The door slams open with a force that echoes through the bare walls of the hotel suite.

Dex storms in, eyes locked forward, jaw tight.

His boots strike the floor with precision, straight across the dull carpet to where Wilson Fisk sits-- serene and massive in his silence, like a boulder waiting for a storm to break itself against.

"What's your game?" Dex demands, his voice slicing through the quiet.

Fisk doesn't flinch. Doesn't look up right away. He sits at his small table, folding a newspaper with careful reverence, as if each crease deserves its own moment of reflection.

He finishes the fold.

Only then does he glance up.

"Game?" He echoes, voice low, even. Infuriatingly calm.

Dex plants both fists on the table. The impact thuds softly, but it carries weight. His knuckles pale against the surface. He leans forward.

"I don't need any favors from you, convict."

Fisk doesn't recoil at the insult. He lets it linger, like perfume.

"Favors, no," He says, and his voice curves, soft with intention, "But sympathy..."

He gestures loosely toward the paper he's just folded, as if it speaks for him.

"Papers. Protests. The mockery. I can carry this burden of humiliation, but you? You're a dedicated federal agent."

Dex's jaw tenses.

"You don't know anything about me," He growls.

Fisk lifts his eyes, deliberate and slow, "Neither does the Bulletin."

He lets the name hang, like an indictment in the air.

"The press is labeling the attack on my life as an FBI disaster," Fisk continues, voice deepening slightly, "And now they're investigating you for doing your job."

He leans forward, just enough to tilt the balance between them.

"They're questioning you for your exceptionalism."

Dex straightens subtly-- too subtle to be seen unless you're watching for it.

And Fisk is.

"You saved my life," Fisk says, "And the lives of honorable federal agents. Did they report that? No. Instead, they vilify... and demean your act of courage."

The words hit Dex square in the chest.

He doesn't move.

But inside, something shifts.

Fisk watches him.

Watches the tension.

Then he stands.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Dex's hand moves to his sidearm.

A reflex.

Fisk sees it.

He doesn't stop.

Doesn't rush.

He just straightens to his full height and speaks in that measured voice, that snake-charmer rhythm that uncoils beneath the skin.

"The world is changing," He says, "The real heroes are ridiculed and dismissed."

He pauses.

Then, with the faintest tilt of his head--

"And for that, I offer my sympathy."

The room is quiet.

Thick.

But Fisk isn't done.

He steps closer to the line-- not physically, but tactically.

"Tell me, Agent Poindexter..."

Dex doesn't answer. His hand remains on the grip of his weapon, but his breathing is steady.

"...if this is how they treat you-- one of their best-- how do you think they'll treat her?"

Dex blinks.

Once.

Fisk doesn't need to name her.

He doesn't dare name her.

Because saying her name would be too obvious, too pointed.

And Fisk is not a blunt instrument.

"She's newer to the team. Less protected," Fisk continues, with a small shrug, "And yet, I've read her reports. Watched her work. Exceptional as well. Brilliant, even."

He steps back slightly. The threat dissolves back into silk.

"But the Bureau?" His voice drops to something quieter. Sadder, "They don't stand by their exceptional agents, do they?"

Dex's eyes narrow.

Something cold settles behind them.

"They won't protect you," Fisk says, "They didn't protect me."

He folds his hands in front of him.

"They certainly won't protect her."

He doesn't say more.

He doesn't need to.

Because the seed is already planted.

And Dex?

Dex is soil.

Rich with longing. Starved for loyalty. Fertile with doubt.

The silence stretches.

Dex doesn't speak again.

He turns sharply, boots striking the floor like gunshots.

He walks out.

Dex storms out of Fisk's room like the door offended him on the way in.

His jaw is tight, his pulse a drumline in his throat, the words still echoing in his skull.

They won't protect her.

The world outside the suite is too quiet. The hallway too narrow. The light too white. The command center greets him with its usual sterile buzz, the monitors still dark.

He crosses the room without a word.

Switches the cameras back on.

One by one, they blink back to life-- cold and unblinking, each one a silent eye watching a cage dressed up like a penthouse. Fisk sits exactly as he was, folding his massive hands together as though prayer were just another kind of power.

Suki looks up from her desk.

She watches Dex, watches the way his shoulders knot beneath his jacket, the way his steps are sharp and shallow like he's walking across broken glass. She watches the way he doesn't meet anyone's eyes.

Something is wrong.

Before she can speak, he's already moving again.

He reaches behind her chair, plucks her coat off the back with one hand, and with the other, he places it gently over her shoulders.

