AN Should be writing this? Uhm, no. But listen. I'm a history major. I love the 20s. I love Daredevil. There was no way I could not write this. Just trust me, I'll take you places.

Since this is a no powers!AU, please note that Matt has his sight. His blindness is interpreted in other ways :) Historical notes will be at the bottom of the chapter when necessary.

Matt had been told once that the others boxers found it strange that he prayed before each match. He was surprised they had noticed the rosary folded neatly in his clothes, the way he crossed himself before shedding his father's newsboy cap and shirt and preparing himself to fight. He was surprised, and yet not. He was a little too savage for God, in their eyes. Each bare-knuckled punch was too rough, each drop of blood shed too brutal. They all knew Matt Murdock wasn't asking for safety or seeking a win, not with the reckless way he fought.

Which was true. He was praying that the devil in his chest wouldn't break loose.

The Great War hadn't been kind to many people. Europe was a heaving ruin, decimated by machine guns and poison gas. A part of Matt still felt lost over there, drowning in the mud and darkness, clawing and screaming for a way out. He didn't know how to fix it, couldn't hope to ignore it, so he channeled it the only way he could: in a boxing ring with someone that could fight back.

It worked, for now.

Matt and his opponent circled each other, breathing heavy after a few long rounds. Matt's lip bled freely, but he didn't bother to smear it clean. They were past the experimental, toying with each other stage, something brutal and relentless pounding through them. Matt's opponent jolted in to attempt throwing him to the ground, but Matt slammed off a few devastating punches to the man's sides to get him to pull away. He eyed Matt, earning a slow, bloody smile.

Matt finished the fight in the next thirty seconds. He stabbed off two quick punches, then threw the man to the ground. The rough, disjointed gasp as the air rushed out of his opponent was more satisfying that the referee declaring Matt the victor.

Getting out of the ring was always the worst, whether Matt won or lost. The sense of belonging that felt so right, that felt so justified and fulfilling disappeared once the fight was over, leaving him vaguely sick. The shouts of the crowd around him were jarring, suddenly smothering him as he edged his way through. The farther he walked away from the ring the more his injuries started acting up, a perverse enticement to go back, to find another fighter, to win again and again and again. Two fights. That was enough. He could walk away now.

Matt inspected his split lip with his tongue. It felt hot and tangy with copper. That was fine. As long as it didn't leave a bruise, he could get away with it in the office. Karen always clucked when he wore his lawbreaking on his face, as it apparently made a bad impression on clients seeking respectable legal representation.

He wiped the blood away from his face to keep any from falling onto his clothes. His hands felt clumsy as he put on his undershirt, his collared shirt, did up his tie, then finally tugged on the newsboy cap. Fights were still running, the ramshackle rings attracting loose groups of people to them. Despite all of its flaws, Matt appreciated that Roscoe Sweeney's bare-knuckle operation never required anyone to fight longer than they wanted. If they won a match, they could continue down the line of contenders until they quit or they lost. Few places in Hell's Kitchen could claim the same.

"Red, you quittin' already?"

Matt turned to find Frank Castle on the edge of a crowd. He was dressed down for a fight but didn't have any new bruises, making Matt think he hadn't gotten into the ring yet (or his opponents had been very unlucky that night).

Frank was a fellow war veteran that had chosen to punch his demons into submission. Matt had seen him around the hall for a few months without ever speaking to him, but their formal introduction had come in the form of a match. The two of them had gone for five rounds before Matt decided their senseless beating was going nowhere, and let Frank throw him to the ground. Frank was declared the winner, but Matt caught his tiny nod of respect over as the crowd's screams.

Matt sighed with a shrug. "Can't go into the office looking like a wreck."

Frank scoffed and glanced around the hall. People were yelling, jostling each other, placing bets, jeering at the fighters. The chaos didn't bother Frank. Matt didn't know for sure what he did outside the boxing hall, but his grim vigilance said he never let himself stop fighting. Rumor said it normally took form of terrorizing rum runners, but Matt wasn't ready to commit to that just yet.

"Hey, you see Claire around here?" Matt asked. Just like that, Frank's attention was back on him. He stared at him for a long moment, inscrutable as he examined Matt's face.

"Nah," he finally said. "Velasquez kid didn't show, so she didn't come."

Claire Temple was the acting nurse of Sweeney's boxing hall. She had initially come to help Santino Velasquez, a young fighter Sweeney had personally recruited from Spanish Harlem. Claire claimed that Santino would have been beat to pieces if she wasn't there to check on him and clean him up, but that care eventually extended to anyone who bothered to ask. Still, she only made an appearance when Santino fought, and even then she wasn't a certainty.

