"Why?" Matt growls, sounding four parts pissed off, seven parts desperate. To no one's surprise, getting a retaliatory punch in the face isn't improving his mood. Whenever Elektra's involved he tumbles easily into irrationality, into blind rage, into a version of himself that is all passion with no restraint. It has always been that way, from when they first got together until now when he should be older and wiser and have mellowed out. He has always been somewhat of a wayward Catholic boy.

Trying to keep an outstretched arm between them, Matt tries to keep enough distance between them to avoid a headbutt, but also give himself room to pull an arm back and throw a mean right hook. This is where the Devil lives, in the undercurrent of overwhelming anger and pain, heart pounding in his ears and blood rushing through his veins.

"Why would you hurt her?" He throws another punch. And then another. Fueled by adrenaline, he doesn't seem to particularly care if his fist ends up in furniture instead.