She startles.

Not at the gesture.

At the care.

The intimacy.

Before she can ask, he grabs her hand, not roughly, not forcefully, but decisively.

Fingers wrapping around hers like a closed promise.

And he walks.

Pulls her with him, toward the elevator, saying nothing.

She doesn't fight him.

But she doesn't follow either.

She walks beside him, breath caught in her throat, her free hand curled at her side.

They reach the elevator.

He hits the button with more force than necessary.

The lights flicker once overhead.

Suki stares at him.

His eyes are fixed forward, but he's not here.

His whole body hums with something frantic just beneath the skin.

"Dex," She says softly, "What happened?"

He doesn't answer.

Not with words.

But the breath he exhales is shaky.

A muscle jumps in his jaw.

The elevator opens.

He walks in, still holding her hand.

She follows.

Because she's not afraid.

And that terrifies her.

The doors close behind them.

Inside, the silence thickens.

The fluorescent light above casts a pale glow on his skin. His cheeks are flushed, eyes too bright, too dark, like a storm threatening to hit the coast.

Suki watches him.

Not professionally.

Not with distance.

Just... watches.

And when she says, "Are you okay?"

It almost breaks him.

His mouth opens.

Closes.

No one asks him that. Not really. Not like this.

People check the boxes. Ask the question to complete the form.

But Suki means it.

And worse-- she knows something's wrong.

Suki, who's made herself invisible to the world, has somehow seen straight through him.

Dex breathes out. Not an answer. Not a lie.

Just the soft sound of someone trying not to drown.

He doesn't let go of her hand.

Not even when they step out of the elevator and into the cool, wet breath of the New York night. The street smells like rain and concrete and oil, the city humming softly beneath their feet.

"I just want to make sure you're safe," He says at last.

It's all he can give her.

It's not enough.

It's too much.

Suki swallows, and she doesn't know why that sentence makes her heart flutter. Maybe it's the way he says it-- not with fear, but with fervor. Like her safety is a mission. Like it's something he's already failed at in his mind and now needs to repair.

She tells herself not to like it. But she does. God help her, she does.

They walk without speaking. Their hands still joined. She doesn't pull away. Every few steps, she looks at him. His mouth is tight. His eyes dart to every shadow. And still, still, his thumb brushes hers, once, absentmindedly.

They reach her apartment.

The same cracked sidewalk. The same dim porch light. The same rusted stairwell.

But nothing feels the same now.

She stops at the bottom step, turns to him.

"You're not telling me what he said."

Dex shakes his head, "No."

"Why?"

"Because it doesn't matter."

"You're upset."

His silence is answer enough.

She stares at him, coat now damp with mist, hair curling slightly at her temples. Her breath fogs in the cold. His does too.

"I can handle myself," She says quietly.

"I know."

"Then what are you so afraid of?"

He looks at her then.

Really looks.

And for a second, it's unbearable.

Not the intensity.

The clarity.

Like every ugly, twisted, jagged piece of him is laid bare, and she doesn't even flinch.

She sees him.

She recognizes him.

And he--

He would burn cities to keep her from looking away.

There's a moment.

A heartbeat.

A breath.

She's so close now.

Their hands are still clasped.

His free hand drifts upward, hovering just beside her cheek, not quite touching.

Their mouths are inches apart.

Inches.

The world holds its breath.

And--

They don't kiss.

They almost do.

But almost is enough to set the fire between them ablaze.

Suki looks away first, breaking the spell.

Dex lets go of her hand.

And for a moment, she misses the weight of it.

She steps back onto the stairs.

Dex watches her climb.

Watches her pause at the top.

"Goodnight, Dex."

Her voice is soft. Real.

"Goodnight, Suki."

His voice is rough.

She disappears inside.

And he doesn't leave.

He stands on the sidewalk, the rain starting to fall in delicate sheets.

Watching her window.

Watching the only light in the world that makes him feel seen.

Dex's morning begins like every other.

That's what keeps the world from falling apart.

He wakes without needing an alarm, sits at the edge of his perfectly made bed for exactly sixty seconds, then stands. Stretches. Breathes in once. Breathes out twice. Feels the shape of the silence before he moves through it.

He showers for seven minutes. Never six. Never eight.

He gets dressed in order: undershirt, button-down, socks, belt, pants, shoes. Suit jacket on the chair. Not yet.

