Matt Murdock had strong opinions—extremist ones, if you asked some people. He used his fists for answers, and sometimes, those answers left men on the brink of death. To Matt, he lived in the grey area, a space where morality blurred and justice required blood. He wanted the greater good, but getting there meant bruised knuckles and shattered ribs.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he scared himself.

How easy it was.

How much he enjoyed it.

He knew he scared others, too. He relied on it. Fear was a weapon in itself, and Matt wielded it expertly. Cutting the lights, stealing someone's vision—maybe it was cheating, but it wasn't like he ever brought a gun to a fight. Unlike Arron Carnel. Arron had guns stashed in every corner of his empire—his casino, his home, his girlfriend's car. It never failed to astound Matt how men like him operated so openly, how they built crime rings, led gangs, and used businesses as hollow fronts for something far uglier.

It was easy for Matt to say Arron was the bad guy.

It was just as easy to tell himself that he was the good guy.

He moved through the pitch-black room like a ghost, unshaken while the others floundered. He was used to the dark—he lived in it, breathed in it. But Arron wasn't. Arron relied on his sight. And when that was taken from him, he was just another blind man swinging at shadows.

Matt took full advantage of it. A brutal uppercut to the ribs, a precise strike to the knee—Arron stumbled, cursing through gritted teeth. There was no honor in this fight, but Matt didn't need honor. He needed to win.

Fighting wasn't something Matt thought about—it was something he felt. He tasted the blood in the air, felt the sweat clinging to skin, smelled the sharp tang of adrenaline and fear. He heard it all, too. The uneven heartbeat of the man crumpled on the floor, fading fast. The furious, erratic rhythm of Arron's chest as he fought a losing battle.

And then, beneath it all, the delicate sound of terror hiding under a ruined casino table.

Clara Wesley.

She hated the sounds of fists meeting flesh—the wet, sickening impact, the pained grunts, the awful silence or the agonized screams that followed. It made her stomach twist, made her want to curl in on herself. She had never gotten used to it, not in all the years she had known Arron. She hated how he normalized it, how he dragged her down into his violent world like it was inevitable.

She clutched her designer purse to her mouth, trying to smother the sounds threatening to escape. Her eyes squeezed shut as she prayed—prayed that this would be over soon, that she could go home, that her children would never have to know this life. She loved Arron. But love didn't change the fact that he had walked out of jail less than an hour ago and already thrown her back into this nightmare.

Arron loved guns. Clara hated them.

He had grown up in a world on fire. She had been sheltered from it—until now.

The gun fired.

Bullets tore through the room, reckless and uncontrolled. Glass shattered. Wood splintered. Matt felt the air shift a second too late—a searing pain exploded in his arm as one of the bullets found its mark. He gritted his teeth, breathing through the burn, his grip tightening into a fist.

It only made him fight harder.

His movements grew sharper, more brutal. A blow to the temple, a hard strike to the throat—Arron gasped, staggered. But Matt didn't stop. He drove his knee into Arron's ribs, his fist slamming into his jaw, and with a final, devastating punch, Arron crumpled to the floor with a heavy thud.

The room went silent.

Clara clamped a hand over her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut even tighter as a strangled sound tried to escape her throat. Her entire body trembled, pressed into the cold floor beneath the table as though she could disappear into it.

Matt turned his head toward her, listening to her shallow, panicked breaths, the rapid stuttering of her heart. She was young. Scared. He could hear it in every shaky exhale, every tremor in her body.

But it was the whispered pleas that made him pause.

Muffled prayers, spoken into her trembling hands. Promises to be better. Begging, not for herself, but for her children.

Matt clenched his jaw.

He could drag her out of there. Demand answers. Tell her to leave this life behind before it swallowed her whole.

But instead, he turned away.

She was not his fight.

With a breath, he stepped into the darkness, leaving the ruined casino behind. Letting her believe, if only for tonight, that she had gone unnoticed.

That she had been spared.

