, "And judging by the way you tensed up just now, I'm guessing I'm right."
Matt stared at him. "Fine. You're right. I can hear better than most people."
He took a deep breath, then continued with quiet authority, "That's why I suggest you stop waving your arms like a lunatic and put your middle finger away."
Robert paused, hand halfway raised.
"Oh. You noticed that."
"I notice everything."
Robert lowered his hand sheepishly. "Just testing the boundaries."
Matt was too tired to keep arguing. "You're not like other criminals."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't one."
"Still taking it."
Matt exhaled again. Something about this guy—this Robert—defied explanation. He was a clown, a showman, a walking enigma. And yet, despite the chaos he brought, Matt couldn't sense malicious intent.
Whatever he was, he wasn't evil.
Still, Matt couldn't afford to trust him.
Not yet.
And definitely not while he was quoting Beethoven through his own circulatory system.
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