Chapter 3
Matt and Foggy strolled back from their night class, the streets of Columbia University bathed in a soft, ethereal glow. Despite the late hour, their voices filled the silence with laughter and animated conversation, echoing off the stone buildings that towered over them.
"So, remind me again why we signed up for an 8 pm class?" Foggy teased, his voice filled with mock incredulity, the weariness of the late hour finally creeping into his tone.
Matt chuckled, the sound rich with amusement. "Because apparently, it was the only open required class that has that girl you’re crushing on," he said, poking fun at Foggy while playfully sticking his cane in his path.
Foggy swatted it away, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, right. Like I needed any more reasons to be stuck in a lecture hall at night."
As they meandered through the deserted campus, Matt kept one hand firmly on Foggy’s elbow, guiding him with practiced ease. His other hand gripped his cane, moving with fluid grace that belied his blindness. Despite the darkness, Matt navigated with surety, each step calculated, every sound and shift in the air giving him information others might miss.
Every so often, Matt would adjust his glasses, a habitual gesture he had long since perfected. His fingers would linger over the frames, even though they served no real purpose. It was just another way for Matt to feel grounded in a world he couldn’t see.
As they continued down the empty, lamplit path, Matt’s heightened senses began to stir. The usual hum of the city was there — distant cars, murmured conversations from nearby buildings — but something was off. A pulse, rhythmic and frantic, caught his attention. His focus narrowed, honing in on the erratic heartbeat of someone approaching.
Foggy’s voice became a faint background hum, lost in the cascade of sounds Matt was processing. He could feel the distance, feel the person drawing closer, and it didn’t take long before something in the air shifted.
Matt's brow furrowed, his every instinct telling him something was wrong.
"Hey, Matt, you okay? You seem kinda distracted," Foggy’s voice broke through his concentration, and Matt shook himself out of the fog of heightened awareness.
"Yeah, I’m fine, Foggy," Matt said, the lie slipping easily from his lips. He tore his focus away from the approaching figure, but the nagging sense of unease lingered.
There was something off about this person. Something predatory in their pace.
As they walked, Matt’s senses sharpened further, the world around him thickening with tension. The air smelled faintly of metal, and then—almost imperceptibly—a sharpness sliced through the atmosphere. A knife. Matt’s body tensed instinctively, his muscles coiling in response to the threat he couldn’t ignore.
"Foggy..." Matt's voice dropped, a warning in the air.
Foggy, ever the optimist, still hadn’t grasped the danger. He turned to Matt, his face half-lit by the dim streetlight, a furrow of concern knitting his brows. "What’s going on, Matt?"
Before Matt could answer, the figure came into view, stepping from the shadows with alarming speed. The knife gleamed in the weak light, its edge catching the glow as the figure brandished it.
"Give me your wallets. Now!" the voice demanded, sharp and desperate, its harsh tone sending a cold ripple through the night.
Foggy’s breath caught in his throat, eyes widening as he took in the sight, his heart racing. "Matt, I know you can’t see this, but—"
"I know," Matt cut him off, his grip tightening on Foggy’s arm. "Stay calm."
Matt's mind raced, calculating their odds, gauging the figure’s intentions. Though blind, his senses gave him a fuller picture than most people would have expected. The man’s pulse was erratic, his breathing shallow, and his posture stiff with aggression. This wasn’t just a robbery; it felt more like a last-ditch act of desperation.
"We don’t want any trouble," Matt said, his voice steady, but his every muscle taut with the anticipation of a fight.
Foggy's voice, shaking with anxiety, cut through the stillness. "Matt, I know you can't see this, but he has a knife!"
Matt’s stomach clenched at Foggy’s words. Despite the calm he projected, his mind was on high alert. The knife wasn’t just a weapon; it was a threat to both of them. But he refused to show fear, especially in front of Foggy.
"Yeah, well, he’s not getting mine," Matt replied, a quiet defiance in his tone.
Foggy hesitated for a moment, his hands trembling as he reached for his wallet. His fingers fumbled with it, but his movements were deliberate as he handed it over. His jaw clenched in a mixture of fear and frustration. He wasn’t about to let some stranger intimidate him—but he wasn’t foolish enough to escalate the situation further.
Matt’s voice came low, a low growl of warning. "Give it to him, Foggy."
Foggy did, his heart pounding in his chest. The fear that had been simmering just beneath the surface surged now, but he tried not to show it.
The mugger’s eyes glinted with malevolence, and his voice lowered, dripping with menace. "Listen to your friend, blind boy, or things will get ugly real fast."
The insult cut through Matt, but he stayed firm. His voice was calm, unwavering. "Yeah? And what will you do if I don’t?"
