Chapter Text
His patrol pulls him through Midtown and into Hell's Kitchen. Moon Knight doesn't usually cross paths with Daredevil—not by accident, not by design—but since the news broke, Jake has been insistent. Someone has to cover the gap. Marc doesn't argue, he's too busy thinking.
Daredevil gone. Matt Murdock is missing.
It doesn't take much to connect the two. Marc never kept his own lives cleanly divided—why would Matt? The Devil of Hell's Kitchen had a habit of dropping cases into Murdock's lap with impossible timing, no trail, no explanation. It was too neat. Too familiar. Jake handled most of their interactions. Marc never cared for the system Matt defended—too slow, too forgiving—but he'd paid enough attention. Enough to know when something didn't add up.
Moon Knight drops from one rooftop to the next, boots hitting gravel with a muted crunch. He moves to the ledge, gaze cutting down into the alley below. "Was this the scene?" Marc asks, "Where was his suit found?"
Yeah. The suit was torn up, left behind—there wasn't much blood. Not enough.
Marc doesn't answer right away. Not enough blood means something else.
The Fist of Khonshu flicks his wrist, the truncheon snapping out with a solid thwak. The grappling line fires, catching the fire escape railing with a sharp metallic bite. He steps off the edge and lets himself descend, controlled, deliberate—drawn down into the narrow throat of the alley like something pulled by gravity. Or instinct.
The alley doesn't see much use. Still, someone's been here. At the mouth, a small altar has been put together. Crude. Scrap and cloth, a mask with horns. Red where it counts. A memorial for Daredevil. Marc's gaze passes over it once, then again. He doesn't touch it.
Further in, something shifts—a door, halfway down, closes just a little too quickly. Not a slam. Not even a click. Just… movement where there shouldn't be. Marc moves. He gave no warning, no hesitation. He crosses the distance in a breath and drives his foot into the door. It gives with a splintering crack, swinging inward hard enough to rattle the frame.
Inside, a thin, older man folded in on himself like paper under pressure, hands half-raised, eyes wide and wet with fear. Not a fighter. Moon Knight takes the room in, anyway. Small. Barely more than a mudroom. Trash barrels, recycling bins, the stale scent of rot and damp cardboard clinging to the air. And there—a canister, clean and out of place. Metal catches what little light the mudroom has from a swaying bulb above their heads. Marc steps in and picks it up, turning it once in his hand. Not tear gas. Not knockout gas in the cheap sense. Something engineered—fast, invasive, built to overwhelm before the body could fight back. Faster, even, for someone who feels everything the way Daredevil does.
Marc's jaw tightens. Not dead, but dropped. He lowers the canister, his attention sliding back to the man still crumpled against the wall. "Start talking," Marc says, voice low and controlled. "And don't make me ask twice."
The man flinches like he already knows how this ends. "I—I don't know anything, I swear, I just—"
Marc stills. It isn't the fear that catches—fear is expected. It's the rhythm. The way the words trip over themselves, rushing ahead of thought.
He's hiding something, Jake whispers. But, he ain't in on it.
Marc exhales slowly and steps through the threshold. Jake presses forward, not a full switch—just enough to change the weight in the room, the way the air seems to settle closer.
"Take a breath," Marc says, though the edge has softened, shifted. "Find your words."
The man freezes, confusion playing across his face.
"You saw something," Jake says, not asking. "Maybe you didn't understand it. Maybe you don't want to, but you were here."
The man shakes his head too quickly. "No, I—I keep to myself, I don't get involved—"
Moon Knight lets him talk, watching it unravel in real time. Jake lets his gaze drift, following the man's instinctive glance before he can stop it—toward the battered monitor tucked behind the bins. He tips his head just a fraction, as if it's nothing—just another small detail in a sea of circumstances, not worth rushing.
"You got cameras back here?" Jake asks, casual as anything.
