Hells Messenger

Fiona stood in her apartment, watching the news play on the small TV in the corner.

Detective Blake was awake.

She didn’t even think before grabbing her bag and heading out the door.

It was a long shot that she’d be allowed to talk to him, but she figured she should try.

By the time she arrived at the hospital, the halls were buzzing with activity—nurses moving between stations, doctors checking charts, the steady hum of machines filling the air. Fiona walked through the hall, her heels clicking softly against the floor, scanning room numbers until she spotted the one she was looking for.

A uniformed officer stood in front of the door.

Brett Mahoney.

Foggy’s old contact. The same guy he had been bribing with cigars to make sure Nelson & Murdock got first dibs on cases.

Fiona grinned. “Brett!”

Mahoney looked up, his face breaking into a surprised smile. “Fiona. Long time no see.”

“I know,” she said, pulling him into a hug. “How’s your mom?”

“She’s doing alright. Still smells like cigars, though—thanks to your brother.”

Fiona laughed. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

Mahoney gave her a look, already knowing why she was here. “Alright, what do you want?”

She flashed him an innocent smile. “Well, I was hoping you could do me a favor.”

Mahoney sighed, shaking his head. “No can do.”

“Come on, please!” Fiona pleaded. “I just want to talk to him for like, two minutes max.”

“That’s out of the question, Fi,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Brett, please!” Fiona leaned in, lowering her voice like she was making him an offer he couldn’t refuse. “I’ll even convince Foggy to start bringing fruit instead of cigars. Chocolate-covered strawberries maybe? Or those little tarts with the raspberry filling—everyone loves those.”

Mahoney snorted. “Look, you know I’d love to help you. But if I let you in there, I lose—”

A loud, piercing beeping suddenly echoed from inside the hospital room.

Mahoney snapped his head toward the door.

“Hoffman!” he shouted, banging his fist against the wood. “Hoffman! Open the door!”

Nothing.

The EKG machine inside kept wailing.

More officers rushed over, surrounding the door as Mahoney tried the knob—it wouldn’t budge.

“Hoffman, what the hell is going on in there?!”

The officers threw their weight against the door, kicking and shoving until, finally, it burst open. Fiona leaned forward, peeking inside. Hoffman was on the ground, unconscious. Detective Blake lay lifeless in his hospital bed. The window was wide open.

• • • • • • •

It was late by the time Fiona got back to her apartment. She kicked off her heels, sighing as she leaned back against the door. Her body ached from the long day, and her mind wasn’t far behind. She hadn’t spoken to Matt since their argument, and for a moment, she thought about calling him. But then she wondered—why hadn’t he called her first?

Before she could dwell on it too much, a voice cut through the silence.

“We need to talk.”

Fiona screamed, clutching her chest as her eyes snapped up to see the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen standing in her apartment.

“Jesus Christ!” she gasped, pressing herself against the door. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“I need your help.”

Fiona let out a short, breathless laugh. “Is that supposed to be a joke? You know my brother basically thinks you’re a terrorist, right? Breaking into my apartment isn’t exactly helping your case.”

“You know I didn’t bomb the Russians.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know if you actually shot those cops,” she said, folding her arms.

“I didn’t.”

Fiona studied him carefully. “Okay,” she said. “Do you know who did?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I know who you’re looking for. The man at the top. The one who’s tearing this city apart, piece by piece.”

Fiona’s pulse ticked up. This was it. The name.

“Who is he?” she asked.

“Wilson Fisk.”

Fiona frowned. The name didn’t ring a bell.

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“Because he doesn’t want you to,” he said. “That’s what makes him dangerous. He lives in the shadows. No one knows who he is.”

Fiona arched a brow. “You do see the irony in that, right?”

The man barely hesitated. “I’m trying to protect this city.”

Fiona scoffed. “This city hates you right now.”

“You can change that.”

She blinked. “Why me?”

“I’ve read your blog, Fiona,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You’re the only one who could pull something like this off.”

Fiona crossed her arms. “You know my name. Do I get to know yours?”

“It’s too dangerous.”

“Right.” She tilted her head. “And if I decide this story is too dangerous and say no?”

“Then I’ll have to find some other way to stop him.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’d kill him?”

“No.” His voice was sharp, immediate. “I’m not a killer. I keep telling people that.”

Fiona sighed, dragging a hand through her hair. This was insane.

“Fine,” she muttered. “What else do you know?”

“Bits and pieces. Russians, Triads, Yakuza… they’re all funneling money through a man named Leland Owlsley.”

