“I know you.”
“Do you now, Mister Murdock. Who am I?”
“Faustus. A criminal.”
“Yes, yes…once upon a time my psychological experiments did put me at odds with the law. However, I have been a law-abiding citizen for many years now.”
“You work for the Kingpin. You're still a criminal.”
“Kingpin? I'm afraid you must be confused, Mister Murdock. I work for the court system these days. Do you…get confused often, Mister Murdock?”
“Don't play your psychological tricks on me. I'm on to you.”
“Tricks? Mister Murdock, weren't you the one to ask for this meeting?”
“No…yes. I mean…I mean I asked for a psychiatric profile done. I've been seeing things lately. People who are dead. I've been under a great deal of stress…”
“So you have been experiencing confusion?”
“Yes…I mean NO. Stop it!!”
“Stop what, Mister Murdock?”
“Stop making it sound like I'm…”
“You're what?”
“……… like I'm crazy. ”
The large man with the beard and head of bright red hair put his hand on Matthew Murdock's hand reassuringly, and said in a soothing voice, “Mister Murdock. I'm only here to try to help you.”
Despite himself, Matt felt himself relax in the presence of the man whom he, along with Captain America , had fought as the leader of the neo-fascist National Force*.
(*Marvel's Captain America Volume 1 #'s 229-231. ~Jason)
Doctor Faustus released his grip on Matt's shoulder, and settled back into his lush leather chair.
“Mister Murdock, let us start at the beginning. Tell me how you lost your sight…”
# # # # #
In a boardroom near the top of Fisk Tower , the light of the afternoon barely showed between the closed slats of the blinds that covered the large picture window. On one side of a large table sat a row of very nervous looking men. On the other, Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin of Crime, sat in his wheelchair. The once formidable figure had been in ill health for months now, and it showed. He had lost a great deal of weight, and ran out of breath quickly, having to pause often while speaking.
But he was still the Kingpin, and when he wasn't happy, lesser men shook in their boots.
“Gentlemen,” Wilson asked in a quiet tone. “We have a problem.” The fear he saw dance across the assembled group's faces did nothing to help his mood. “Over the past month, we have…had millions of dollars stolen from us. Literally stolen right out of our hands by…The Vulture ? An aged scavenger in a flying suit? How is this happening? Johnson?”
The man on the far-left, who looked like he had stepped right out of The Godfather , with his pinstriped suit and slicked back black hair, startled at the mention of his name.
“Uhh, boss, it's like no matter how we change our routes, or routines, or whatever, he…the Vulture guy…he knows where we'll be. And he disappears just as fast as he strikes. It's almost like…”
“…Almost like he had…inside information,” the Kingpin interrupted. “And that almost makes me more upset than…the loss of the money. There is more to it than that, however. This…whole motif seems beyond someone like The Vulture. Someone must be planning these thefts for him.”
Another of the Kingpin's lieutenants spoke up. “But why's he stealing from us? He's gotta know that's like a death sentence.”
Kingpin took a deep breath. “To weaken us. Whoever is behind this is planning a takeover. But who is it?” he seemed to ask more to himself than to the assemblage. He then focused back on the men in front of him. “You have 48 hours…to find out who is behind this, and where the leak in our organization is. If you don't, I'll…replace…you all. Understood?”
The collective gulp was audible, for they all understood exactly what Wilson Fisk meant.
At that moment, the intercom in front of Fisk buzzed. A female voice came from it.
“Mister Fisk? You, uh…you have a visitor.”
“ Marion , you know better than…to interrupt me during a meeting. Tell whoever…it is to leave before I have them thrown out.”
“But Mister Fisk…it's Richard Fisk. It's your son!”
# # # # #
“Cmon, pops! <sniff> Make with the cash!”
Ling Wei looked at the shaking punk waving the knife in front of him. He had been robbed many times since he had set up his tailoring business in Hell's Kitchen many years ago. He had seen the results of drug use and what it would drive people to do. He knew the best thing to do was hand over the little bit of cash in the register and hope the thieves would leave without causing any harm or damage. So he hit the ‘no sale' button on the obviously old register…and nothing happened.
“I'm not kiddin', old man! I'll cut you if you don't give it to me!!”
Ling looked nervous. “I am sorry. The register is very old. The drawer sticks sometimes.”
The punk grabbed Ling by the collar. “Don't screw with me! I said give it to me…NOW!”