In the kitchen, he pours coffee into the white mug. His mug. The one that fits his fingers like a weapon, heavy with the comfort of control. He sits at his dining room table, the exact center chair, back perfectly straight, and reads the paper, left to right, skipping nothing. Crime section first. Then politics. Then letters to the editor. Always in that order.

He drinks in three sections.

Never two. Never four.

When the coffee is gone, he rinses the mug, scrubs it gently by hand with a soft yellow sponge. He places it upside down on the drying rack, beside the other white mug, her mug.

It's identical, but he knows the difference.

He hasn't offered it to her yet.

But someday, he will.

Today?

He just lines them up, rim to rim, two white circles of calm in a world that won't stop spinning.

He puts on his suit jacket.

And walks out the door.

He doesn't head toward the hotel.

Not yet.

He turns east.

Toward her.

The morning is cool and damp, the streets still slick with last night's rain. New York breathes fog and low noise. He walks past commuters and shuttered bodegas, moving like a man on a mission. His mind replays the night before on loop, the almost, the hush, the heat of her hand in his.

He didn't sleep.

Not because he couldn't.

Because he didn't want to.

He didn't want to miss the sound of her.

He reaches her apartment.

And knocks.

Once.

Twice.

A pause.

Then the sound of footsteps, light, fast, barefoot.

She checks the peephole.

He sees the shadow of her eye.

Then the door creaks open, only a sliver at first.

And there she is.

Suki Higashikokubaru.

Dripping wet.

A towel wrapped around her body, clinging low across her chest. Water clings to her collarbone, her shoulders, the backs of her knees. Her hair is damp, dark, sticking to her skin in lazy waves. She blinks at him, disoriented, caught off-guard, her breath just a little too fast.

And Dex?

Dex reads her like scripture.

The flushed skin.

The dilated pupils.

The faint tremble in her fingers.

She wasn't just showering.

She was touching herself again.

His pulse spikes.

But he doesn't say a word.

He just smiles, small, polite, composed.

Barely.

"I'm here to walk you to work," He says.

Suki blinks again.

For the first time in as long as she can remember, she's flustered.

"...Right," She says, gripping the edge of the door tighter, "I... wasn't expecting anyone."

"I know."

He doesn't offer more than that.

She opens the door a little wider, still angled behind it, "Give me a second."

Then, against all her better judgment--

She lets him in.

Dex steps inside.

Quiet. Controlled.

His eyes scan the apartment automatically, still mostly unpacked. Books in neat piles. One framed photo on the bookshelf: her mother.

He doesn't sit.

He just watches.

She disappears behind the bedroom door, still dripping.

He hears the water turn on again, just briefly. A rinse. A reset.

He stares at the towel she left hanging near the door. Still warm.

Minutes later, she steps back out.

Fully dressed now. Dark slacks, black blouse, gold studs in her ears. Her damp hair now blow-dried smooth, parted perfectly. She looks calm again. Composed. But he can still see the edges of her disarray, tucked behind her eyelids.

And God, it kills him.

The things his mind conjures.

The image of her in the shower, lips parted, fingers pressed between her thighs, breath hitching quietly. He doesn't need to guess, he knows what she likes now. Knows the rhythm. The hesitation. The quiet, restrained way she unwinds.

It takes everything in him not to think about it right now.

He clears his throat, loudly.

Suki raises an eyebrow, "You good?"

Dex nods too fast, "Yeah."

Smooth.

She grabs her bag from the hook.

He opens the door for her, like a gentleman. But the way his eyes rake down her back as she walks past him? Far from gentlemanly.

They step into the hallway. Neither of them speaks at first. But their silence is full of static. As they descend the stairs, he stays half a step behind. Watching her. Always watching. Suki glances back once. Catches him. Their eyes meet. She doesn't say anything.

But he swears, just for a second--

The city wakes around them in its usual chaos-- horns blaring at nothing, steam hissing from vents, dogs barking through open apartment windows. Commuters march in single file, coffee clutched in gloved hands, eyes dead with routine. But Dex and Suki?

They walk slower.

They don't speak for the first five blocks.

It's not silence.

It's proximity.

Dex's steps are always exactly matched to hers. Half a beat behind, just enough to study her posture, the subtle grace in her shoulders, the way she glances upward at every traffic camera as if she wants to glare it into submission.

She doesn't ask where they're going.

She knows.

Back to the hotel.

Back to Fisk.

Back to the waiting lawyers-- who won't just want something, but everything. A chess move disguised as a signature. A manipulation dressed in Armani and rehearsed sincerity.

They both know it.

But neither of them brings it up.

They just walk.