Clara's entire body trembled as the tension drained from her limbs, leaving her exhausted, unsteady. Her shoulders slumped, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her heart still hammering from the chaos. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, the sharp bite of gunpowder, the lingering heat of violence.

For a long moment, she didn't move.

Then, her instincts kicked in.

She crawled out from under the table, her hands gripping the edge for support as she hauled herself upright. Her knees wobbled, threatening to give out, but she forced herself forward, her heels clicking against the sticky floor. Arron's body lay sprawled across the ground, chest barely rising and falling, a fresh gash across his cheek, his lip split and already swelling.

Clara swallowed against the nausea clawing at her throat.

Her shaking fingers found his shoulder, pressing in gently at first, then firmer when he didn't stir. "Arron," she whispered, then louder, shaking him harder. "Arron, wake up. Please."

No response.

She tried again, her voice breaking. "Arron!"

Her hands pushed at his shoulders, fingers pressing into his blood-stained jacket, the sticky warmth coating her skin. She didn't care. She just needed him to wake up.

Somewhere in the distance, sirens screamed through the night, their wailing growing louder—or was that just her paranoia? It was hard to tell if they were heading this way or if they belonged to someone else's disaster, but Clara wasn't willing to take the risk.

She could not go to jail. She could not lose her children.

She dug her nails into his shirt, shaking him desperately. "Arron, wake the fuck up!"

A groan. His body twitched. Slowly, his head lolled to the side, eyelids fluttering open.

"Fuck..." he muttered, his voice rough and slurred. His sluggish movements made her stomach twist. He wasn't okay. None of this was okay.

But they had to go. Now.

Clara hooked an arm under his, gritting her teeth as she hauled him up, ignoring his weight pressing into her. He was barely able to hold himself up, but adrenaline carried them both, pushing them out of the casino and toward her car.

As they stumbled into the cool night air, the weight of what she was doing settled on her chest like a stone. Every day, she realized just how deep she was in this life. Too deep.

She was the getaway driver.

The idiot.

Arron reached for the passenger door handle, but Clara caught his wrist before he could open it. He shot her an impatient glare, but she ignored him, yanking the glovebox open with one hand and pulling out the small first-aid kit she always kept there.

"Hold still," she murmured, crouching slightly to get a better look at his face.

Arron let out an irritated breath, but for once, he didn't push her away. Not at first. She dabbed at the cut on his cheek with an alcohol wipe, the strong scent stinging her nose. He flinched when she pressed a bandage over it, but she didn't have time to be gentle. Her hands moved quickly, wrapping a strip of gauze around his knuckles, but before she could finish, he shoved her hands away.

"That's enough," he muttered, climbing into the passenger seat.

Clara exhaled sharply, swallowing back the bitter taste in her mouth.

She didn't argue. There was no point.

Sliding into the driver's seat, she gripped the wheel tightly, her knuckles turning pale against the deep tan of her skin. The tension in her hands spread up her arms, settling in her chest as she forced herself to drive calmly, keeping her speed even, her breathing slow. The last thing they needed was to attract attention.

Minutes passed in thick, suffocating silence.

Once they were far enough from the casino, Clara reached for the radio, twisting the dial. Soft music filled the car, breaking the unbearable quiet.

She hummed absently, her voice soft, barely above a whisper. It was something to focus on, something to drown out the thoughts clawing at the edges of her mind.

Arron didn't speak. He never did after losing a fight. And she knew better than to try and fill the silence with empty words.

Instead, she let the music carry them home.

Home.

It was late—far past Alex and Lola's bedtime. But around this time of night, Lola usually woke up, her tiny feet padding across the floor before she climbed into bed with them.

Clara lived for those moments.

For the warmth of her little girl curled against her chest. For the way Alex would sometimes roll over in his sleep and mumble something incoherent, reaching for her without waking up.

She loved her babies.

How could she not. They were the only good thing she had left.

As Clara pulled into the driveway, the tires crunched softly against the gravel, the weight of the night still pressing heavy on her shoulders. Only one light was on inside the house—the warm glow spilling from the living room window, just enough to guide her way. She exhaled slowly, pressing her forehead against the steering wheel for a fleeting second before straightening up. She had to push everything down. Again.