“How about I give it to you?” came a voice from the doorway.
Both men turned toward the voice, the punk releasing Ling Wei. In the doorway stood a disheveled man wearing a New Jersey Devils baseball cap. It was pulled down far so his eyes could not be seen.
“Don't play hero, man <sniff>,” the punk yelled, sticking the knife in the direction of the newcomer. “I'll slice you up!!”
The man in the doorway didn't move. “Play hero? No one's playing here, son. Now put down the knife and apologize to the man.”
The punk was dumbfounded for a moment. He wasn't used to anyone standing up to him. “You…you asked for it, man!” With that, the punk lunged at the man, knife stretched out before him.
The man stepped nimbly aside the clumsy thrust, and grabbed the young tough by the wrist. To the punk, it felt as if iron had just clamped around his arm. A quick step and a twist, and the punk's arm was pinned on his back.
“Release the knife or I dislocate your shoulder,” the man said behind the punk.
“Screw you, man!” the punk screamed, more shrilly than menacing. The man barely put pressure on the punk's shoulder. “AHH!! Okay, okay!! Christ!” and he dropped the knife.
The man tugged on the punk's arm, and led him over to the counter, where Ling Wei looked amazed.
“Apologize to the man.”
The punk scowled. “Bite me!”
The man in the ball cap grabbed the punk by the hair and smashed his face into the counter. He bounced back up with a bloody nose.
“Apologize NOW,” the man scowled.
The punk looked like he was about to pass out. “I'm…I'm thorry, man. Oh, god, my dose. Jutht don't hurt me any more, mithter!”
The man led the punk to the door. “There's a hospital three blocks down,” the man said, releasing the punk. “Get your nose checked out there, and tell them you want into rehab. If you don't, I WILL find you, and make this incident look like Sunday school. Understand?”
The punk shook his head. “Yeah, I got it. Rehab. I'll be an angel. I thwear it!” He ran off that the man in the ball cap had pointed.
The man turned back to Ling Wei. “Are you okay, sir?”
Ling Wei finally closed his jaw, which he had just realized had been hanging open since the mystery man had first entered.
“That…that was incredible,” Ling Wei exclaimed.
“No, that was sad,” the man replied.
“You…you deserve reward! I…I don't have much money…” Ling continued.
The man held up his hand. “No, I didn't do this for money,” and turned toward the door.
Ling grabbed him before he could go. “Then…clothes! I make you new clothes!”
This stopped the man. He turned slowly toward Ling Wei, a smile upon his half-covered face. “Actually, I do believe there is something you can make me…”
# # # # #
“I'm not very happy right now, Owlsley.”
“Right now? When are you ever happy, Adrian ?”
“Don't play with me, Owlsley.”
Leland Owlsley, the criminal known as The Owl, turned his chair around to face the aged man in the green, winged suit. “What is it, Adrian ?”
Adrian Toomes, The Vulture, dropped a briefcase on the desk between the two men. Attached to the handle was one end of a set of handcuffs. The other end wasn't attached to anything, though the cuff was closed. A dark, wet crimson seemed to paint the cuff.
“For weeks I've been doing all the work, taking all the risks, while you've seemed to do nothing more than sit here behind your desk. When do we start to see results?” Toomes asked.
Leland fiddled with the locks on the briefcase for a moment, and then popped the case open. Piles of cash were inside. Owlsley's face brightened for a moment, and then he closed the case. He looked up at Toomes' eternally scowling face.
“You're absolutely right, Adrian, and you're free to take flight any time you wish. Keep in mind, however, that we are attempting to take down the Kingpin of Crime . We aren't just looting banks for cash to retire to Florida , or playing ‘who's got the bigger ego' with the Sinister Six. We need quality men, guns, and most of all, we need a reputation. This money you've been so helpful in getting is getting us all those things. Soon we'll be able to face the Kingpin directly. But wouldn't you rather face him with a hundred well-armed, well-trained men than a dozen crack addicted thugs?”
The Vulture thought for a few moments. “How much longer?” he asked.
“48 hours,” Owlsley replied.” Then we'll make our true opening move.”
The Vulture walked to a nearby window and began climbing out. “Fine,” he said, turning back briefly. “48 hours. After that…we'll see.” The Vulture leapt out the window, spread his wings wide, and flew off.
