Chapter 1 : New Money
The ceiling was wrong.
Roy stared at the white expanse above him—smooth, pristine, lit by morning sun filtering through floor-to-ceiling windows. His ceiling back home had a water stain shaped like Florida. This one belonged in a magazine.
He sat up. King-size bed. Egyptian cotton sheets. A bedroom larger than his entire studio apartment in—
Had been. Past tense.
The memories hit like ice water. The crosswalk. The truck running the red light. The split-second awareness that this was it, that twenty-seven years of struggling paycheck to paycheck ended with a delivery truck's grille. Then nothing.
Then this.
Six months of hazy adjustment snapped into focus. He'd been operating on autopilot, some merger of Roy's mind and this body's muscle memory carrying him through days he barely remembered. Grief counseling. Lawyers. Paperwork. The funeral he'd attended for parents he'd never met.
Roy Smith. That was him now. The real Roy Smith—the one born to this body, raised in this penthouse, loved by the people in the photographs lining the hallway—had died in that car accident six months ago. His parents hadn't survived either. The soul that woke up three days later in a hospital bed, claiming amnesia from the trauma?
That was him. The other Roy. The one who'd spent his actual life watching Netflix shows about superheroes while eating ramen.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand. A calendar reminder: Dr. Morrison - Grief Counseling - 10:00 AM.
He dismissed it.
The apartment sprawled around him as he walked barefoot across hardwood floors that probably cost more than his old car. Modern art on the walls. A kitchen with appliances he'd need YouTube tutorials to operate. The living room window framed Manhattan like a postcard, the city gleaming in late September sunshine.
He found the study. Mahogany desk. Leather chair. A stack of documents the lawyers had left for his review.
Bank statements first. He'd looked at these before, in those fog-filled early weeks, but now he actually read them. The number had too many zeros. Eight figures in liquid assets, not counting the properties, the investment portfolios, the trust funds. Roy Smith Sr. had been a finance guy. A very successful finance guy.
Photo albums next. A blonde woman with Roy's—this Roy's—eyes. A man with a strong jaw and silver-streaked hair. Birthday parties. Beach vacations. Graduation ceremonies. A happy family Roy would never know.
Something twisted in his chest. Guilt, maybe. He was wearing a dead man's face, spending a dead man's money, living a dead man's life.
Make it worth something, he told himself. That's the only way any of this makes sense.
He kept digging. News clippings—the senior Smith had been civic-minded, apparently. Articles about urban decay. Crime statistics. A highlighted piece about Hell's Kitchen, the Manhattan neighborhood bleeding out while the rest of the city thrived.
And at the bottom of the stack, a business card. Simple. Professional.
Nelson & Murdock, Attorneys at Law.
Roy's breath caught.
He knew that name. Knew what it meant. Knew who worked there—a blind lawyer with secrets darker than his disability, and his best friend who had no idea. Knew the masked vigilante who'd prowl those streets. Knew the kingpin building an empire in the shadows, the woman who could punch through walls, the private investigator drowning her trauma in whiskey.
He knew all of it. Every plot twist. Every character arc. Every death.
Daredevil. He'd binged the whole series twice.
Roy walked to the window. Manhattan stretched below, gleaming and indifferent. Somewhere across that skyline, Hell's Kitchen was rotting from the inside. Wilson Fisk was consolidating power. The Russians were moving product. The masked man hadn't started his crusade yet—or had just begun. Roy didn't know the exact timeline. The show never gave precise dates.
He could stay here. This penthouse, this money, this life—it was more than he'd ever dreamed of. He could invest wisely, travel, live out his second chance in comfort and safety.
But he knew what was coming. The bombings. The bodies. The people who'd suffer while heroes and villains played their games.
Matt Murdock needs resources. He needs infrastructure. He needs someone watching his back who knows the playbook.
Roy pressed his palm against the cool glass.
And I need to matter. I need this life to mean something.
The espresso machine cost more than his old apartment's monthly rent. Roy figured that out by finding the receipt in a kitchen drawer. Four thousand dollars for coffee.
He made himself a cup anyway. The beans were fresh, stored properly, probably sourced from some mountain in Colombia where workers earned fair wages. The machine did most of the work—grinding, heating, frothing. All he had to do was push a button.
The espresso was perfect. Rich, complex, a hint of chocolate in the finish.
Roy drank it slowly, standing at the kitchen island, savoring every sip. His old life had been instant coffee and gas station drip. This was something else entirely. This was what it felt like to be alive in a world where four-thousand-dollar espresso machines existed and you could afford one.
Small joys, he reminded himself. Appreciate the small joys.
He finished the cup. Rinsed it. Put it in the dishwasher because rich people apparently had dishwashers that weren't broken.
Then he went to get dressed.
The closet was ridiculous. Suits he couldn't identify by designer but suspected cost five figures each. Casual wear that was somehow both understated and obviously expensive. He chose something in the middle—dark jeans that fit perfectly, a gray henley, a leather jacket that felt like butter against his skin.
Mirror check. Roy Smith was twenty-seven, according to the documents. Good-looking in an unremarkable way—brown hair, hazel eyes, the kind of face that wouldn't stand out in a crowd. Average height, lean build. Nothing special.
Good, Roy thought. Special gets you noticed. Special gets you killed.
He grabbed his wallet—multiple credit cards, two thousand in cash—and his phone, and his keys. The business card went into his jacket pocket.
At the door, he paused.
There was something else. Something he'd been trying not to think about since waking up in this body. Moments in the past six months where he'd felt... different. A flash of heat in his chest during a nightmare. A strange awareness of shadows in the corners of his bedroom. The sense, sometimes, that his body was capable of more than it should be.
Nothing concrete. Nothing he could point to and say this is real. Just a whisper. A hint.
He'd figure it out later. Right now, he had a neighborhood to case and a lawyer to meet.
Roy grabbed his coat and headed for the elevator.
Hell's Kitchen was forty minutes away. The masked man hadn't appeared yet—at least not publicly. There was still time to prepare.
Time to become useful.
Author's Note / Promotion:
Your Reviews and Power Stones are the best way to show support. They help me know what you're enjoying and bring in new readers!
You don't have to. Get instant access to more content by supporting me on Patreon. I have three options so you can pick how far ahead you want to be:
🪙 Silver Tier ($6): Read 10 chapters ahead of the public site.
👑 Gold Tier ($9): Get 15-20 chapters ahead of the public site.
💎 Platinum Tier ($15): The ultimate experience. Get new chapters the second I finish them . No waiting for weekly drops, just pure, instant access.
Your support helps me write more .
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/fanficwriter1