The man hesitates for a minute too long. Marc feels it—impatience tightening in his chest, sharper than before. It isn't just a lead anymore; it's time slipping between their fingers.
"Answer the question," Marc says, cutting in. Same voice, but heavier. Sharper. The air changes with it. The man startles, like he's missed a step he didn't know he was on.
"Y-yeah. Just—just for the alley," the man squirms. "People dump trash into my bins, I keep track—"
"Show me." Moon Knight exhales through his mask, Jake mentally pulling Marc back just enough. The edge softens, but it doesn't go away wholly—he simply redirected it. No threat or volume, but a certainty that couldn't be feigned.
The man fumbles with the controls.
"Easy," Jake adds, stepping a fraction closer, tone easing without losing control. "I'm not here about your trash problem. Just roll it back to when it happened."
The landlord nods quickly, latching onto the calmer note, even if he doesn't understand why it's there. He turns to face the monitor as it flickers to life—but it isn't the alley, because the angle is wrong. Tighter. Interior. The mudroom. The footage shows the cramped space as it had been—door closed, the same bins, the same narrow walls pressing in. Static plays along the screen as weeks rewind, the date on the monitor counting back.
Moon Knight goes still, Marc's focus locks in as his posture tightens into something coiled and ready. Jake lingers at the edges of it, attention split—half on the screen, half on the man close by. Watching for hesitation, for anything held back.
If he lies again—
He won't, Marc answers, already certain. Already done waiting. It's been a while since Daredevil went missing, but he's still shaken up about it. He knows we're looking for what happened to him.
The footage stops as they reach the day Daredevil disappeared, and the footage begins to play.
"C'mon…" Jake leans in slightly, something quieter threading through the tension of the room.
The footage stutters once, then steadies. The room sits empty for a breath—just the narrow space, the bins, the closed door. A muffled whimper, just at the edge of what the footage can carry.
Did you hear that? Jake asks, but Marc doesn't answer. He focused on the footage.
The door opens as Daredevil steps in first, quick but not careless—angled toward the sound, head tilted slightly as he listens past the walls, past the clutter. His attention is already committed, tracking something deeper than what's visible.
"Someone in there…?" Jake murmurs, glancing briefly at the man beside him.
He was bait. Marc surmised, still focused on the monitor. Daredevil moves further inside, toward the corner where the sound would’ve been coming from. He draws deeper into the room, letting the door close softly at his back.
A perfect trap for him, eh?
The door cracks open, just long enough to admit a sliver of movement. Something arcs into the room, metal glinting in the dim light. The canister hits the floor with a hollow, metallic clatter—and hisses. Soft at first, almost unassuming; before it swells into something invasive.
Marc's grip tightens around the canister in his hand.
Gas floods the scene almost instantly. There's nowhere for it to go, no room to thin out. It blooms outward, saturating everything. Daredevil reacts fast—his head snapping toward the sound, body already shifting toward the door, toward escape—but the first breath catches him mid-motion. It hits hard and wrong, sharp enough to cut through his control and everything that makes him who he is, and turns it against him all at once.
"Shit…" Jake leans forward without realizing it, voice dropping under his breath. "That'd do it."
The Devil of Hell's Kitchen falters, not from impact but from overload. His shoulders tense, breath catching as the chemical spike floods through him, too concentrated to filter, too immediate to compensate for. The scent alone is overwhelming—acrid, heavy—blowing past the threshold his body can handle, while his hearing fractures alongside it, his own heartbeat surging too loud, too close, the rhythm stuttering out of sync with the world around him. He tries to adjust, tries to ground himself the way he always does, but the room won't hold still long enough to map.
His hand comes up, reaching for something stable, something real. The wall meets his palm a second too late. His balance shifts, recalibration lagging behind the collapse already happening inside him.
"He's disoriented…" Jake murmurs, tension threading through the words.
Daredevil pivots, forcing a strike toward where the door had been—fast, instinctive, still precise by any other standard—but it cuts through empty air by inches that shouldn't exist.