# # # # #
Matthew had been talking for hours. He had, despite himself, told Doctor Faustus everything. From the accident that had robbed him of his sight, to his training by the martial arts master Stick, to his career as Daredevil. He knew he shouldn't be telling this known criminal all this, but he couldn't help himself. He felt very calm, almost detached from his body. The doctor had taken pages upon pages of notes.
Occasionally, Faustus would interrupt and ask Matthew questions.
“So you're saying you became Daredevil to get around the promise you made to your father not to, ah, ‘always use your brain, not your fists', I believe is how you put it?
“After coming back from, ahem, Hell, you suffered from a bout of amnesia? How did you recover your memory?
“It was the ghost of your deceased mentor that helped bring the different aspects of your personality back together?”*
Many more questions and many more hours followed, until Faustus looked at the clock on the wall. “Oh, my,” he said surprisingly. “Look at the time. We should have been done hours ago. Why don't you go home, and come back tomorrow about 9 AM. That will give me time to go over my notes.”
Faustus helped Matthew to his feet, and directed him toward the door. Matt half-dazedly allowed himself to be led. Faustus reached out his hand, and shook Matthew's firmly before closing the door behind him.
Doctor Faustus moved back to his desk, and picked up the phone. He dialed, and after a moment, the other end picked up.
“Mister Fisk?” Faustus asked. “This is Doctor Faustus. Yes, I just got done with Murdock. I used a mild hallucinogen, which took effect through his skin*. No, no. It's odorless. Even his hyper-senses shouldn't be able to detect it. Mmm hmm. He completely opened up. Faking it? Mister Fisk, it's my estimation that Murdock has had at least four nervous breakdowns in his life, and is probably schizophrenic. He's lucky he's been able to function this well in society for as long as he has. His dual identity has probably helped him somewhat, but it's also part of the problem. It enables him to see his problem almost as someone else's, and never lets him fully deal with what has happened in his life. Yes, sir. I could suggest committal and have the proceedings begun in less than 48 hours. Yes, sir. Good-bye.”
(*Obviously he exposed Matt to it when he touched our hero's hand at the beginning of this issue. ~Jason)
Faustus hung up the phone, and rubbed the hair on his chin briefly before picking up the pages of notes he had taken, and began reading through them.
# # # # #
Matt stood on the sidewalk outside Doctor Faustus' office. The fresh air (as fresh as it gets in Manhattan ) had helped him shake the dazed feeling he had had for most of the day. He couldn't believe he had told the allegedly former criminal all his secrets. He couldn't believe he had shaken the man's hand, when once upon a time he would have been punching him in the face.
Right then, Murdock noticed he was holding a piece of paper in his right hand. It was folded and fit right in his palm. Faustus must have slipped it to him when they had shaken hands farewell.
Matt opened the paper. Scrawled on it was a message.
Cannot speak. HIS ears are everywhere.
Both our lives are in danger. I need your help.
-Faustus
Matt looked at the paper for a few moments. Was this a trick? Was Fisk trying to set him up for something else? Matt wandered off toward home, his mind more filled with questions than ever.
# # # # #
“It is ready.”
The man in the ball cap stirred. He had fallen asleep on a couch in the back room of Ling Wei's shop after the old man had taken his measurements and allowed him to use the shower in Wei's apartment, which was above the shop. It was the first time he had slept in reasonable comfort in…well, in some time. He felt better than he had in weeks.
He stood up, and Ling handed him the garment. “I worked all night on it. I hope it looks all right.”
The man ran his fingers over it, somewhat to Ling Wei's surprise. “I'm…I'm sure it's perfect,” the man said.
Ling turned around as the man began changing. “Are you really him ?” Ling asked. “You've been gone from Hell's Kitchen so long, many of us were beginning to fear you were dead.”
“I was,” the man said, as he placed a crimson glove upon Ling's shoulder and turned him around. “But I'm back.”
Standing before Ling, clad in all red, and slipping a familiar horned mask over his, was a sight to make Ling proud.
“DAREDEVIL IS BACK!”
Next Issue: …And he's back with a vengeance! All our various sub-plots start coming closer together as The Owl makes his first strike on the Kingpin! Richard Fisk's reasons for showing up are revealed. And what's up with Doctor Faustus? Plus, what'll happen to poor Matt and his already fragile mindset when he comes face-to-face with his own alter-ego? Find out in Daredevil #15!
