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She just stood there. Close enough to reach. Close enough to pull him under.
Daredevil stood there, rain slipping down his face, heartbeat steady despite the storm inside him. And Elektra, close enough to touch, close enough to ruin him, just waited.
That he was more than his past, more than the pain stitched into his skin, more than the war he waged every night.
But knowing something and believing it were two different things.
Elektra didn’t answer.
She didn’t have to.
The weight of her silence pressed against him, heavier than any words she could offer. She had always known the war inside him. Had seen it, had fed it, had become part of it. And yet, she said nothing.
The words left his lips softer than he intended, as if saying them aloud made them harder to carry. He could hear them echoed in his own mind, twisted by doubt. He knew what people told him—what Foggy, Karen, even Stick had tried to drill into him.
Not yet. She was waiting. She always did this, testing the air between them, watching to see if he would break first.
And tonight, maybe he would.
His fingers curled at his sides, tension winding tight in his muscles.
The city pulsed beneath him, a steady thrum of life he usually found comfort in. But right now, it felt distant. Muted.
“ They say I’m more than the scars on my back . “