Dex stays on her left. He always does. He likes the way her hair falls over that shoulder, the clean line of her cheekbone, the occasional flick of her eyes when she's thinking too hard.

And she is thinking.

He can tell by the way her fingers twitch in her coat pocket.

"Can I ask you something?" She says finally.

Dex doesn't look at her, "You already know everything."

"Do I?"

"You've read about me."

"That's not the same as knowing someone."

He glances sideways.

She doesn't meet his gaze.

Just keeps walking.

"I mean,"She says, "you've read about me, too. More than once, I'd guess."

He doesn't deny it.

"You probably know what leg I favor. Where I get my matcha from. What language I dream in."

He finally speaks. Quiet, "Japanese."

"Half the time," She confirms.

They reach a red light.

She stops.

So does he.

The street pulses with morning fog, headlights slashing through it in jagged beams. Somewhere a child cries. Somewhere a man curses at his windshield.

But here, in this moment--

There's just the two of them.

Suki turns to face him now, her brows lifted just slightly, "But I don't know anything about you. Not really."

Dex doesn't move.

Doesn't blink.

She doesn't know what she's asking.

Or maybe she does.

Maybe that's what scares him.

"Is that on purpose?" She asks softly.

Dex stares straight ahead.

His voice is flat, "I don't like talking about myself."

"I've noticed."

The light changes.

They start walking again.

"I don't need to talk," He mutters.

"I know," Suki says, "You like to listen."

He hears the weight in that.

She's not criticizing.

She's observing.

"You're good at reading people," She adds.

"I have to be."

"Why?"

He doesn't answer that.

Not directly.

Because Julie had asked him that once too.

Why do you always look at people like you already know how they'll die?

And look where that ended.

So instead, he says, "I like knowing how people work. What makes them tick."

Suki nods, like she understands. And maybe she does. Maybe that's why this walk is quieter than it should be, and somehow louder than he can stand.

They pass a bakery just opening up. The scent of sugar and yeast drifts into the street. A dog tied to the bike rack barks once, then curls back into a ball of fur and patience.

Suki tucks her hands into her pockets and tilts her head.

"You know a lot about me," She says.

Dex doesn't respond.

"I think you like it," She adds.

Still no response.

"I think it calms you down," she says, "to watch me."

He stops walking.

She does too.

They're standing in the crook of a quiet street now, the sun just beginning to push its way through the clouds. She turns to face him, soft but unrelenting.

And for a long breath, neither of them moves.

Then Dex nods, once.

Tight. Honest.

"I like knowing you're okay."

Her chest tightens at that. Not because it's romantic. Not because it's sweet.

Because it's real.

And she's not used to that.

She's used to being observed, measured, managed. But never understood.

Until now.

Dex looks at her like she's not a report or a mission or a partner.

He looks at her like she's the only thing keeping the ground under his feet.

She should run. Any sane person would. The moment he knew her coffee order, she should've ran. The moment he knew which hospital room she was in, she should've ran. By God, Suki should run away from Dex.

But she doesn't.

For better or for worse, Suki doesn't run from him. She runs to him. Against all odds, someone actually chooses Dex. His co-worker. The latest woman he's been stalking. The woman he watched masturbate through the window. The woman whose high school ex-boyfriend's address lives rent free in his mind. The woman who's far from innocent, but is oblivious to how deep the well actually is.

She peered into the well that is Dex. She saw the surface. She dipped her toe into the water. The well doesn't seem that deep, but the water goes down, and down, and down, down into the depths where no light reaches... where there's nothing.

The moment is quiet.

Too quiet.

And when he takes a step closer, her breath catches.

Not fear.

Not confusion.

Something heavier.

Something warmer.

Their faces are inches apart.

She smells the faint trace of his aftershave, something sharp and clean. He looks down at her mouth. And for one heartbeat--

They lean. Not all the way. But almost. Then Suki blinks and steps back. Just enough. Dex doesn't follow. He just watches her. Because even now, after everything, he still wants her to come to him. They start walking again. But something's changed. The silence is heavier now. More intimate.

And as they near the hotel—its glass walls reflecting the morning light like a shield-- they both know:

Whatever this is?

It's no longer avoidable.

The elevator ride is silent.

Not the usual, comfortable kind, the heavy kind, the kind laced with everything they haven't said since that almost-moment on the street. Dex stands to Suki's left, his shoulder inches from hers, arms folded too tightly. Suki keeps her eyes forward, expression still, but her jaw ticks. She feels like she's walking into a lion's den with a match pressed against her spine.