“Do you now, Mister Murdock. Who am I?”
“Faustus. A criminal.”
“Yes, yes…once upon a time my psychological experiments did put me at odds with the law. However, I have been a law-abiding citizen for many years now.”
“You work for the Kingpin. You're still a criminal.”
“Kingpin? I'm afraid you must be confused, Mister Murdock. I work for the court system these days. Do you…get confused often, Mister Murdock?”
“Don't play your psychological tricks on me. I'm on to you.”
“Tricks? Mister Murdock, weren't you the one to ask for this meeting?”
“No…yes. I mean…I mean I asked for a psychiatric profile done. I've been seeing things lately. People who are dead. I've been under a great deal of stress…”
“So you have been experiencing confusion?”
“Yes…I mean NO. Stop it!!”
“Stop what, Mister Murdock?”
“Stop making it sound like I'm…”
“You're what?”
“……… like I'm crazy. ”
The large man with the beard and head of bright red hair put his hand on Matthew Murdock's hand reassuringly, and said in a soothing voice, “Mister Murdock. I'm only here to try to help you.”
Despite himself, Matt felt himself relax in the presence of the man whom he, along with Captain America , had fought as the leader of the neo-fascist National Force*.
(*Marvel's Captain America Volume 1 #'s 229-231. ~Jason)
Doctor Faustus released his grip on Matt's shoulder, and settled back into his lush leather chair.
“Mister Murdock, let us start at the beginning. Tell me how you lost your sight…”
# # # # #
In a boardroom near the top of Fisk Tower , the light of the afternoon barely showed between the closed slats of the blinds that covered the large picture window. On one side of a large table sat a row of very nervous looking men. On the other, Wilson Fisk, the Kingpin of Crime, sat in his wheelchair. The once formidable figure had been in ill health for months now, and it showed. He had lost a great deal of weight, and ran out of breath quickly, having to pause often while speaking.
But he was still the Kingpin, and when he wasn't happy, lesser men shook in their boots.
“Gentlemen,” Wilson asked in a quiet tone. “We have a problem.” The fear he saw dance across the assembled group's faces did nothing to help his mood. “Over the past month, we have…had millions of dollars stolen from us. Literally stolen right out of our hands by…The Vulture ? An aged scavenger in a flying suit? How is this happening? Johnson?”
The man on the far-left, who looked like he had stepped right out of The Godfather , with his pinstriped suit and slicked back black hair, startled at the mention of his name.
“Uhh, boss, it's like no matter how we change our routes, or routines, or whatever, he…the Vulture guy…he knows where we'll be. And he disappears just as fast as he strikes. It's almost like…”
“…Almost like he had…inside information,” the Kingpin interrupted. “And that almost makes me more upset than…the loss of the money. There is more to it than that, however. This…whole motif seems beyond someone like The Vulture. Someone must be planning these thefts for him.”
Another of the Kingpin's lieutenants spoke up. “But why's he stealing from us? He's gotta know that's like a death sentence.”
Kingpin took a deep breath. “To weaken us. Whoever is behind this is planning a takeover. But who is it?” he seemed to ask more to himself than to the assemblage. He then focused back on the men in front of him. “You have 48 hours…to find out who is behind this, and where the leak in our organization is. If you don't, I'll…replace…you all. Understood?”
The collective gulp was audible, for they all understood exactly what Wilson Fisk meant.
At that moment, the intercom in front of Fisk buzzed. A female voice came from it.
“Mister Fisk? You, uh…you have a visitor.”
“ Marion , you know better than…to interrupt me during a meeting. Tell whoever…it is to leave before I have them thrown out.”
“But Mister Fisk…it's Richard Fisk. It's your son!”
# # # # #
“Cmon, pops! <sniff> Make with the cash!”
Ling Wei looked at the shaking punk waving the knife in front of him. He had been robbed many times since he had set up his tailoring business in Hell's Kitchen many years ago. He had seen the results of drug use and what it would drive people to do. He knew the best thing to do was hand over the little bit of cash in the register and hope the thieves would leave without causing any harm or damage. So he hit the ‘no sale' button on the obviously old register…and nothing happened.
“I'm not kiddin', old man! I'll cut you if you don't give it to me!!”
Ling looked nervous. “I am sorry. The register is very old. The drawer sticks sometimes.”
The punk grabbed Ling by the collar. “Don't screw with me! I said give it to me…NOW!”