She stepped out of the car, the air cool against her skin, and shut the door quietly behind her. Arron followed, slower, heavier, the sound of his boots on the pavement somehow both casual and agitated. She didn't look at him as she stepped toward the front door, instead focusing on the nanny who greeted her in a hushed voice, careful not to wake the children.

Clara's lips curved into a tired but genuine smile as she leaned in, pressing light kisses on the nanny's cheeks in gratitude. "Thank you," she murmured, the warmth in her voice automatic, rehearsed. The nanny gave her a knowing look but didn't linger. With a quiet farewell, she slipped out the door, leaving Clara alone with him.

The second the door clicked shut, Arron's hand wrapped around her upper arm, his grip firm but not bruising. Still, it was enough to steal her breath for a second. Before she could react, he pulled her against the wall with a soft thump, his body crowding hers.

His mouth was on hers before she had a chance to think.

His lips were warm, demanding, moving with a hunger that was almost desperate, as if he needed to remind her—to remind himself—that he was still in control. His hand pressed flat against her stomach, keeping her pinned between his body and the wall, the weight of him familiar, inescapable.

Clara's breath hitched, but her lips followed his lead, her body responding on instinct. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping the material as if holding on to something tangible would ground her. She kissed him back because she was supposed to. Because she loved him. Because he loved her.

Didn't he?

Her back hit the mattress before she even registered moving, the silk sheets cool beneath her as Arron hovered over her. One hand on her jaw, tilting her face just the way he liked. The other wrapping around her wrists, pinning them above her head as his lips trailed down her neck.

She laid there.

She let it happen.

Sometimes, being with Arron was an out-of-body experience. It was as if she was watching herself from above, seeing the way she moved, the way she responded. As if she wasn't really in her own skin.

But she tried.

She tried to be present. Tried to react the way she was supposed to. Tried to smile against his lips, to match his hunger, to let herself get lost in the moment.

Even when her mind drifted—thinking about the blood on her hands, the sirens in the distance, the way she had begged a man to wake up not even an hour ago—Arron always found a way to pull her back.

His touch never left her.

His lips, his hands—always on her, always taking.

She let him.

And soon the room was dark, save for the faint glow of the streetlamp outside filtering through the blinds, casting slanted shadows across the ceiling. The air was thick with warmth, the scent of him—cologne, sweat, something faintly metallic—still clinging to the sheets.

Arron was beside her, sprawled across the mattress, his breath deep and steady in sleep. His arm, heavy and possessive, was draped over her waist, anchoring her in place. His body radiated heat, but Clara felt cold.

She lay still, staring at the ceiling, her eyes tracing the faint cracks in the paint, her mind blank and full all at once.

It was over.

She should sleep. She should turn on her side, curl into him like she used to, press a kiss to his skin, and let exhaustion take over. But she couldn't.

Her body felt weighed down, her limbs sluggish and uncooperative, but her mind was alert. Running. Repeating.

The night replayed in flashes. The darkness of the casino. The sound of fists meeting flesh. The whispers she had breathed against her own hand. The promises she had made to a god she wasn't even sure she believed in.

The sirens.

The blood on her hands.

The way she had shaken Arron, begging him to wake up, even though a part of her had wondered—just for a second—what it would have meant if he hadn't.

Clara swallowed hard, her throat tight, her eyes burning.

She turned her head slightly, just enough to look at him. Arron, the father of her children. The man who had bought her a house, a car, a life. The man who held her waist with those same hands that had beaten a man bloody only hours ago. The man she had loved since she was fifteen. The man she still loved.

Didn't she? Clara exhaled slowly, quietly, shifting her gaze back to the ceiling. She didn't move. Didn't sleep. She just laid there, praying that sleep or the daytime would find her soon.

The hours stretched on in silence. The city outside never truly slept—cars rumbled past, distant voices carried through the streets, the occasional siren wailed in the distance—but inside this room, in this bed, everything was still.

