Matthew’s never exactly been hard to find, even before he made a name for himself as the devil of Hell’s Kitchen, and even with security watching the place it was nothing to find her way into his apartment. She’s used to far more sensitive missions, and thinking of him like that--a mission--she doesn’t know if it makes her feel better or worse about seeing him again.
Elektra paces silently around his apartment, picking things up and setting them back in place, familiarizing herself with his space, and she can still smell lingering touches of the same soap he used before, back when he was hers. Not everything changes.
Whatever it is he’s always had inside him, what it was she saw--and loved--at least he’s come to embrace it. Shame about him doing so in the service of Wilson Fisk. Shame about what it means for him, if he’s not willing to cooperate.
She’s sat in his armchair, one hand on the knife at her side, when he comes home, and Elektra’s certain he knows she’s here before she opens her mouth, even with her heart rate slow and controlled and barely 50 beats per minute. He’s always had a sense for her. She’s always had a sense for him, too.
"Hello, Matthew.” He looks the same, underneath all of it. He smells the same, too. “It’s been a long time.”
@devilsdare | vaguely plotted for the murderdock verse