“How about I give it to you?” came a voice from the doorway.
Both men turned toward the voice, the punk releasing Ling Wei. In the doorway stood a disheveled man wearing a New Jersey Devils baseball cap. It was pulled down far so his eyes could not be seen.
“Don't play hero, man <sniff>,” the punk yelled, sticking the knife in the direction of the newcomer. “I'll slice you up!!”
The man in the doorway didn't move. “Play hero? No one's playing here, son. Now put down the knife and apologize to the man.”
The punk was dumbfounded for a moment. He wasn't used to anyone standing up to him. “You…you asked for it, man!” With that, the punk lunged at the man, knife stretched out before him.
The man stepped nimbly aside the clumsy thrust, and grabbed the young tough by the wrist. To the punk, it felt as if iron had just clamped around his arm. A quick step and a twist, and the punk's arm was pinned on his back.
“Release the knife or I dislocate your shoulder,” the man said behind the punk.
“Screw you, man!” the punk screamed, more shrilly than menacing. The man barely put pressure on the punk's shoulder. “AHH!! Okay, okay!! Christ!” and he dropped the knife.
The man tugged on the punk's arm, and led him over to the counter, where Ling Wei looked amazed.
“Apologize to the man.”
The punk scowled. “Bite me!”
The man in the ball cap grabbed the punk by the hair and smashed his face into the counter. He bounced back up with a bloody nose.
“Apologize NOW,” the man scowled.
The punk looked like he was about to pass out. “I'm…I'm thorry, man. Oh, god, my dose. Jutht don't hurt me any more, mithter!”
The man led the punk to the door. “There's a hospital three blocks down,” the man said, releasing the punk. “Get your nose checked out there, and tell them you want into rehab. If you don't, I WILL find you, and make this incident look like Sunday school. Understand?”
The punk shook his head. “Yeah, I got it. Rehab. I'll be an angel. I thwear it!” He ran off that the man in the ball cap had pointed.
The man turned back to Ling Wei. “Are you okay, sir?”
Ling Wei finally closed his jaw, which he had just realized had been hanging open since the mystery man had first entered.
“That…that was incredible,” Ling Wei exclaimed.
“No, that was sad,” the man replied.
“You…you deserve reward! I…I don't have much money…” Ling continued.
The man held up his hand. “No, I didn't do this for money,” and turned toward the door.
Ling grabbed him before he could go. “Then…clothes! I make you new clothes!”
This stopped the man. He turned slowly toward Ling Wei, a smile upon his half-covered face. “Actually, I do believe there is something you can make me…”
# # # # #
“I'm not very happy right now, Owlsley.”
“Right now? When are you ever happy, Adrian ?”
“Don't play with me, Owlsley.”
Leland Owlsley, the criminal known as The Owl, turned his chair around to face the aged man in the green, winged suit. “What is it, Adrian ?”
Adrian Toomes, The Vulture, dropped a briefcase on the desk between the two men. Attached to the handle was one end of a set of handcuffs. The other end wasn't attached to anything, though the cuff was closed. A dark, wet crimson seemed to paint the cuff.
“For weeks I've been doing all the work, taking all the risks, while you've seemed to do nothing more than sit here behind your desk. When do we start to see results?” Toomes asked.
Leland fiddled with the locks on the briefcase for a moment, and then popped the case open. Piles of cash were inside. Owlsley's face brightened for a moment, and then he closed the case. He looked up at Toomes' eternally scowling face.
“You're absolutely right, Adrian, and you're free to take flight any time you wish. Keep in mind, however, that we are attempting to take down the Kingpin of Crime . We aren't just looting banks for cash to retire to Florida , or playing ‘who's got the bigger ego' with the Sinister Six. We need quality men, guns, and most of all, we need a reputation. This money you've been so helpful in getting is getting us all those things. Soon we'll be able to face the Kingpin directly. But wouldn't you rather face him with a hundred well-armed, well-trained men than a dozen crack addicted thugs?”
The Vulture thought for a few moments. “How much longer?” he asked.
“48 hours,” Owlsley replied.” Then we'll make our true opening move.”
The Vulture walked to a nearby window and began climbing out. “Fine,” he said, turning back briefly. “48 hours. After that…we'll see.” The Vulture leapt out the window, spread his wings wide, and flew off.
