DC: The Devil Of Gotham

Gotham never truly sleeps. The city breathes in smoke and exhales sorrow, casting long shadows even at noon. At night, it's worse. The darkness crawls through alleys, climbs the sides of high-rises, and presses itself against every cracked window like a desperate ghost. Somewhere in the Narrows, tucked away inside a crumbling apartment that smelled like damp concrete and old whiskey, a man sat alone—still, heavy, broken.

The glow of a flickering television bathed the small room in pale light. A bottle of whiskey—three-quarters empty—hung loosely in his hand. His red hair was unkempt, his beard thick and untrimmed. A pair of red-tinted glasses rested on his face, hiding the lifeless white film over his eyes. Eyes that hadn't seen light in years.

On the screen, a news anchor continued speaking with that forced calm all Gotham journalists eventually learned.

"—And today marks the five-year anniversary of the tragic death of Gotham's beloved District Attorney, Franklin 'Foggy' Murdock. Once known for his integrity and relentless pursuit of justice, Foggy was allegedly killed by none other than the Devil of Gotham—"

The man tensed.

"—the vigilante once thought to be a symbol of hope for the city. Since that day, no one has seen him. Some believe he died. Others think he disappeared into the shadows. But the question still remains: Who was the Devil of Gotham? And why would he murder a non-corrupt DA?"

The man slowly leaned forward, whiskey sloshing against the neck of the bottle. His hand trembled. The anchor's voice persisted.

"This is Vicki Vale, and—"

The bottle flew across the room with a crash, shattering the television screen and plunging the room into silence. Shards of glass sparkled like dying embers across the floor.

The man slumped forward, his breathing uneven. "Damn it, Foggy…" His voice cracked. "I'm sorry. Please… forgive me."

He ripped the red glasses from his face and dropped them on the coffee table with a dull clink. His unseeing eyes were pale, glassy, and filled with pain. A tear traced the lines of his cheek, falling silently onto his beard.

"I never meant for any of this," he whispered.

Then he leaned back on the couch, exhausted, lost, haunted.

And slowly, memory took him.

⸻

Years ago…

"Dad! Daaaad! Wake up! You promised you'd take me with you today!"

Matt Murdock was seven, all wiry limbs and boundless energy, with a mop of red hair that never stayed down. He shook his father's shoulder with as much force as his small frame could muster. Jack Murdock groaned, cracked one eye open, and blinked at the glowing alarm clock.

"Kid… it's 4:37 in the morning."

Matt tilted his head like a confused puppy. "But my alarm said 5:30! I swear!"

From the other side of the room, a low laugh bubbled up. Jack turned his head and saw Foggy, seventeen and smug, sitting up on his bed with a smirk.

"Don't be mad at him, Dad," Foggy said, chuckling. "I might've set his clock an hour ahead."

Jack groaned and grabbed a pillow, hurling it at his older son. Foggy ducked, still laughing, and collapsed back onto his mattress. Jack rubbed his face with one hand and looked at Matt, who stood there looking both betrayed and determined.

"Alright, alright," Jack sighed. "Just give me another hour, okay? I promise I'll take you to the gym. But even boxers need sleep."

Matt nodded, accepting the deal like a little businessman. "Okay. But don't forget this time."

"I won't, Matty. Promise."

⸻

Later that morning, as sunlight began to pierce through the Gotham smog, Jack and Matt stood in line at a hot dog cart near the corner of 7th and Moulton. Foggy had gone off to school, and Jack figured Matt deserved a reward for waking up at an ungodly hour.

"Two dogs, extra mustard," Jack told the vendor.

Matt was staring across the street when something caught his eye—a man, maybe in his sixties, stumbling in the road. Cars honked. A delivery truck roared around the corner. Matt's breath caught in his throat.

"Dad!" he yelled, but Jack was fumbling for cash. Without thinking, Matt broke from his father's side and dashed into the street.

"Matty, wait!"

The truck's horn screamed.

Matt didn't stop. He tackled the old man, shoving him just far enough out of the way. The truck swerved violently, tires screeching. The back doors of the vehicle swung open mid-skid, and something metallic rolled loose—fast, heavy, gleaming.

A canister, small but pressurized, bounced twice and landed near Matt.

Then it hissed—and exploded.

A chemical mist burst into the air, spraying over Matt's face. He screamed and fell to the pavement. Jack was already running toward him, panic in his eyes.

"Matty! Jesus—!"

He dropped to his knees, pulling his son into his arms. The boy clawed at his face.

"I can't see!" he sobbed. "I can't see! DAD—I CAN'T SEE!"

Jack wiped at his son's eyes with his sleeve, but it did no good. The damage was done.

Matt's world had gone dark.