Marc exhales, quiet and sharp. "He's already losing it."
The gas thickens instead of thinning, each breath compounding the last. Daredevil staggers, knees dipping as he catches himself against the edge of a bin, trying to anchor, to ride it out, to force his body back under control. It's there in the way he moves—he's fighting it, pushing through with everything he has… but there's no space, no distance, and no time.
The door opens again, held open by a gloved hand. He doesn't rush, but he doesn't hesitate. The figure pulls down a mask over his face, clean and deliberate, cutting him off from the environment he just created. The space belongs to him.
"There he is…" Jake's voice lowers as the figure saunters further into the camera's view, confirming his suspicion. Dark blue and black tactical attire, accented by knife holsters and the bullseye on his cowl.
Bullseye doesn't close the distance immediately. He watches. Head angled just so, posture nonchalant and precise, tracking Daredevil with a detached kind of patience, as if he's waiting for a clock to run out rather than an opponent to fall. There's no need to engage, no need to risk anything unpredictable. The outcome was already in motion.
Daredevil turns toward him—tries to. The intent is there, sharp and immediate, but his body lags behind it, now, fractionally delayed, coordination slipping where it shouldn't. He takes a step forward, reaching for the threat, forcing himself into motion even as the world fractures around him—and then the floor meets him halfway. He goes down hard, catching himself poorly, one arm buckling under the weight before he can recover, the strength still there but the control gone.
Bullseye moves then. Efficient. Certain. He closes the distance in a handful of steps, crouching just long enough to check—two fingers, a brief pause—and then he's rising again, already shifting Daredevil's subdued weight like it's nothing, adjusting him over his shoulder with practiced ease.
Jake exhales under his breath, tight. "Mierda…"
Bullseye doesn't look at the canister still venting its last into the room. He doesn't spare a glance for the corner where the landlord lies bound and barely moving. None of it matters. Everything he needed already happened. He turns and leaves the way he came, carrying Daredevil out like a task already completed. The door swings shut behind him, sealing the room again, leaving only the fading hiss of the canister and the faint, uneven movement in the corner.
Marc doesn't move. The footage runs a few seconds longer before the man beside them turns the monitor off.
"He was alive," Jake says quietly, giving a nod. That much, at least, is certain.
"It's still—I still have difficulty… remembering what led to that."
The landlord's voice wavers, his eyes flicking between Moon Knight's mask and the darkened monitor, as if the answer might still be playing in the reflection. His hands tremble where they hover near his chest, unsure of what to do with themselves now that the moment has passed.
Moon Knight doesn't look at him, not right away. Marc's gaze lingers on the screen a second longer, on the empty room where everything already happened, and nothing remains. The shape of it settles in his mind—angles, distance, timing—locking into place with a clarity that doesn't leave room for doubt.
Marc shifts without looking away, already moving on instinct. He crouches at the base of the old setup, gloved fingers finding the housing beneath the shelf. A quick pull, a loose panel, and the drive comes free into his hand—small, intact.
"Hey—" the landlord starts, uncertain.
"You'll get it back," Jake says, not looking at him. He rises, slipping the drive away with the canister into a satchel.
"He used you," Marc says finally, voice even. Not accusing, neither was it comforting. Just a fact.
The man swallows hard. "I didn't—I didn't know—"
"I know," Jake cuts in, softer. Not kind, exactly, but not cruel either. Just enough to keep him from unravelling further. "Nah, this wasn't about you. You just got caught in it."
That lands. The man nods weakly as it absolves him of something he wasn't sure he could carry.
Moon Knight turns, attention shifting back to the present. The canister in his hand feels heavier than it should—evidence, method, and intent. "Did he come back?" Marc asks.
He shook his head quickly. "No. No, I—I checked the cameras after, nothing. Just that. Just him leaving with—"
With Daredevil. Marc doesn't press it, but Jake watches him a second longer, measuring, then lets it go.