Fiona’s eyes flashed with recognition. “I’ve heard that name. He’s like Wall Street royalty. How do you even know this?”

“How do you think?”

She didn’t push.

Instead, she crossed the room, leaning against her desk. “Detective Blake—”

“I was at the hospital when he died,” the masked man said. “Hoffman killed him. They both worked for Fisk. But before Blake went… he gave Fisk up.”

Fiona swallowed hard.

“That’s helpful,” she admitted. “But I can’t use it without quoting you, and if I do that, then the police will start thinking I actually know you.”

“But everything else,” he pressed, “you can publish.”

“Yeah, I can,” she said. “But without hard evidence, it won’t be enough to get him arrested.”

“We don’t need to put him away,” he said. “Just drag him into the light. Give him nowhere to hide. Once the city knows who he is… they’ll tear him apart.”

Fiona studied him carefully, considering everything he’d said.

“And you’re absolutely positive this is the right guy?” she asked. “Because if I end up dragging some totally innocent man through the mud—”

“I’d bet my life on it.”

Fiona hesitated only for a moment before pushing off the desk, grabbing a pen and a pad of paper.

“Alright,” she said, flipping to a blank page. “Tell me everything.”

• • • • • • •

The next morning, Fiona sat at her desk, staring at her laptop screen.

She had been up all night, writing. Perfecting.

And now, the article sat before her—polished, powerful, the best thing she’d ever written. Every word was measured, every sentence crafted to deliver the truth in the sharpest way possible.

But she hesitated.

Her fingers hovered over the publish button. She knew once she pressed it, everything would change.

Before she could make the decision, her phone rang.

She glanced at the screen—Karen.

“Hey,” Fiona said, shaking herself out of her thoughts.

“Are you watching the news?” Karen’s voice was urgent.

Fiona frowned. “No, why?” She was already reaching for the remote.

“Just turn it on.”

Her TV blinked to life, the screen coming into focus—and her stomach dropped.

A man in a gray suit stood at a podium, speaking with solemn authority. Behind him stood a woman, Leland Owlsley, and the creepy suit from Confederated Global.

At the bottom of the screen, the headline burned into her vision:

WILSON FISK PLEDGES AID TO HELL’S KITCHEN

Fiona’s breath caught as Fisk’s voice filled the room.

“I felt the need to speak up for this city that I love with all my heart. No one should have to live in fear. In fear of madmen who have no regard for who they injure. In fear of the so-called Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, who has inflicted untold pain and suffering.

This masked terrorist and psychopaths of his kind—we must show them we will not bow down to their campaign of coercion and intimidation. We must stand up to them.

As this man—my dearest friend Leland Owlsley, a pillar in the financial community—stood up when he was recently assaulted. But this assault was for no other reason than to send me a message.

A message warning me to stop.

To give up the dream I have for this city.

A dream of a better place. A place where its citizens feel safe. Feel pride.

I tried to do this quietly, not wanting to draw attention. The last thing I wanted was for anyone close to me to become a target of those who do not share my dream. For those who would have this city stay exactly as it is—mired in poverty and crime.

But I know now it was foolish to make that decision. That I can no longer do it alone. That I cannot keep living in the shadows, afraid of the light.

None of us can. None of us should be forced to. We must do this together. We must resist those who would have us live in fear.

My name is Wilson Fisk. And together, we can make this city a better place.”

Fiona sat frozen, her heart pounding.

She had spent the entire night writing the truth.

And now Fisk had beaten her to it—shaping his own version of it first.

• • • • • • •

"Fiona, this doesn’t change anything," Karen said.

"Except now we know who your King of Diamonds is," Foggy added.

They were at Nelson & Murdock, where Fiona sat slumped in a chair, more than upset about Fisk’s surprise press conference that morning.

"No, Foggy, this changes everything," she said, sliding a copy of the Bulletin across the desk.

Wilson Fisk’s Promise to City: A Better Tomorrow.

She tapped the headline with her finger. "He put himself in the spotlight. The entire city thinks he’s the next Messiah or something."

"So, we just… keep digging," Karen suggested.

"There’s nothing left to dig! Wilson Fisk didn’t even exist before this morning, and now the internet is filled with his ‘pull yourself up by your bootstraps’ sob story. His dad left when he was twelve. His mom died a year later. People think he’s inspiring."

"Somebody knows something. It’s just a matter of asking the right people the right questions," Foggy said.

Before Fiona could respond, the office door swung open.

Matt.

