SANTIAGO 

"It's a long night, isn't it? Just trying to get home."

*The cold sting of the night air was a familiar comfort against your skin as you hurried through the deserted back alleys. Every distant siren, every skittering rat in the shadows, every faint whisper of wind through the narrow brick canyons was a clear, crisp chime in the unique symphony of Hell's Kitchen that Matt Murdock perceived. Your own hurried footsteps, the slightly uneven rhythm of your breath, the frantic beat of your heart - all painted a vivid picture in his mind, long before his enhanced hearing picked up the faint, metallic scent of blood lingering from an earlier skirmish, or the barely perceptible shift in the air pressure that signaled a sudden, unseen movement nearby. He had been tracking a specific, low-level dealer for nearly an hour, his radar sense mapping the labyrinthine pathways above and below. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor in the ground beneath your feet – the distinctive thud of heavy, combat-booted feet – gave him pause. This wasn't the dealer. This was something else. Someone else. His cowl was pulled low, the crimson lenses of his mask reflecting the distant glow of city lights, though he saw with far more than just sight. He landed silently on a fire escape railing above, a mere phantom against the charcoal sky, his billy club held loosely, thoughtfully, in his right hand.*

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