Have you ever felt like that?
You are clearly still alive, yet you feel like a walking corpse.
You have hands and feet, yet your whole body feels weak and numb, unable to muster any strength.
You want to scream, to roar, to curse at the top of your lungs, to vent everything festering inside you.
But you cannot.
It is not that you are incapable. It is that the damned moral code buried in your heart keeps telling you that you should not.
So you swallow it all in silence. You tell yourself to wait a little longer, to endure a little more. Maybe things will get better.
But reality makes it clear. This wretched world will not improve. It will only sink further, rotting bit by bit until it drags everyone down with it.
And so, the resentment builds. The bitterness festers. The pressure mounts, little by little, until one day.. Bang. It explodes.
Yet that same day, you finally find an outlet.
By day, you are a kind and righteous blind lawyer. By night, you become Daredevil, breaking the legs of criminals one after another.
You walk the line between light and darkness, but in truth, there is no difference between the two for you.
Because the moment you lost your sight, your world fell into eternal darkness.
Faced with Peter's repeated questioning, Matt remained silent for a long time. Then he braced himself against the wall and slowly stood up.
He tapped the ground lightly with his injured leg, moved toward the window, and asked, "Do you know when I went on my first mission?"
Peter shook his head, then suddenly realized Matt could not see, and lowered his voice.
"I don't know."
"Twelve years old," Matt said. "I had just gone blind. I heard domestic violence in the apartment next door. A man beating a woman, the woman crying, a child hiding in a closet, trembling."
"I called the police, but they didn't arrive for half an hour. By the time they got there, the woman had already passed out, and the child had cried themselves hoarse."
"During those thirty minutes, I sat in my room and listened to everything. I couldn't do a thing. What can a twelve-year-old kid who just lost his sight do? But from that day on, I swore that if I ever heard something like that again, I wouldn't just sit there and wait."
"So now, when I can do something, I do it. Not because I want to be a hero. Not because I think I have a responsibility. And definitely not for some noble reason."
"Just because… I'm tired of sitting there, listening to bad things happen while I can do nothing."
Peter opened his mouth, but no words came out. He did not know what to say, or what he even could say.
"You don't have to understand, Peter," Matt said. "And you certainly don't have to follow my example. You have your own path, your own choices. But if you're asking me why…"
Matt pointed at his eyes, then at his bloodied, mangled leg.
"This is the answer."
Peter looked at him.
Standing in the morning light, the blind lawyer seemed impossibly tall.
"I…" Peter swallowed hard. "I still don't understand, but… I respect your choice."
Matt nodded. "That's enough."
He began to make his way toward the stairs, each step slow and unsteady. Peter instinctively moved to help, but Matt raised a hand to stop him.
"Let me walk on my own," he said. "Some paths have to be walked alone, Peter. For you or for me, it's the same."
He went down the stairs step by step. Each one drew a sharp breath of pain from him, yet he never stopped.
Peter stood at the attic doorway, watching until Matt disappeared around the corner.
Then he turned and looked out the window.
Hell's Kitchen was waking with the dawn.
At the street corner, a homeless man crawled out of a cardboard box. Across the road, a food truck released its first thin curl of smoke. Office workers hurried along puddle-streaked streets.
Ordinary. Chaotic. But oh so.. Alive.
Peter raised his hand and looked at his palm. It was still stained with Matt's blood.
He slowly clenched his fist.
A few hours later, Lance saw Peter at the law firm.
"I'd like to ask you for a favor, Mr. Prescott," Peter said.
"No problem. Just so you know in advance, my consultation fees are very expensive."
After a night soaked in blood and violence, followed by that heavy conversation in the morning, Peter felt an unexpected sense of relief when he heard Lance's blunt, mercenary reply.
He even laughed.
"I have money." Peter pulled a roll of bills from his pocket.
Lance guessed it came from underground boxing. The bills were crumpled, some even stained with sweat and blood.
"Is this enough?" Peter asked, a little nervous.
In truth, it was nowhere near enough. Still, Lance casually stuffed the cash into his pocket.
"Enough for one question."
Peter took a deep breath.
"If… if someone wants to help people, but doesn't want to completely become someone else, and doesn't want to sacrifice everything… what should they do?"
His words came out haltingly, but Lance understood him without difficulty.
Lance studied the young Spider in front of him for a long moment. Peter shifted uneasily under that sharp, measuring gaze.
It was a strange feeling, as if he were shaping a future superhero.
After a long pause, Lance smiled.
"Then just be yourself."
"There are countless ways to help people. Just as Daredevil chooses to bleed in the dark, you can choose to smile in the light. One is no more noble than the other. It only comes down to what suits you."
Peter fell silent for a moment. He did not say whether he fully understood. He simply nodded.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome." Lance waved a hand. "Now I have my own cases to deal with. If you don't mind, you can help me organize these files."
"No problem!"
With his answer in hand, Peter pushed everything else aside. He responded brightly and followed Lance into the office.
By the office window, the small pane in Matt's office shifted slightly, then went still again.
For the rest of the morning, Peter stayed at Lance's firm to help out.
It was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Already talkative, Peter became even more so.
Lance held his head, barely able to endure the noise.
"Peter."
"Yes, sir!"
Lance met Peter's bright, earnest eyes, then helplessly covered his forehead again. The sharp words he had been about to say were swallowed back down, replaced with a strained smile.
"I think I heard something on the first floor. Why don't you go down and check?"
"Okay, sir!"
After watching Peter leave, Lance finally let out a long breath.
He had just guided a Spider-Man who had not even made his hero debut yet and done a good deed. So why was he the one suffering for it?
How does that make any sense?
Just then, Peter's hesitant voice came from outside the door.
"Sir, there's a Ms. Rogers here. She says she has an appointment with you?"
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