They've done this before.

Too many times.

Scan the corridor. Swipe the keycard. Walk the perimeter. Stand watch over the convict in the penthouse. Same glass. Same chairs. Same man with the same placid face.

But today is different.

Because today?

Fisk has lawyers.

The door opens into the suite, and Suki's breath stutters once in her throat before she swallows it. The air inside is thick with something more than luxury. Something unspoken. Tension, maybe. Or expectation.

At the dining room table, Wilson Fisk sits like a glacier, immovable, silent, dangerous only if you underestimate what's beneath the surface. His suit is perfectly pressed. His eyes are already fixed on Dex.

Suki notices it immediately.

Her stomach drops like a stone in water.

No.

Not here. Not now. Not in front of all these eyes. He can't do this again.

But he can.

And he does.

He's already peeled her open-- barely, but enough. He's already revealed he knows too much. How in the ever living fuck could he know what was going through her head during her first kill?

She asks herself how he knows in order to avoid dealing with the fact that he's right... she did like it.

Donovan, Fisk's lawyer, is already seated beside his client, documents neatly stacked before him like chess pieces. Across the table sits Ray Nadeem, shoulders taut, brow already furrowed. Suki and Dex each take their places behind him, five paces back, flanking him like a mirrored defense.

"It's time for the government to honor our deal," Donovan says, voice smooth as marble, "Thanks to my client, the Albanian Syndicate has been completely wiped out. Their counterfeiting ring, their Dark Web child pornography. And the Jalisco connection Mr. Fisk divulged last week gave the DEA an early and very white Christmas."

Suki watches the words fall from Donovan's mouth with the sheen of credibility, but it's Fisk's silence that wraps around the room like a net. He doesn't blink. Doesn't move. Just watches.

Watches Dex.

"And in exchange for his ongoing cooperation," Nadeem replies, clipped and careful, "the DOJ will not be filing charges against Vanessa Marianna."

Suki's eyes narrow at the name. She watches Fisk closely now, but he still doesn't turn toward Nadeem.

He's still watching Dex.

Why is he still watching Dex?

"Mr. Fisk is also entitled to the return of certain personal belongings," Donovan says, "Supervised movement within the hotel."

"He'll get everything he was offered," Nadeem says, "In time."

"That time is now, Special Agent Nadeem," Donovan presses, voice steel under velvet, "Unless you'd like my client to stop talking."

Suki feels Dex stiffen beside her.

His breath slows.

Fisk finally speaks.

And when he does, it's with calculated grace.

"FBI has sacrificed a great deal for me," He says, deep voice curling through the room like oil smoke, "And I will continue to cooperate and trust you'll honor your word."

His eyes flick to Nadeem briefly.

Then they return.

To Dex.

Every word after that is measured-- innocent to everyone else in the room.

But not to her.

Not to Dex.

"There's a criminal I've employed," Fisk says, his voice never rising, never shaking, "A facilitator. On my behalf, he's laundered and hid money, bribed law enforcement and court officials, orchestrated perjured testimony, manufactured evidence."

Suki can feel her pulse in her wrists. Her neck. Her spine.

She doesn't shift. Doesn't blink.

But her nerves are white-hot.

Because she knows--

She knows what's coming.

Nadeem swallows, "Who is he?"

Fisk leans forward slightly.

"A lawyer. Matthew Murdock."

The room stills.

It's a bomb whispered, not detonated.

Nadeem writes the name down.

Donovan sits back with perfect poise, as if nothing monumental was just uttered.

And still, still, Fisk doesn't look at Suki.

Doesn't look at Nadeem.

Just Dex.

And the worst part?

Dex doesn't look away.

Suki watches it all with her stomach coiling tighter, the back of her neck prickling.

He's doing it again.

Getting to Dex.

Getting to her.

The words he's spoken mean nothing to anyone else, but to the two of them, they're wrapped in implication. His gaze carries messages more potent than any dossier.

They won't protect her.

But I will.

Fisk is playing a long game, and he's doing it with surgical precision.

And Dex, God help him, he hears it.

Suki's heart is a drum against her ribs.

Not fear.

Rage.

Not just at Fisk, but at herself, for letting this happen.

For feeling anything. For letting herself have a weakness so obvious that it's now been marked by a predator.

The meeting begins to dissolve. Paper rustles. Nadeem nods. Donovan speaks again, this time about the terms of movement, of supervised relocation within the suite.

But Suki doesn't hear it.

She's watching Dex.

And Dex is still watching him.

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