A/N: Hello everyone! Here's a new chapter! Short one, I know. Thanks for all your interest in this story! I was BLOWN away by the amount of follows it's gotten!

PS. Shout out to twilightdreamers for letting me know about the format issue, hope it's better now!

Also to answer my lovely reviewers' questions:

1. This story takes place after the events of Season 1 of Daredevil, and in this story, SHIELD is alive and well(Whether you take it as before Winter Soldier or after and SHIELD is somehow rebooted, is up to you as I don't think Avengers timeline will affect this story too much)

2. Why does rich and powerful SHIELD have measly Nelson & Murdock represent them? Well, let's just say there's more at play. ;)

3. Also, yes! Clint is deaf in this story.

I hope this clears things up...at least a little, heh heh.

Chapter Four

Matt had slipped into unconsciousness for a few long, impacting seconds; the sharp ringing of the alarms jolting him awake. He winces, hand instinctively rising to his throbbing head. Matt pulls his fingers back when they come up hot and bloody. He shifts slightly from under the rubble of the collapsed table, trying to get a grasp of his surroundings. The conference room is shadowed in murky and suffocating haze. Small fires crackle with short livelihood, ignited by the device that shattered through the window. Matt can hear panicked screams and shouts from the hallway and below. The surviving overhead sprinkler releases an inconsistent trickle, clearly damaged from the attack.

Matt hears a hoarse huff of a curse belonging to Barton, followed by the sound of cracking glass.

Agent Billings groans, "Clint!…Marcus…"

"Shit," Clint growls out before trudging over to the other agents.

Matt extends a hand sideways, "Foggy," the tips of his fingers touch stiff fabric. He presses harder against the man, and his partner soon wakes with a severed wheeze.

"What happened?'" Foggy murmurs, pushing himself up.

Matt shakes his head, unknowing in that. But what he does know is that they have to get out of there. He pushes to his feet, cringing when his whole world tilts. "Foggy," Matt says, offering him a hand. Foggy takes it and pulls himself up.

"Come on, Marcus," Clint urges with an unnatural warmth in his voice. Matt knew it well, because with the strong smell of blood, it was evident to him, that this was the sound of desperate man. "Stop slacking off, man. It's time to wake up," Clint continues.

The two lawyers converge on the scene. Agent Stone lying flat on his back, his shirt wet with red. Agent Barton leaning over him, pressing a firm hand into the side of Stone's stomach. Barton's other hand gently patting the side of Stone's face. Beside them, Agent Billings sitting, his teeth gritted as he holds his arm tightly, shielding an unbecoming wound.

Matt confirms the nonexistent heartbeat, "He's dead."

Dread and grief hang in the air, like the grey smoke constricting their lungs. Billings closes his eyes, head hanging in acceptance. Foggy stares at the body with wide eyes. Clint jumps to his feet, his face masked in a deadly calm.

"We need to go," Clint says, voice hard in the form of an order. He helps Billings to his feet.

"We're not just going to leave him, are we?" Foggy finally squeaks, trembling slightly.

"We don't seem to have a choice," Clint explains darkly. Matt shivers away from the man's pointed glare.

Agent Barton leans over and yanks Stone's ID card off his jacket and pockets it. He wraps an arm under Sean's shoulders before the two of them exit the remains of the room; both men limping together, but Clint taking most of the other agent's weight.

Matt looks down at the body at his feet, a grimace pulling at his lips. Foggy presses closer, wanting to say something. But Matt avoids the imminent accusation— he knows it's coming—and pulls Foggy after the two men.

Below them, men and women are pouring from the staircases, running for the entrance. They bank right, following the way to the closest staircase. Matt can barely focus with all the fear trapped in the building, suffocating his senses. Barely can he hear Clint yelling into his earpiece with all the screams, shouts and other panicked outbursts.

The numb of Foggy's shock is wearing off, growing outraged with their current predicament "Who would do something—"

"Not now, Foggy," Matt mutters, gripping his friend's arm tighter as they shoot down the flight of stairs.

Matt uses Clint's heartbeat to track the two agents through the mass of people. It's quicker than normal, pulsating with adrenaline, but yet it still manages to retain some form of steadiness. A woman reeking with perfume slams into him, nearly breaking his grip on Foggy's jacket sleeve.

Only when he's out of the building and into the blazing sun, with heat waves rolling off the asphalt and sirens blaring—can he breathe.

"Murdock!" Clint calls farther up and near the road. In front of him, a sleek SHIELD car sits, awaiting their arrival.

Matt runs after him, dragging Foggy. He pushes the man into the vehicle before hopping in himself. The car jerks forward before he even has time to shut the door.

Inside, it's quiet. All that is heard is the sharp panting of breath, and the soft whir of the air conditioning.

"Take us to the Safe House," Clint tells the driver. He sits on the passenger side, head darting around to peer out all the windows, grey-blue eyes void of any emotion.

Foggy leans closer to Matt, giving the injured agent sitting beside him, more room. "Safe House?" Foggy repeats, exasperated, "Why didn't we go there in the first place!"

"SHIELD personnel only," Billings responds with a wince, still clutching his arm. " But now it seems there's room for exception."

"What the hell is happening," Foggy demands, trying to control his breath. The question appears to be for everyone, but his eyes are pointed at Matt.

And it seems no one knows how to answer it, for it hangs in the air, settling on their shoulders with a weight unknown, yet all the same, oppressing.

~0~0~0~

The car pulls into an underground garage fifteen minutes later. Matt has never stepped foot in this area of town without his mask. The burned remains of a Russian warehouse stand not one block from them. The thought of it, with all that happened that night, sends a fleeting shiver down his back.

Once the car is parked near the elevator stall, the five men emerge. The driver, a middle-aged man with a wispy mustache, supports Billings as Clint moves on ahead, towards the elevator.

Graffiti is sprayed along the concrete walls and floors. Some of the fluorescent overhead lights are shattered from what could quite possibly be gun shots.

"Some safe house," Foggy mutters when they reach the elevator.

"If you don't expect it, then we've done our job," Clint replies without looking back at the lawyer. He presses his thumb below the single button, and the elevator door slides open. Only then does Clint look over his shoulder to give Foggy mischievous smirk.

When everyone files in, the door closes and the elevator starts heading down. "Welcome Agent Barton," a computerized voice greets.

"Thanks," Clint tells it dryly.

After a quiet tonal ring, the elevator doors pull apart, revealing a long, dark hallway. When Clint steps out of the elevator, the lights of the hallway flicker on, revealing polished white walls and glazed concrete floors.

"You would think some creepy organization's stronghold would be a little darker," Foggy comments.

"White walls ensure a happier work environment," Clint recites sardonically with a brittle chuckle, "At least that's what the brochure said."

Doors begin to line their path as they increase their distance from the elevator. But the hallway seems endless. It twists and turns this way and that, but it never finds a corner or room to open into.

"Where are you taking us?" Matt asks.

"A place where you can finally get the answers you've been yearning for, Mr. Murdock," Billings answers between pants.

And Foggy's troubled gaze meets Matt's own.