Clara's mind didn't match the quiet.

She listened to Arron's breathing, slow and deep, his weight sinking into the mattress, his body heavy beside her. He was always like this after a fight—drained, satisfied in some sick way, like breaking a man's face was just another job well done. And tonight, he had lost. Badly. Yet still, he slept soundly, as if none of it mattered.

Clara's fingers curled into the silk sheets beneath her, gripping them tight.

How many times had she done this? Laid awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to him breathe while the night replayed behind her eyes? How many times had she told herself this is just life? That this was love?

Her chest ached, her stomach twisting.

She thought of Alex and Lola.

Alex, her sweet, quiet boy, who had been born into this life without a choice. Who didn't talk much, but when he did, his little voice was filled with wonder—about the ocean, about animals, about things bigger than this city, bigger than this world.

Lola, her baby girl, her sunshine, who clung to her big brother like he was her whole world. Who giggled at everything, who had just learned how to say his name in her own little way. La-Lex.

Clara's throat tightened.

They were sleeping right now, just down the hall. Safe. Unaware.

For now.

Her breath shuddered as she carefully, carefully, lifted Arron's arm from her waist. She moved slow, deliberate, inch by inch, until she was free. She didn't let herself hesitate—if she thought about it too long, she might lose her nerve.

Slipping from the bed, Clara stood, her bare feet touching the cold hardwood floor. She reached for the silk robe draped over the chair in the corner and pulled it on, tying it tight around her waist.

She glanced back at Arron once.

Still asleep. Still deep in whatever dream men like him had after a night of blood and violence.

Clara turned away.

She padded out of the room, quiet as a whisper, and down the hall. She needed to see them. She needed to remind herself what was real.

Clara didn't stop in the hallway. She hesitated for a second, her eyes flickering toward the door of Alex and Lola's room, but she didn't open it. They were safe. They were sleeping. She didn't want to risk waking them, not when she was already feeling like this—like something was unraveling inside of her.

She turned and made her way downstairs, her steps light against the hardwood. The house was dim, bathed in the soft yellow glow of the streetlights outside. It was eerily quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed in on her chest, made her feel like she was suffocating.

In the kitchen, she went straight to the wine rack. She didn't even think twice, just grabbed the first bottle her fingers touched. A deep red. One of the expensive ones Arron had stocked the house with.

Her nails dug into the cork as she twisted it free. She didn't bother with a glass at first, just lifted the bottle and took a long, slow sip. The bitter burn coated her tongue, warmed her throat, but it didn't ease the tightness inside her.

She exhaled sharply, grabbed a glass anyway, and poured herself a generous amount.

Then, she moved.

She knew exactly where she was going, knew the way by heart. She unlocked the side window in the living room, pushed it open, and climbed through. The cold air hit her instantly, raising goosebumps on her arms, but she didn't care.

With practiced ease, she hoisted herself up onto the lower ledge, then higher, her body moving on muscle memory. And then she was there—on the roof, perched above the world, sitting with her legs stretched out in front of her, the wine glass cradled between her fingers.

Hell's Kitchen sprawled beneath her, bathed in neon lights and distant car horns. It was late, but the city never slept. Not really.

Clara tilted her head back, staring up at the sky.

The stars were faint, barely visible past the light pollution. She used to look at the stars all the time when she was younger, before she knew what it meant to be stuck. Before Arron. Before Alex. Before Lola.

She took another sip of wine.

She wasn't unhappy.

She wasn't.

She loved her kids more than anything. She loved them so much it hurt.

But she was tired.

And for the first time in a long time, she was scared.

She had been close tonight. Too close. If that masked man hadn't shown up, if Arron's men had dragged her just a little further away, if she hadn't fought back hard enough...

She swallowed, staring down at the wine in her glass. It wasn't every night she craved a glass, just the hard days. But it seemed that the hard days were coming quicker and quicker.

Millie speaks! I was gonna wait for five votes but I love Clara and think the world needs more of her. Someone needs to teach me how to actually make good covers because it's defo not my strong suit