She hadn’t talked to him since their fight, and she was definitely not in the mood to start now.

"I should go," she muttered, pushing back her chair.

"No, wait," Karen grabbed her arm. "Look, if Fisk really is behind everything, we need to do something."

Fiona sighed, rubbing her temples. "The man in the mask was in my apartment last night."

Foggy nearly dropped his coffee. "The terrorist cop killer was in your apartment? Why didn’t you say anything?"

"He didn’t bomb the Russians. And he said he didn’t shoot those cops. He’s being framed."

"I could say I’m Captain America, but that doesn’t put wings on my head," Foggy muttered.

"He doesn’t have wings," Fiona deadpanned.

Karen ignored them both. "What else did he say?"

Fiona sighed, pulling a file from her bag. "He gave me a thumb drive. This is what was on it."

Karen flipped through the pages, her eyes widening. "Oh my god. If you have all of this, why can’t you publish it?"

"Because I don’t have hard evidence. And especially now, with Fisk playing New York’s golden boy, people would say I just have a grudge against him."

"He could be throwing up a smokescreen. I mean, he just had Detective Blake killed," Foggy said.

"He said Hoffman did it—probably on Fisk’s orders," Fiona corrected.

"You could talk to Hoffman," Matt finally spoke up.

Fiona hesitated for a second before meeting his gaze. "I would, but he’s nowhere to be found."

"What about the Union Allied money? Is there a way we can tie it directly to Fisk?" Karen asked.

"Maybe. But the masked guy also told me that Leland Owlsley runs his books. And he’s surrounded by security. Then there’s Creepy Suit Guy from Confederated Global—James Wesley."

"The mask came to you for help," Karen said. "And I don’t care how rich Fisk is, nobody can totally erase their past. Somewhere, out there, there has to be a piece of paper, a witness… the truth."

"What about Confederated Global? The creepy suit guy was standing right next to Fisk when he gave his big speech," Foggy pointed out.

"I already looked into that," Fiona said. "I checked the FCC filings—Confederated Global is where Fisk gets most of his reported income."

"Alright, let’s play this out," Matt said, shifting into lawyer mode. "If Fisk is connected to Confederated Global, that means he’s involved in Westmeyer-Holt Contracting, which—"

"—is strong-arming tenants out of their rent-controlled apartments," Karen finished, looking at Fiona. "They were hired by a guy named Armand Tully."

"The slumlord? I wrote about him once," Fiona said.

"Landman and Zack say he’s on vacation on an island nobody can pronounce, where they use coconuts as phones," Foggy added.

"Great. So another dead end," Fiona sighed.

"Westmeyer-Holt to Confederated Global to Fisk," Matt said. "We pull that thread, see what unravels."

Fiona sighed, rubbing her hands over her face. "Okay, well I should get home. See if I can find anything else."

Matt turned toward her. "Stay."

She blinked, surprised by the quiet insistence in his voice.

"You can work here," he added. "Use my desk if you want. Just… stay."

Fiona hesitated, glancing toward Karen and Foggy, who were pretending to be deep in conversation, flipping through documents.

"I don’t know," she muttered. "I really should—"

"Can I talk to you?" Matt asked, cutting her off.

She swallowed, glancing at him before nodding. "Yeah. Okay."

Matt gestured toward his office, and she followed him inside. He shut the door behind them, but before he could say anything, Fiona sighed.

"Foggy is watching us through the window," she murmured, crossing her arms.

Matt huffed a quiet laugh. "Of course he is."

They stood there in silence for a moment before he exhaled slowly. "I don’t like fighting with you." 

Fiona crossed her arms, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "You say that, but you don’t take what I do seriously, Matt. You act like my blog is some kind of hobby, like it’s not a real job."

"That’s not true," Matt said firmly, stepping closer.

She let out a humorless laugh. "It feels like it is. Every time we talk about it, you act like I’m just some reckless kid running around Hell’s Kitchen with a camera instead of an actual journalist doing real work."

Matt shook his head. "That’s not how I see you. I know how hard you work—I know you stay up all night, chasing leads, following threads no one else even notices. I know how much it matters to you."

Fiona clenched her jaw, looking away. "This Fisk story… it could’ve been huge, Matt." Her voice wavered slightly. "I stayed up all night putting it together. Every word, every detail… and now it doesn’t even matter. He beat me to it. He stepped into the spotlight on his own terms, and everything I’ve been doing, all the work Karen and I have put in—it feels like it was for nothing."

"It’s not for nothing," Matt insisted.

