As much as he's been wearing it lately (that is, in all waking hours) it's a damn good thing the Daredevil mask is so comfortable. Matt might've even been inclined to describe it as something of a second skin. That is, at least until tonight. Whatever's adhered himself to the man seems intent on making that old adage into a reality, and it's becoming increasingly difficult to think of anything beyond the constriction around his face.

The whole outfit seems better suited for Mike than Matt, really. The peach and yellow striped shirt beneath a white waistcoat and matching set of trousers seem like they could have been ripped out of the back of his brother's closet for just such an occasion. But it's the mask -- absent any eye holes and with its gold filigree twisting up the sides of his head into the illusion of small horns -- that completes the strange picture.

Matt is armed with a snifter of amber liquid that he occasionally swirls but doesn't sip. "What kind of trick do you think it is?" he probes.