Claire was caring, deliberate, and blunt. And brave enough to walk into an illegal boxing hall by herself, much less one that required her to leave her native Hispanic neighborhood and brave an Irish one. Matt had known before ever speaking to her that she was something beyond special. When he did speak to her…it reaffirmed the idea, to say the least.

Matt lifted his head. "Maybe next time, then. Take care of yourself, Frank."

"Piss off, Red," Frank said, turning back to watch the fight.

Matt left the boxing hall, checking his lip again to make sure it hadn't reopened. He settled into his coat and walked through the dark of the city. It was late, but the streets still hummed with life. The street lamps buzzed, the occasional car clattered down the road, voices sometimes slipped from apartments. This part of Hell's Kitchen was too worn for a speakeasy, so none of the liquor-fueled revels bled onto the streets. Instead the neighborhood was dressed with faded laundry and dirty tenement buildings crammed into every nook and cranny.

Matt's street was a little more respectable than the area that housed the boxing hall. The road was clean, the laundry hidden from view, and the smell of the outhouses stuffed between buildings didn't ooze through the air.

One job. That was all it took. One job and a stroke of luck, and he wasn't some poor Irishman scraping by in a disparaging job.

Matt climbed the steps to his apartment, slipping the newsboy cap from his head. The last thing he wanted was for a nosy neighbor to see him and start gossiping about why he was dressed like a grubby factory worker when he had such a respectable lawyer job. He was always juggling lives, now. He couldn't be a lawyer in the ring, couldn't be a brawler at home. Couldn't be honest anywhere, it seemed.

Except for in the solitude of his apartment, and maybe sometimes around Foggy and Karen. But even then he wasn't entirely honest. How could he be, when he was hiding the ugliness the war had carved into his soul? Still, he wouldn't trade anything for the support his two only friends offered. Matt didn't know what he would have done if Foggy hadn't supported him through the war and back.

(He probably wouldn't have made it back, if he was being honest.)

Matt didn't bother to turn on the lights as he closed the door behind him. He had had to adjust to doing things in the dark. Sometimes, when he had been waiting in the trench, the night had seemed like only thing he would ever know. Black, black, smothering night filled with the murmur of German and the whisper of his allies trying not to make noise. He still dreamed about that. A sickening darkness he could never tear away from his eyes, that had so effectively climbed inside him while he had been away…

Matt pressed a hand against his face. It took a few seconds, but he managed walk to the refrigerator for something to put on his lip.

"Good morning!" Karen chirped as Matt came through the front door. She looked as sunny as ever, red lipstick smile wide, blonde bob just so. Matt squeezed out a smile, trying not to think how exhausted he must have looked in comparison.

"Anyone come in, yet?" he asked.

"Not anyone, but you did get a delivery from that Jersey newspaper office."

"Oh, great," he said, hanging up his hat and coat. Matt took the folder of papers Karen handed over. "Foggy in yet?"

"No, but he mentioned something about checking in on Mr. O'Ryan's family today, so I'm guessing he went before work."

"Yeah, catch him before he heads off to the docks," Matt murmured, scanning the papers.

"What'd you put on that split lip?" Karen asked after a moment. Her voice had officially moved from perky to disapproving. Matt suppressed a sigh.

"Something cold last night," he said, trying to dismiss her concerns. Brushing Karen off hadn't worked so far, but Matt was optimistic.

She sighed and pushed her hair back from her face. "Why do you even go to those things? Prizefighting is—"

"A hobby," Matt said briskly. "Thanks for the papers, they're just what we needed for the Dugan case."

She slumped back in her chair, scowling at him. "I'm just trying to help, Matt. At least find better care if you insist on seeing our clients with a face like mincemeat."

"My nurse wasn't on duty," he said. He shrugged in a 'what can you do?' sort of way, earning a glower as he retreated to his office.

Karen Page was less than the typical secretary, but also much, much more. She didn't look like the conservative, future-mother-of-five type that was usually hired in offices. Her hair was short, she wore makeup, she spoke her mind, and she had an astonishing knowledge of white-collar crime. She was exactly what Nelson and Murdock needed.

"Good morning, my cohorts!" Foggy called, clattering through the front door. "And what news do we have today?"

"The Jersey newspaper coughed up that article we were asking about," Karen told him.

"Excellent! Matt's got it? Alright, thanks Karen!"

Matt continued to scan the Jersey news clippings until Foggy reached his doorway.

"Hey there, partner. It's polite to say hi before someone has to come hunt you down for it," Foggy said, leaning against the door frame.

"I mumbled it when you came in," Matt said, eyes still on the papers.