For a brief moment, the mugger faltered, as though uncertain of his next move. Then, with a swift motion, he lunged at Matt, the air shifting violently as his fist collided with Matt’s jaw. The blow sent Matt reeling, his body jerking backward from the force. His glasses flew from his face, skittering across the pavement with a soft clatter.
Foggy froze, panic flooding his chest. "Matt!" His voice was strangled with fear as he saw his friend stumble. But Matt didn’t fall. He stayed upright, though his jaw burned with the shock of the punch.
Matt’s fingers instinctively reached for his fallen glasses, but before he could recover, the figure sneered. "What, not so big anymore? Maybe now you’ll be able to look at me."
Matt’s jaw tightened, a deep, burning anger flaring within him. He refused to show weakness, though every instinct screamed for him to act.
"Foggy," Matt said quietly, his voice laced with warning, "Get back."
Foggy, his chest tight with worry, stepped back slightly but didn’t let his eyes leave Matt. He could see the pain in his friend’s expression, the struggle beneath Matt's calm demeanor.
The mugger sneered again, stepping forward as if to intimidate Matt further. But before he could take another step, Foggy cried out in desperation, "Matt, no!"
But the mugger didn’t stop. His foot came down on Matt’s shattered glasses, crushing them with a sickening crack. The sound echoed in the cold night air, reverberating in Matt’s ears.
A wave of anguish flooded Matt. His glasses had always been his mask, his shield against the world. To see them broken like this—shattered beneath someone’s heel—was more than just physical pain. It felt like a loss of control, a reminder of all the ways he was vulnerable.
The silence hung heavy between them for a long moment, the weight of the broken glasses pressing down on Matt’s chest. But then, a distant sound—siren wails—cut through the night, growing closer, louder.
The mugger froze, eyes darting toward the flashing lights in the distance. His face twisted in frustration as he muttered, "You’re lucky this time," before turning and bolting into the shadows, vanishing as quickly as he had appeared.
Foggy’s heart nearly burst with relief, but the sight of Matt standing there, still, staring at the shards of his broken glasses, tore at him. His friend was struggling, and Foggy didn’t know how to fix it.
He moved toward Matt, hand hesitating in the air before gently resting on his friend’s shoulder, offering a quiet gesture of comfort. Matt didn’t flinch, but the vulnerability in his posture was clear.
For a moment, Matt just stood there, not speaking, not moving. His unfocused, glassy eyes stared off into the distance, not really seeing anything. The intensity of the moment was finally catching up with him, and Foggy could sense the insecurity that Matt was trying to hide. His gaze wasn’t searching for anything in particular, just unfocused, uncertain of where to land. It was a subtle, telling sign of how deeply his world had been shaken.
Foggy noticed the tension in Matt’s shoulders and the subtle insecurity that flashed across his face. He took a slow breath, leaning in closer, his voice soft and steady.
"Hey," Foggy said, squeezing Matt's shoulder gently. "It’s okay. I know things are tough right now, but I’m right here with you."
Matt’s lips twisted into a faint, almost embarrassed smile, his face softening just a little at Foggy’s words. "I don’t know where to look, Foggy... People always get uncomfortable by my eyes... I don’t even know what to do right now."
Foggy’s heart broke a little at the rawness in Matt’s voice. He didn’t have all the answers, but he could offer Matt what he needed most in that moment: comfort and reassurance.
"Hey," Foggy said again, his hand resting on Matt’s back, "look at me. You’re gonna be okay. We’ll fix this together, alright?"
Matt swallowed, nodding slowly, the weight of the broken glasses and the night’s events pressing on him. But in that moment, the steady presence of his best friend beside him gave him a small measure of peace.
"Thanks, Foggy," Matt murmured, his voice small but sincere.
The two stood in the silence, the weight of the night’s events sinking in. The sirens faded into the distance, and the campus seemed eerily quiet again. As they started to walk back to the dorm, the comforting rhythm of their steps became a soft cadence that soothed the tension.
"Hey," Foggy said after a while, his voice laced with a teasing edge, "Tomorrow, we’ll go shopping for new glasses, alright? How’s that for an upgrade?"
Matt chuckled softly, the tension in his body slowly easing. "Yeah, I guess that’s one way to make our night classes interesting."
Foggy smirked, nudging him lightly with his elbow. "Maybe next time, we'll stick to the usual boring classes. No more ‘real-life self-defense lessons.’"
Matt grinned, his heart lighter than it had been in a long while. Maybe Stick had been wrong after all—getting close to someone could be comforting. It was something he was slowly learning to accept.