[A turn here, a choice there, and it's Matt Murdock who bleeds out in Elektra's arms, her heartbeat and her plea in his ears: stay with me. Unseeing eyes slide shut, and Matt breathes in her scent, his city, one last time. He breathes out, and then—

(There's a clause in his will that leaves most of what he has to Foggy and Karen and Elektra. The rest goes in boxes, given away to the nuns at St. Agnes'. There's a clause in his will that states his wishes to be buried near his father. There's a letter with his will, in his familiar horrible handwriting, meant for Foggy: thank you, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. The letter is dated just two months ago, the last update to the will maybe a month ago—like Matt had known this would happen, someday.)

And then—

(Someone digs up his body. Someone wraps it in cotton—he'd hate that, if he'd known. Someone slips away from the cemetery, to a prepared safehouse. Someone steps into a restaurant and says to Alexandra we may not have the Black Sky, but we have her companion.)

And then—

The next breath he takes tastes like copper and rot. He throws the stone lid off for air, and falls out onto the floor on unsteady legs, like a newborn kitten. He isn't supposed to be here, he should be—he should be—

Home, says Alexandra, this is your home now, and the man you were before you came to us is immaterial. There's something formal in her voice, a hint of disappointment, like he isn't what she expected. Like he's not the one she wanted, but the one she's had to content herself with instead, the one she's settling for and watching for a hint of failure. But we brought you back for a purpose, and I trust you'll be able to fulfill that purpose.

Some things stay the same: a man of the Chaste dies in Cambodia. Jeri Hogarth says to one of her newest lawyers, I need you to keep an eye on Jessica Jones. An earthquake shakes Hell's Kitchen.

Some things are different: there's a case being hastily built against Midland Circle. Alexandra sends her hound out, to dismantle it, tells him the address of a man named Franklin Nelson, and that perhaps is where her control unravels, just enough that instead of lying in wait, alert and ready to pounce on one of the lawyers involved in the case, he stops in his tracks on the fire escape. Something shifts, in his head, and he eases the window open, steps inside. The scent is familiar: there's cold coffee on the kitchen counter, half-eaten lasagna poorly sealed in a Tupperware container, lingering traces of someone's department store cologne. He can hear music, downstairs, a tinny voice singing a muffled ballad.

He leaves the sword leaning against the couch, drifts into the bedroom. No one there, still, but when he checks the closet his fingers catch on worn fabric, the letters printed on it having faded over time and use. Someone's scent clings to it—an old, familiar one. Home, he thinks.

He returns to the couch, curls up with the hoodie in his hands. He shuts his eyes and drifts to sleep.]