Fiona shook her head, frustration bubbling over. "Maybe I should’ve just taken that job at the Bulletin instead of doing this on my own. Maybe then people would actually listen." Her breath hitched, and before she could stop herself, tears welled in her eyes.

Matt reached for her, his hands settling gently on her arms. "Hey," he murmured, his voice soft now. "You don’t mean that."

She let out a shaky breath. "I don’t know, Matt. I really don’t."

His grip on her tightened just slightly, grounding her. "You’re one of the best journalists in this city, angel. You don’t need the Bulletin. You don’t need anyone telling you how to do your job. Fisk might’ve gotten ahead of us, but this isn’t over. We’ll find another way."

She sniffled, blinking up at him, and he reached up, brushing a tear off her cheek with his thumb. "You’ve done more for this city than you realize," he said softly.

Fiona swallowed hard, looking down. "I just feel like I’m running in circles."

"You’re not," Matt assured her. 

She sighed, finally leaning into him. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close as she let her weight rest against his chest. "I just want to win, Matt," she mumbled against him.

"You will," he promised, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "You always do."

Outside Matt’s office, Foggy stood near Karen, his arms crossed as he watched through the window. His expression was unreadable at first, but as he saw Fiona bury her face into Matt’s chest and Matt hold her just a little tighter, something in him softened.

Karen glanced up at him. “You’re staring,” she teased.

Foggy exhaled, shaking his head. “Yeah, well… it’s weird seeing them like that.”

Karen smirked. “Because it’s your best friend and your sister, or because you’re realizing they might actually be good for each other?”

Foggy didn’t answer right away, just kept watching as Matt murmured something to Fiona that made her let out a quiet laugh, her shoulders finally relaxing. Foggy sighed. “Yeah… maybe they’re not the worst idea.”

He turned away from the window, muttering, “Still gonna give him shit for it, though.”

• • • • • • •

Fiona had spent the past few hours at Nelson & Murdock, scouring the internet for anything she could find on Fisk. She was exhausted, her eyes aching from staring at the screen for too long, but she refused to give up. There had to be something—some crack in his perfect image, some lead they hadn’t thought of yet.

The door to Foggy’s office creaked open, and he stepped out, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. I, uh, did a little back-channeling with Marci,” he announced.

Fiona blinked at him, her fingers pausing over her keyboard. “Marci? As in your ex-girlfriend Marci?”

“Yeah,” Foggy admitted, leaning against the desk. “She works at Landman and Zack now.”

Fiona’s eyes widened. “Oh my god, are you back together? With the girl who calls you Foggy Bear? How could you not tell me?”

Foggy groaned. “No, we are not back together.” Then, with a pointed look, he added, “And you started dating my best friend without telling me, so let’s not throw stones, alright?”

Fiona huffed, crossing her arms. “Okay, fine. That’s fair. So, what did you find?”

Foggy sighed, flipping open a folder. “Tully really is on an island—one he bought with the money Confederated Global is paying him for all his real estate holdings in Hell’s Kitchen.”

Karen sat forward, eyes lighting up. “Then that’s the link! It ties Fisk directly to what’s happening in the tenement case.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Foggy said, shaking his head. “According to the records, the deal just went through this morning.”

“So everything that happened with the case up until now? It was before Fisk was the official owner on record,” Matt said. “That means legally, it all falls on Tully.”

Fiona groaned, dropping her head onto the desk with a dramatic thud. “I hate rich people.”

“Okay, so we go after Tully,” Karen said, undeterred. “We get him to turn on Fisk.”

“Yeah, except that island he’s on? No extradition agreement,” Foggy said.

“It’s another dead end,” Matt murmured.

Fiona let out a heavy sigh, rubbing her temples. "Great. Love that for us." She pushed her chair back and stretched, exhaustion weighing her down. "I haven’t slept in what feels like three days, so I’m gonna head home before I start hallucinating."

Karen gave her a small smile. "Get some rest, Fiona."

"Yeah, yeah," she mumbled, waving a hand as she turned to Matt. She leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his lips, and squeezed his arm. "Bye, Matty."

"Bye," he murmured, his hand instinctively brushing against hers before she pulled away.

Foggy groaned loudly. "Seriously? Right in front of me?"

Fiona smirked as she turned toward the door. "Get used to it, Foggy Bear."

"Ugh," he muttered, shaking his head. 

She laughed as she headed out the door, leaving Matt and Karen grinning while Foggy dramatically rubbed his temples. "Unbelievable," he grumbled.