There's nothing left to pull from him. Not anything useful.
"Stay inside for a while," Jake says, already stepping back toward the broken door. "And maybe get better locks."
The man nods again, faster this time, relief bleeds into it now that the pressure is easing.
Moon Knight doesn't add anything, he's already moving back into the alley. The night air cutting through the lingering scent in their lungs—cleaner, colder, and real. For a moment, neither of them speak.
"He had a route," Marc says, voice low, already working through what they saw on the monitor. "Didn't rush. Knew how long the gas would hold him. That means distance is planned. Vehicle, probably close."
Yeah. Not haulin' him far on foot like that. Too visible. Jake's voice comes low, his anger churning.
Marc exhaled, retrieving his truncheon from its holster and fires the grappling line without breaking stride. It catches, pulls, and he's already moving—up, away from the alley, and back into the vertical sprawl of the city.
"Then we map it," Marc says. "Time window, traffic, exits—"
—and patterns. Jake cuts in, pulling back from the front into a more passive spot. Places he's used before. Quiet ones. Out of the way.
Marc doesn't argue. He moves across the rooftops, pace quickening without discussion. The city stretches out around him, alive and indifferent, lights burning like nothing's missing—but something is. Marc glances back once, toward the direction of Hell's Kitchen, jaw tightening.
He was conscious for some of that, Jake says, quieter now. Had to be.
Marc doesn't slow their pace. "Then we're already late."
The East Village comes into view, nearing the point where the borough moved into Greenwich Village. The waning afternoon tinged the sky in a warm light as it bled into evening. The white of Moon Knight's suit practically glowed as they swung, accented with the thwuk of his grappling line firing and catching, the momentum carrying him with familiar, haunting ease. He saw the front of the building—wide, tinted windows accented with crescent moons flanking the main doors. The uniquely darker brick facade contrasted the accents of stark white—the Midnight Mission.
Boots hit the street surface paces from the front door, retracting the grappling line with a flick of his wrist as he closed the gap with the front entry way. Gloved hands touched the doors, feeling the teeming presence within the building. "I'm home," Marc murmured to the Midnight Mission, pressing the doors in and passing though the threshold of his home, his closest friend. "Are the rest home, Mission?"
The space greets him with familiar stillness—dim light, clean lines, and the quiet weight of purpose settled into every corner. Marc felt a comforting warmth, assuring him that the Midnight Mission hadn't been alone for long. Reese, Soldier, and 8-Ball were home, he surmised. Back from their patrols.
"Is Hunter's Moon present?"
He felt a cooler thrum of energy, typically a 'no' without any sense of anxiety from it.
"Ah, still at his clinic…" Marc murmured, not breaking his stride as he walked down various twisting halls—passing into one room designated as a lab. Moon Knight retracted the canister from his satchel, setting it down on the nearest counter. Evidence.
We're not sittin' on this. Jake lingered just beneath the surface, restless. He's as much of a friend as anyone here.
"We're not," Marc says, already moving toward the center of the room, mind turning over everything they saw.
The lab answers him in quiet increments—lights slowly turning on, systems waking without sound. Much like the rest of the Midnight Mission, it came alive around Moon Knight. He grabbed the canister and brought it closer to his work station, setting it beneath a task lamp and studies it there, the metal catching the sterile light that shows nothing of where it came from. He doesn't open it, not yet. Instead, he angles it. Studying the threading, the valve, the precision of the release. No markings. No serials. Nothing meant to be traced.
Custom, Jake mutters. Or scrubbed so clean it might as well be.
"Too specific to be off-the-shelf," Marc says, triggering a scan. The Mission hums softly, drawing a controlled sample from the canister's mouth. Data begins to populate—fragmented compounds, partial signatures, but nothing complete enough to name. It was enough to understand it.
Jake reflects on the screen faintly. That's not crowd control.
"No," Marc says. "It's tuned."