Foggy huffed, but came closer. "What do those say about our Mr. Dugan?"

"They say he was in Atlantic City being kicked out of a hotel on the night of the fifth."

"Excellent!" Foggy snagged the stack of a papers out of Matt's hands and perched on the edge of his desk. He looked up with a frown. "Y'know, I never thought a news article publicly shaming our client would ever be considered a good thing."

"When it's that or being sentenced to a couple years in prison for armed assault, it's great," Matt pointed out, leaning back in his chair.

"True."

"Hey, guys," Karen said, poking her head around the corner. "A reporter from The Bugle just called about the Dugan case. I turned him away, but just know the vultures are swarming."

"Will do," Foggy said, turning fast and compulsively smoothing his hair flat. Foggy had had his hair cut the month before, trimming the sides short but leaving the top long. He hadn't cared about it until Karen mentioned she thought it was nice, and now Foggy had been relentless in trying to make it look perfect any time she walked past.

"Has it just been The Bugle so far, or has there been anyone important?"

"No one else has contacted us outright, but I've heard that someone from The Harlem Echo has been sniffing around."

"Harlem Echo…isn't that a black newspaper?" Foggy asked. He glanced between Matt and Karen for confirmation. "Why would they care about Dugan? He's not exactly the height of political or human interest articles they could be writing about."

"I know, that's why I didn't bother to mention him. The reporter was Ben Urich, I think, if that means anything."

"No." Matt shook his head as he thought. "Keep an eye out if he starts pursing things a little more, alright? We don't want to be broadsided by some scandal Dugan hasn't told us about."

"Sure thing, boss," Karen said, then disappeared back to her desk.

"How come she only calls you 'boss'?" Foggy hiss-whispered, whirling back to face Matt.

"Because I actually act like her boss, while you try being approachable and not leer-y."

"Okay, I am not trying," Foggy said, pointing a finger at Matt. "I am always approachable. And am I seriously leer-y? Am I gonna have to prepare some sort of defense plan when she's had enough and throws her typewriter at me?"

"I don't think we're quite there yet," Matt laughed. He took back the papers from Foggy and stood up from his desk.

"Okay, good. You're my eyes and ears on this. She's never gonna suspect your involvement, buddy oh pal of mine," Foggy said, lightly punching Matt on the arm. Matt huffed out a laugh, then hissed as his lip split opened.

"Whoa, sorry, guess I don't know my own strength," Foggy said, eyebrows raised in surprise.

"No, it wasn't you," Matt said. He grimaced and ran his tongue over the cut. "Just…last night, at the hall."

"Oh, right. Who were you fighting?" Foggy had a strange fascination with Matt's bare knuckle boxing. He fundamentally disagreed with unnecessary violence (which was convenient, since it was very much necessary in Matt's case), but he was unfailingly awed by the fighters. He had insisted on coming with Matt once, and had left wide-eyed and practically speechless.

"Guy named Lancaster."

"Did ya win?"

"Yeah."

"If it weren't your life on the line, I'd almost be tempted to start betting on you," Foggy mused, watching Matt dab at the blood on his lip. "Don't tell Karen I said that."

"She was just fussing at me about getting hurt, so I doubt your potential gambling habits will come up."

"Karen's right, though. Take it easy, okay pal? You said there was a nurse there? Visit her more often."

"She wasn't there last night," Matt said, trying not to let his voice be testy as he answered the question yet again. He would have gone to Claire if he'd had the option. He probably would have gone, even if he hadn't been hurt.

But things were no longer so simple as a quick conversation between matches. Her brown eyes were serious and lovely, like she could see past the bruises and bloodstains on his skin to find something desirable. And she…she was wonderful. From each pinned curl to her wide, beautiful smiles, she was so, so good. So much better than he could ever be, before or after the war. It was probably for the best if they didn't…if he didn't…

Foggy left Matt's office, snagging the Dugan file yet again and chattering about how Matt needed to take care of himself. Matt sat in the sudden quiet of his office for a moment, then shook himself and got back to work.

AN Hats were indicative of class at this time. Flat caps or newsboy caps were worn by the 'lower class', such as dock or factory workers. The middle class (like Matt) wore fedoras or trilbies, while the upper class wore homburgs or top hats.

Most ethnicities had exclusive services in their neighborhoods that catered specifically to themselves, ranging from markets to newspapers. Black newspapers were the largest and oldest non-white papers being run, starting back in the late 1800s. They were often more politicized than the average newspaper, focusing on problems that affected black communities in particular. There are still newspapers aimed toward specifically black people, but now it's more marketing choice than societal need.