fear of god [Matt Murdock x F!Reader]

Adjuration.

Your plan was clear and concise. Detective Mahoney owed you one from a few years ago, and you had never asked him for anything. Not until now. Your foot taps against the concrete of the dimly lit roof, and you can't help but stare at the city below you. Where is he?

"Come on," you mumble to yourself, your hand trembling by your side with anticipation, cold, and slight fear, "come on."

You asked Mahoney to locate the Devil of Hell's Kitchen and gave him a time and place to meet you too. But he isn't here. And you feel eerily watched again.

Sucking in a deep breath, you close your eyes. You could potentially be walking to your death, a sitting duck kept alive despite what it's seen. Could Daredevil have killed Ren Porter? Or, like you, was he at the wrong place at the wrong time? You're trying to calm yourself, you know you're probably safe. This guy isn't a criminal, he isn't a murderer - no one has ever died by his hand. He leaves filth alive so they can suffer in jail. You'll be fine. He's just some guy. He's just some guy. Why are you so nervous? Gritting your teeth, you open your eyes and shut your brain up.

The rooftop is dark. The city below is bright and loud, and that's everything you like about it. The people - good people. They belong to a place that binds them together, strengthening them, and uniting them despite hardship. The good people of Hell's Kitchen thrive. They struggle through life and at the end of the day, they have smiles on their faces and joy in their voices.

You sigh to the heavens, almost as if in prayer, "I know you got my message. Please."

Nothing. Not a sound.
Checking your watch, it's 12:01 am.
He's late. He isn't coming.

You exhale, staring at the edge of the roof. A car honks in the distance. A dog barks after it. People chatter and walk down streets aimlessly. One guy is sitting on the corner of the street, by a 7/11, smoking a cigarette. Your city; barred from salvation.

"You wanted to see me."

Snapping around, your eyes widen at the sound of his deep tone. Man. Young. Not too tall. But he's athletic. Red. All over. The mask surrounding his eyes is so red it almost glows.

"I did," you swallow the lump in your throat, watching as he stands, clouded in darkness, "I mean - I do. I'm-"

"Y/N L/N," he takes a step forward, his suit illuminated in the distant street lights, "I know who you are."

"How?"

"You've been running around the city lately," he answers genuinely, "I've noticed. I saw you that night, meandering the streets. It isn't safe to do that."

"Right," you whisper, unsure of how to begin, "yeah, I saw you too. The night Ren Porter was killed. What were you doing there?" You stare up at the red horns on his helmet and wonder what Matt would think; you and the Devil on a rooftop in the middle of the night.

"What do you need from me?" His voice is deep, it has a little rough edge to it.

"Answers. What were you doing that night?"

"Are you investigating me, Y/N?"

"Should I be?" You tilt your head at him, your eyes flicking to either one of his. His suit is detailed up close, practical and expertly made. He looks strong. Confident.

Then, after a pause, he answers you, "I was tracking Rens killer."

"And?"

He tilts his head, not so sure of his cocky answer anymore, "It's taking time. It's my turn to ask questions; why did you ask to see me?"

"I need your help."

He pauses for a moment, hearing the desperation in your voice and the quickened pace of your heart. You're nervous. Maybe even a little afraid. You don't know who he is, that much is sure. You were certain after last night, and after you parted ways in the morning with a few words, that you had known about him. He was wrong.