He watches the pattern rather than the numbers—the way the compounds stack, cascade, overwhelm. Fast. Saturating. Built to hit before a superhuman body could compensate.
Built for Matt, Jake finishes quietly.
"He had it made," Marc says. That shifts the focus off Bullseye, but to someone behind him.
Then we find the guy who builds this kind of thing. There's a whole underground economy that caters to the criminally inclined, with discretion as a sellin' point.
Marc nods once and turns to the terminal, pulling the drive from his satchel. It slides in with a quiet click, the footage pulling up again—cleaner now, stabilized. He doesn't linger on it for long. They've seen what they needed, but having this evidence on hand is crucial.
We could get Reese on it, Marc. Have 8-Ball run down some of his old contacts, with Soldier as added muscle.
Marc pulls up a map of the city—Hell's Kitchen mapped in clean lines across the screen. He plugs in the location of the alleyway and the back door to the tenement building. He scrolled back, availing him a view of the city streets. "Two-minute radius," Marc says. "From the door to a vehicle."
Jake pressing forward to the front, assuming control of their shared body. He brought a finger to the touch screen, tracing the radius out. Several businesses lay within it. He notes the buildings that match the likely route—service access, secondary exits, and places you can move through without being seen. He overlays traffic cams, storefront feeds, and anything that might have caught movement in the windows.
They don't look for Bullseye's face—he was clever to cover his face. Instead, they look for weight. A man carrying another man. He scrubs through the feeds in tight increments, syncing them to the window they built—entry, deployment, extraction. Seconds matter now, seconds narrow the field.
Jake leans in, eyes tracing the flow. "Not the alley," he murmurs. "He doesn't come back out that way."
He's careful, Marc says, scouring the data. He goes through.
Jake shifts the map, highlighting adjacent structures—tenements, service corridors, shared walls. Old buildings, worn layouts. Places with more than one way out. "Service exit. Loading door, maybe. Something no one's watching."
Marc usurps the front again, pulling a new set of feeds—side streets, rear access points, and the kind of places cameras catch only in passing. A narrow street comes into view, half a block off the alley. A metal door, recessed. Easy to miss. It fits the timeline. They slow it down, watching the frame as it holds empty for a second—then the door opens. A figure steps out, but he wasn't rushing and wasn't looking around. He was carrying weight of something bundled up over his shoulder.
That's him, Jake murmurs, sharpening his focus.
Marc studies the movement, the posture and balance. No adjustment, no hitch in his stride. "He planned for the carry," Marc says simply. "Distribution's clean."
Yeah. He's done it before.
Onscreen, the figure crosses the short distance to the curb. A vehicle sits there, engine running. Lights off. Marc leans in slightly, furrowing his brow. "Idle."
The evening darkness makes it hard to determine the specifics of the vehicle, but he surmised that Bullseye did this all on his own. Likely no driver waiting for him. No extra witnesses. There wasn't any hesitation from the figure as he reaches it. He opens the rear door, easing the bundled weight in and shuts the door. He opens the front and climbs into the driver's seat, shutting the door promptly. The vehicle pulls away within seconds.
Marc tracks the vehicle through the next camera, then to the next. It takes a turn, not pausing at he light—all timed to hit green. He tracks them another block—
—Gone.
The feed picks up an empty street. Marc rewinds, runs it again. Slows it further, isolating the vehicle—shape, size, and any markings that might stick. Nothing obvious.
Too clean, Jake's voice lowers.
"Deliberate," Marc corrects. He pulls traffic data, overlays it—tries to predict where the vehicle should have reappeared. It doesn't. Marc leans back slightly, frustration edging in.
It should've hit something. Another cam, a plate—anything.
Marc doesn't answer immediately. He watches the last frame again—the moment before the vehicle disappears. Timing. Angle. Absence. "He broke line of sight," Marc says finally. "Knew exactly where the gaps were."
Jake's reflected expression in the screen tightens. So, we had him…
"And lost him," Marc finishes.