Matt Murdock didn't press the issue about the heartbeat anymore. Instead, he took a step forward, his posture calm but filled with quiet authority.
"I remember you said you live in Brooklyn," Matt said, his voice steady, with the slight edge of a man used to confrontation. "But here you are, in West Midtown. That's a long way from home. I want the truth. What are you doing in this part of the city tonight?"
Robert raised both hands casually, his twin pistols dangling from his fingers. He looked as harmless as a guy with two guns could manage. "We didn't do anything, really. Just passing through. If you don't believe me, listen to my heartbeat. It's perfectly honest."
Matt didn't take the bait.
After his last two experiences with Robert's musical cardiac performances, he had no interest in playing symphony roulette again. For all he knew, the next song would be The Ride of the Valkyries.
Instead, he asked more directly, "Then what's with the smell of blood all over you? What did you do before I found you?"
Robert gave a shrug. "Personal business. No comment."
He didn't even try to fabricate a lie. Just shut the conversation down entirely, a defiant glint in his eye.
Matt frowned. He couldn't see Robert's face, but the man's posture radiated smugness. Arms crossed. Leg bouncing. Just arrogant enough to make Matt's patience wear thin.
"Mr. Robert, don't force my hand," Matt said, spinning one of his short sticks between his fingers.
Robert tilted his head, eyes gleaming. "You don't want to do that, Red Devil. We outnumber you. Two against one—you'll get your butt kicked."
Matt sighed. "Your companion left five minutes ago."
Robert blinked. "Nice try. You think I'll fall for the old 'your friend ditched you' trick? Please. That's 90s cartoon villain level."
"Then turn around."
Robert hesitated. Then slowly turned his head.
Frank was gone.
No hulking figure, no blood-soaked trench coat. Nothing but a pair of yellowed briefs, crumpled on the ground like a final insult. The rest of the clothing had vanished entirely.
Matt added helpfully, "He took the clothes from the guy you mugged earlier and slipped out while we were talking."
Robert's jaw slackened.
Where was his iron-blooded, vengeance-fueled, all-American tough guy now?
Gone. Abandoned him. Left behind underwear.
Robert's heart sank.
It wasn't even about the backup anymore—he'd wanted to see Frank wear that ridiculous piggy shirt. Maybe snap a few photos. Frame one. Maybe two. Post one on the dark web under "Hell's Kitchen Street Fashion."
Gone. All gone.
Frank, it seemed, had decided to cash in his cool guy points and learn a thing or two about self-preservation. And Robert was beginning to suspect who'd inspired the betrayal.
Wade.
Yes. This had Wade written all over it. The unpredictability. The sudden character derailment. The abandonment of logic.
Frank had touched Wade, and now he was contaminated.
Robert rubbed his temples. "I'm surrounded by madmen," he muttered.
Matt took a step forward. "You're alone now. You might want to stop playing games and start talking."
Robert turned, plastering a grin across his face like an actor switching roles mid-scene. "Alright, alright. How about we sit down and discuss this over dinner? I'll even pay. We can eat fork to fork—"
"No more jokes," Matt said, his voice firmer now. "I want the truth."
Robert sighed, long and dramatic. "Fine. Since you're so desperate to know, I'll just—LOOK! A flying saucer!"
Matt stood perfectly still.
"I'm blind."
Robert paused. "Right. Forgot that part."
Then he turned and ran.
Matt was ready. The moment Robert's foot hit the pavement, Matt's short stick flew through the air like a dart. It screamed toward Robert's back, aiming to trip him or knock him down.
Bang!
The stick was shot mid-air, a clean bullet tearing through the air and knocking it off course.
Matt stopped, blinking.
Robert had fired that shot—while running, no less—and had hit a moving target. In the dark. While distracted.
That wasn't luck. That was skill. Precision.
Even with all of Matt's training and perception, that move had caught him off guard.
He gritted his teeth, bent down, and picked up his fallen weapon. "This just got complicated."
Back in the alley, the blood-stained silence settled once more.
Robert didn't slow down until he was several blocks away, ducking into another alley to catch his breath.
He leaned against a wall, heart pounding—not from fear, but from adrenaline.
"That guy's something else," he muttered to himself. "Can hear heartbeats, fight in the dark, and still rock a leather suit in 80-degree weather."
He gave a small laugh and wiped sweat from his brow. "What's next? A blind guy with laser vision?"
A few rooftops away, Matt paused, listening.
Robert was already too far to chase on foot without attracting attention. For now, he let him go. But he wouldn't forget the name—or the scent.
Robert was dangerous. And worse—clever.
If Matt had learned anything tonight, it was this: Hell's Kitchen had a new player. And he wasn't just passing through.
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