Ever since being targeted by the man in the night suit, Griffin’s squad had lowered their profile even further.
Where they used to disguise themselves as ordinary thugs and dare to grab a drink in shady bars, now they skipped the drinking entirely.
Before stepping out each time, they mapped out entirely new routes, ensuring someone always walked at the rear to sweep away their tracks.
From upstairs, Ross Vance watched them come up with creative ways to leave the building every day, feeling as though these Cadian veterans were treating this assignment like a tactical exercise.
Yet the work didn’t slow down in the slightest.
The bottom-tier gangs in Hell’s Kitchen—those without any real backing—suffered abysmal luck.
A safe went missing today, a stash house was cleaned out tomorrow, and even liquid cash hidden inside a van was pried away the day after.
These street gangs were small-time to begin with.
Having lost their funds, they didn’t dare make a scene to look for them, leaving them with no choice but to turn on one another in suspicion.
Griffin and his men didn’t just watch the show; they took advantage of the chaos to shave off a few more cuts.
However, Ross Vance knew in his heart that this was no long-term solution.
Squeezing the bottom-feeders of Hell’s Kitchen had already drained them nearly dry.
What remained were either major syndicates or smaller outfits backed by those heavy hitters.
If they kept picking away like this, Hell’s Kitchen would inevitably erupt into utter chaos.
He needed a stable line of revenue.
It wasn’t something to rush, though.
He hadn’t even secured a legal identity yet, making it impossible to register a proper company for legitimate business.
Just as he was mulling it over, Griffin’s intel report came through.
After several days of taking turns tailing the target, the squad had finally unmasked the pursuer completely.
A dark red suit—it really was Daredevil.
Following the thread, they had pulled up his true identity as well.
Matt Murdock.
By day, a lawyer at a modest Hell’s Kitchen firm taking cases for the poor.
By night, jumping across rooftops in full gear, reclaiming with his fists the justice he couldn’t win in court.
That was where all his scars came from.
Reading through the report, Ross Vance found his interest piqued.
A lawyer—a person in the Marvel world holding a legal license, a firm, and a legitimate social identity.
For an undocumented newcomer like him, that held considerable value.
He had to resolve his identity sooner or later.
No matter how convincing forged papers were, they couldn’t withstand actual scrutiny.
But with a legitimate attorney operating on his behalf, many things would become far smoother.
“Voss, go invite our little shadow over for tea.”
Griffin snapped to attention.
“Shall we tie him up, or cripple him first?”
“Be polite.
Invite him.
Don’t treat him like a heretic.
The man may be a fanatic, but he’s a good person at heart.
He might come in handy later.”
“Understood.” The scar on the corner of Griffin’s mouth twitched as he turned and went downstairs.
***
At one in the morning, atop the roof of a factory in Hell’s Kitchen.
Daredevil was tracking a group of thugs who had just wrapped up a drug deal.
He crouched at the edge of the fifth-floor roof, ears strained to capture every sound from the alley below.
Footsteps, heartbeats, the friction of a backpack zipper—everything rang crystal clear in his mind.
Just as he prepared to leap down, he sensed something amiss.
Three individuals had appeared behind him.
Three people whose breathing was barely audible and whose heartbeats were unnaturally slow.
He had no idea when they had gotten behind him.
He spun around instantly into a combat stance, expanding his radar senses to their absolute limit.
The three men stood in a triangular formation, completely sealing off all his avenues of retreat.
He could feel that the leader was a broad, powerfully built man—and the other two were no less imposing.
“Mr.
Murdock,” Griffin spoke up.
“Our boss would like to invite you for a cup of tea.
Please cooperate.
No harm will come to you.”
Daredevil’s heart gave a sudden leap.
Murdock.
His real name.
The man hadn’t called him Daredevil; he had used his actual name.
In this entire city, barely anyone knew his secret identity.
“Who is your boss?” His voice was raspy and low, his body coiled to its limit, ready to strike at a moment’s notice.
“You’ll know once you get there.” Griffin’s tone remained polite, but there was no room for negotiation.
“The boss specifically instructed us to be courteous.
Otherwise, we’d be carrying back your corpse.”
The words were spoken calmly, sounding less like a threat and more like a simple statement of fact.