# # # # #
Matthew had been talking for hours. He had, despite himself, told Doctor Faustus everything. From the accident that had robbed him of his sight, to his training by the martial arts master Stick, to his career as Daredevil. He knew he shouldn't be telling this known criminal all this, but he couldn't help himself. He felt very calm, almost detached from his body. The doctor had taken pages upon pages of notes.
Occasionally, Faustus would interrupt and ask Matthew questions.
“So you're saying you became Daredevil to get around the promise you made to your father not to, ah, ‘always use your brain, not your fists', I believe is how you put it?
“After coming back from, ahem, Hell, you suffered from a bout of amnesia? How did you recover your memory?
“It was the ghost of your deceased mentor that helped bring the different aspects of your personality back together?”*
Many more questions and many more hours followed, until Faustus looked at the clock on the wall. “Oh, my,” he said surprisingly. “Look at the time. We should have been done hours ago. Why don't you go home, and come back tomorrow about 9 AM. That will give me time to go over my notes.”
Faustus helped Matthew to his feet, and directed him toward the door. Matt half-dazedly allowed himself to be led. Faustus reached out his hand, and shook Matthew's firmly before closing the door behind him.
Doctor Faustus moved back to his desk, and picked up the phone. He dialed, and after a moment, the other end picked up.
“Mister Fisk?” Faustus asked. “This is Doctor Faustus. Yes, I just got done with Murdock. I used a mild hallucinogen, which took effect through his skin*. No, no. It's odorless. Even his hyper-senses shouldn't be able to detect it. Mmm hmm. He completely opened up. Faking it? Mister Fisk, it's my estimation that Murdock has had at least four nervous breakdowns in his life, and is probably schizophrenic. He's lucky he's been able to function this well in society for as long as he has. His dual identity has probably helped him somewhat, but it's also part of the problem. It enables him to see his problem almost as someone else's, and never lets him fully deal with what has happened in his life. Yes, sir. I could suggest committal and have the proceedings begun in less than 48 hours. Yes, sir. Good-bye.”
(*Obviously he exposed Matt to it when he touched our hero's hand at the beginning of this issue. ~Jason)
Faustus hung up the phone, and rubbed the hair on his chin briefly before picking up the pages of notes he had taken, and began reading through them.
# # # # #
Matt stood on the sidewalk outside Doctor Faustus' office. The fresh air (as fresh as it gets in Manhattan ) had helped him shake the dazed feeling he had had for most of the day. He couldn't believe he had told the allegedly former criminal all his secrets. He couldn't believe he had shaken the man's hand, when once upon a time he would have been punching him in the face.
Right then, Murdock noticed he was holding a piece of paper in his right hand. It was folded and fit right in his palm. Faustus must have slipped it to him when they had shaken hands farewell.
Matt opened the paper. Scrawled on it was a message.
Cannot speak. HIS ears are everywhere.
Both our lives are in danger. I need your help.
-Faustus
Matt looked at the paper for a few moments. Was this a trick? Was Fisk trying to set him up for something else? Matt wandered off toward home, his mind more filled with questions than ever.
# # # # #
“It is ready.”
The man in the ball cap stirred. He had fallen asleep on a couch in the back room of Ling Wei's shop after the old man had taken his measurements and allowed him to use the shower in Wei's apartment, which was above the shop. It was the first time he had slept in reasonable comfort in…well, in some time. He felt better than he had in weeks.
He stood up, and Ling handed him the garment. “I worked all night on it. I hope it looks all right.”
The man ran his fingers over it, somewhat to Ling Wei's surprise. “I'm…I'm sure it's perfect,” the man said.
Ling turned around as the man began changing. “Are you really him ?” Ling asked. “You've been gone from Hell's Kitchen so long, many of us were beginning to fear you were dead.”
“I was,” the man said, as he placed a crimson glove upon Ling's shoulder and turned him around. “But I'm back.”
Standing before Ling, clad in all red, and slipping a familiar horned mask over his, was a sight to make Ling proud.
“DAREDEVIL IS BACK!”
Next Issue: …And he's back with a vengeance! All our various sub-plots start coming closer together as The Owl makes his first strike on the Kingpin! Richard Fisk's reasons for showing up are revealed. And what's up with Doctor Faustus? Plus, what'll happen to poor Matt and his already fragile mindset when he comes face-to-face with his own alter-ego? Find out in Daredevil #15!