[New York City. State Supreme Court. 10:00 AM.]
The courtroom smelled of polished oak, cheap cologne, and nervous sweat.
Matt Murdock stood at the plaintiff's table, his fingers lightly brushing over the braille documents detailing Stark Industries' claim to the 47th Street warehouse.
At the defense table sat Wilson Fisk's legal team. Three high-priced, aggressive corporate sharks. Their lead counsel, a man named Sterling, had a resting heart rate of seventy beats per minute. Calm. Cocky. He was preparing to steamroll the blind lawyer from Hell's Kitchen.
And sitting in the gallery, directly behind the defense table, was the void.
Matt focused his hearing. The courtroom was a symphony of biological noise—the judge clearing his throat, the bailiff shifting his weight, the jury breathing. But directly behind Sterling, there was a patch of absolute, freezing silence.
"Your Honor," Sterling stood up, his voice booming. "This injunction is a stall tactic. Stark Industries abandoned this property years ago. Mr. Fisk's development project will bring thousands of jobs—"
Creak.
It was the faintest sound of leather stretching. Sebastian had simply crossed his legs.
Matt listened intently. He couldn't hear Sebastian, but he could hear the reaction to him.
The temperature in the immediate vicinity of the defense table dropped by five degrees. The smell of expensive Earl Grey tea and faint ozone wafted through the air.
Sterling suddenly stopped talking.
Matt's radar sense tracked Sterling's heart rate. It spiked from seventy to one hundred and twenty in three seconds. Thump-thump-thump-thump. Sterling began to sweat profusely. He swallowed hard, his throat clicking. He looked down at his notes, but his hands were shaking so violently the paper rattled.
Sebastian hadn't touched him. He hadn't spoken. He had merely directed his undivided, fuchsia-eyed attention to the back of the lawyer's neck, letting his demonic aura bleed out just enough to trigger a primal, biological terror in the mortal.
"Counselor?" the judge asked, frowning. "Are you unwell?"
"I... I apologize, Your Honor," Sterling stammered, his voice suddenly weak and breathless. He loosened his expensive tie, gasping for air as if the oxygen had been sucked from the room. "The defense... we withdraw our objection to the temporary injunction. We need... a recess."
Sterling practically collapsed into his chair.
Matt stood perfectly still. He had just won the hearing without arguing a single case law. He turned his head slightly toward the gallery.
"An excellent victory, Mr. Murdock," a smooth voice manifested right beside Matt's ear, even though Matt knew Sebastian was sitting thirty feet away. It was a telepathic whisper. "Though their legal strategy was as weak as their nervous systems."
[Clinton Church. 6:00 PM.]
Matt needed sanctuary.
He told Sebastian he needed an hour alone to pray and left the butler waiting outside in the Stark limousine. He walked into Clinton Church, the heavy oak doors shutting out the noise of the city. The air smelled of beeswax candles and old incense.
He walked up the aisle toward the altar, listening for Father Lantom.
He was incredibly on edge. How do you fight a monster that doesn't trigger your radar sense? How do you protect a client from a bodyguard who smells like Hell itself?
Matt stopped at the holy water font near the entrance to cross himself.
He reached out.
And then, the temperature in the vestibule plummeted.
Matt froze. The silence was back.
"A beautiful piece of architecture," Sebastian's voice echoed softly in the cavernous church. "Though the flying buttresses are a bit derivative of the French style. I always preferred the gothic austerity of the English."
Matt spun around, gripping his cane tight. "I told you to wait in the car."
"A butler does not leave his charge unattended, Sir," Sebastian said, stepping closer.
Matt backed up a step, positioning himself near the holy water font. His Catholic upbringing flared up in a mix of faith and desperation.
"This is consecrated ground," Matt warned, his voice low. "Whatever you are... you don't belong here. Leave."
Sebastian paused. He looked at the marble font filled with holy water.
"Human mythology is so terribly dramatic," Sebastian sighed.
To Matt's absolute horror, the demon stepped forward, removed his left white glove, and dipped his bare fingers directly into the holy water.
Matt held his breath, expecting to hear the sizzle of burning flesh. He expected a scream.
Instead, Sebastian simply used the wet fingers to smooth down a stray wisp of black hair on his forehead.
"A bit alkaline," Sebastian critiqued, drying his hand with a handkerchief. "It leaves the hair rather stiff. But I suppose it serves its symbolic purpose."
"How?" Matt whispered, his faith shaking. "You're a demon."
"I am," Sebastian smiled politely. "But I am not bound by the superstitious scribblings of mortal monks, Mr. Murdock. God does not strike me down in his house, because He and I have an understanding: I do not sit in His chair, and He does not interfere with my contracts."
[The Ambush]
Before Matt could process the theological nightmare of that statement, his radar sense screamed.
Swish.
The sound of fabric cutting through the air. Four heartbeats. Above them.
"Get down!" Matt yelled, dropping his cane and catching the baton hidden inside.
Four figures dressed in crimson dropped from the vaulted ceiling of the church. The Hand. Fisk had outsourced his retaliation to the shadow assassins. They landed silently on the stone floor, drawing curved blades.
Matt dropped into a fighting stance. He could track them perfectly by their heartbeats and the subtle shifts of their clothing.
He prepared to swing his baton.
But then, the void moved.
To Matt's radar sense, it was the most terrifying thing he had ever "seen." Sebastian didn't run; he vanished. The displacement of air was the only clue he was moving.
Crack. The first ninja's heartbeat stopped instantly. Not faded. Stopped.
Matt swung his baton at the second ninja, but before the weapon connected, he heard the sickening sound of a neck snapping. The second heartbeat vanished.
"Please," Sebastian's voice came from the shadows near the altar, perfectly calm. "This is a place of worship. Have some respect."
The third and fourth ninjas lunged at the void in the dark.
Matt heard the distinct, metallic shing of silver butter knives leaving a breast pocket.
Two wet thuds.
Two more heartbeats flatlined.
The entire ambush was over in three point two seconds. Matt hadn't even landed a strike.
The church fell dead silent. Matt stood in the aisle, gripping his baton, breathing heavily. He tracked the four bodies on the floor. None of them were breathing.
A moment later, Sebastian materialized beside Matt, holding out the white cane Matt had dropped. There wasn't a single drop of blood on his impeccable suit.
"Assassins who dress in bright red," Sebastian sighed, handing the cane back to the stunned lawyer. "How dreadfully tacky. Now, Mr. Murdock... shall we proceed to confession, or is it time for dinner? I hear the duck l'orange at the Waldorf is exceptional."
[End of Chapter 80]
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