Daredevil fell silent for several seconds.
He could hear that none of the three men’s heartbeats had accelerated in the slightest.
They truly didn’t view him as a threat.
“…Lead the way.”
***
In the living room of the three-story building.
Ross Vance sat cross-legged on the sofa.
Two freshly brewed cups of tea sat on the table before him, steam still rising from them.
The sound of combat boots ascending the stairs echoed from outside.
The door pushed open, and Griffin stepped aside to let Daredevil enter.
He was in plain clothes, unmasked, but wearing a pair of dark sunglasses.
He paused at the doorway for a moment, turning toward Ross Vance on the sofa.
His expression shifted from vigilance to confusion.
He had expected an arms dealer or a mob boss, but the heartbeat he heard belonged to a young man.
“Hello, Daredevil.
Or should I say, Attorney Murdock?
Please sit.
Have some tea.” Ross Vance gestured to the single armchair opposite him.
Daredevil stood at the doorway without moving.
Though his eyes were blind, his ears swept through the entire house.
There were at least five more heartbeats upstairs, one by the window, and two at the stairwell.
Every single one was unnaturally slow, steady, and powerful.
The man who had invited him here possessed strength no lesser than his own.
Fighting was meaningless.
Hesitating no longer, he walked into the living room and sat down in the single armchair opposite Ross Vance.
He picked up the teacup, took a light sip, and set it back down.
“State your business, Mr.
Vance.
Since you’ve investigated me so thoroughly, I must have some value worth exploiting.”
Ross Vance raised an eyebrow.
He had expected Daredevil to demand who he was, where he came from, and what he wanted.
He hadn’t anticipated the man skipping all the pleasantries and pulling the conversation straight into negotiation mode.
“Mr.
Murdock, you’re far more interesting than I imagined.” Ross Vance leaned back against the sofa.
“Indeed, I have a favor to ask, but I’d much prefer you work for me.”
“Then you’re dreaming.
I don’t collaborate with murderous gang members—even if I haven’t found proof of you harming ordinary civilians yet.”
Ross Vance wasn’t surprised in the least.
It was a joke to think Matt Murdock could be recruited with a single sentence.
If he were that easy to talk over, he wouldn’t have argued with every teammate he ever had in the comics.
Lone wolf, non-lethal, fiercely holding the legal line.
Ross Vance had never counted on pure rhetoric to convince Daredevil to work for him.
“Mr.
Murdock, it’s actually your daytime identity I wish to partner with.
Not the nighttime one.”
“My daytime identity?” The edge in his voice softened into perplexity.
“You need legal counsel?
Forgive my bluntness, but with your financial means, you could hire the finest lawyers in any top firm in New York.
Choosing me implies you require services beyond standard legal channels.”
Ross Vance let out a chuckle.
The man’s tongue was sharper than he had anticipated, but then again, a sharp tongue was a professional requirement for a lawyer.
“I don’t need you to launder money for me, nor do I need you to fight lawsuits.
Let me put it plainly: I want you to become my team’s legal counsel.
My future company will handle legitimate business, legitimate contracts, and legitimate employment relationships.
Those will require your oversight.
I’ll pay you market rate; I won’t expect you to work for free.”
He paused, leaning forward slightly and dropping his voice a notch.
“Besides that, I intend to do one more thing: turn Hell’s Kitchen into the benchmark for public safety in New York.”
Murdock fell silent.
If he had managed to keep his composure when legal counsel was mentioned, that final sentence struck him right where it counted.
Every night, he crouched on rooftops until dawn in his tights, taking beatings and breaking ribs—all for this place.
Now, an unknown young man who had raided half the gangs in Hell’s Kitchen over a few short nights sat before him, claiming he would help him achieve that very goal.
“I don’t understand.” Murdock put down his teacup.
“Why choose me?
New York has plenty of attorneys far better than me, and plenty of mutants far stronger than me.
Any single one of your men could crush me.
Why go out of your way to find me?”
“Because you’re the only lawyer who actually cares about Hell’s Kitchen.
And as a local, your intel is precisely what I need most.”
Ross Vance answered without hesitation.
“Others care about money; you care about this place.
And I just so happen to need a clean, orderly territory.”