DC: The Devil Of Gotham

Matt Murdock was ten years old, and his world was darkness.

But in the dark, he had learned to listen. He could hear the breath catch in a man's throat before he lied. He could smell rain before it hit the ground. He knew when someone was about to cry, not because he could see the tears, but because he could hear the tremble in their heartbeat. Gotham thought it had taken something from him when it stole his sight—but it had only changed what kind of warrior it had created.

At first, the sounds were unbearable. The world was too loud. Conversations two floors below kept him up at night. The city's heartbeat was a storm in his skull. His father, Jack, didn't know what to do… until he made a phone call.

The man who showed up at their apartment that day wasn't a friend. Not exactly. He was something else—someone from Matt's mother's past. A wiry old man with a hardened face and a walking stick he didn't need.

"Name's Stick," he said, stepping inside like he owned the place. "You hear everything, huh, kid?"

Matt nodded slowly.

"Well, let's teach you how to make that useful instead of just annoying."

From that day on, Stick trained him. Taught him how to focus, how to isolate sounds instead of being overwhelmed by them. He showed him how to move through a world he couldn't see—how to feel the environment. And he taught him how to fight. Not like a boxer, like Jack. No gloves. No mercy.

"You don't have the luxury of holding back," Stick said. "The world already thinks you're weak. Prove them wrong."

Matt did. Every day.

One evening, Jack was in the gym, sweat dripping from his arms as he went round after round on the heavy bag. The gym was quiet except for the rhythmic thuds of his punches and the sound of Matt sitting cross-legged nearby, listening.

Jack finally stopped, panting. He grabbed a towel and walked over to Matt, ruffling his hair.

"So," Jack asked between breaths, "you think your old man's still got it?"

Matt grinned. "As long as your back doesn't give out because of your age."

Jack snorted and playfully smacked the back of his son's head. "Cheeky brat."

That night, the apartment smelled like takeout and laundry detergent. The city's muffled chaos pressed against the windows, but inside, it felt warm. Matt sat with Jack at the table after dinner, laughing from a call they'd just finished with Foggy. Now twenty, Foggy was in college, preparing to transfer to law school soon.

"He sounds tired," Jack said, pouring them both some juice.

"He always sounds tired," Matt replied with a smirk. "You think he sleeps at all?"

Jack shrugged. "Not much, if he's serious about being a lawyer."

Matt paused, setting his glass down. "You're gonna win tonight, right?"

Jack looked over at his son—really looked. And for a split second, something flickered behind his eyes. Hesitation.

"I'm gonna do what I always do, Matty," Jack said. "Go the distance."

Matt's brow furrowed. "You always say that. But you do go the distance. You never let them knock you down."

Jack looked away. That sentence hit deeper than his son would ever know.

He'd been offered a deal. A big one. Throw the fight, go down in the third round. In return? Enough money to send Foggy to law school, put Matt in a private academy, and maybe, finally, get out of Gotham for good.

It was tempting. Hell, it was everything he'd ever wanted to give his kids.

But then he looked at Matt again. The fire in his eyes. The admiration. That belief.

And he knew.

"Yeah…" Jack said quietly, a small smile on his lips. "Well, that's what we do, right? Us Murdocks… we get hit, and we get back up."

Matt grinned.

But Jack felt the weight of the lie choking him.

The fight was brutal. Jack didn't go down in the third. Or the fourth. He kept fighting, round after round. Matt sat in the front row, his ears tuned only to his father's heartbeat. He felt every punch. Winced with every blow. But Jack stood tall.

Then came the final round.

Jack looked over to the corner, where a man in a gray suit gave him a slight nod—the signal. Take the fall.

But Jack's eyes drifted to the front row instead.

Matt was leaning forward, grinning, full of hope. And suddenly, the thought of taking a dive made Jack feel like something lower than the dirt on his boots.

So he didn't.

He won.

The crowd roared. Matt leapt to his feet, cheering. "That's my dad!" he shouted.

But Jack never made it to the car.

Matt sat inside, bouncing with excitement, waiting to tell his dad how proud he was. But then he heard it—raised voices. His father's.

Then a gunshot.

Then the sound of a body hitting the pavement.

"No…"

Matt threw the door open and ran.

"Dad!"

He followed the scent of blood and sweat, followed the fading heartbeat he recognized better than his own. Jack lay in an alley, his white tank top soaked in red. Matt dropped to his knees beside him.

"Matty…" Jack whispered, choking on blood. "I'm not gonna make it. You're gonna hear things about me… that I wasn't a good man. But I never wanted anything for you except a better life. I'm sorry. Tell Foggy I'm sorry too. I love you, son. You both… you're the best thing I ever had."

"No," Matt whispered, shaking his head. "You said… you said you always get back up. You promised."

Jack's heartbeat stuttered.

And then—it stopped.

Matt screamed, a sound of pure, broken fury. "AGHHHHHHHHHH!"

Eight years later.

A punching bag flew off its chain and hit the wall with a loud crash. Eighteen-year-old Matt Murdock stood shirtless in the old gym, panting, sweat dripping from his jaw. His muscles were tight, his hands raw, but he didn't stop until the bag was in pieces.

He sighed, lifting it and dropping it beside a growing collection of destroyed equipment. Then he walked into the shower, letting the cold water hit him like a wall. It was always nighttime in Gotham, but in his mind, it had been night ever since his father's murder.

Stick had taken him in after the funeral, pushed him harder than ever. Matt had trained every day—his senses, his body, his mind. Foggy had finished school, then started working in the DA's office, climbing his way up. But Matt? He didn't know what he wanted anymore.

Law wasn't off the table, but every time he thought about sitting behind a desk while people were hurting outside, it felt… wrong.

After dressing, he stepped out onto the street. He could tell by the cool air on his skin and the faint traffic patterns—it was deep night. The city was restless.

Then he heard it.

A woman's scream. Three voices—male, aggressive. Alleyway. One block east.

He stopped.

His heart pounded. He wanted to walk away. Just turn around and let someone else deal with it.

But he couldn't.

He pulled the scarf from his neck and tied it around his eyes. Then he moved—up a fire escape, across rooftops, guided by sound and instinct.

The moment he landed behind the three thugs, the tension in the air snapped.

"Let her go," Matt said coldly.

One of the men scoffed. "Get lost, Batman wannabe."

Matt grabbed the closest thug's shoulder and yanked him around. A punch to the jaw, a knee to the gut, and a spinning kick sent him crashing into the alley wall.

The second man raised a gun. Matt heard the click before the trigger was pulled—he ducked, kicked the man's arm, disarmed him, then swept his legs out. The guy hit the ground hard. Matt stomped once. Out cold.

The third tried to come from behind. Matt spun, his foot connecting with the guy's head. He dropped.

Matt crouched beside him.

"You're never going to do this again," he growled. "Or I'll find you and break the other one."

"The other wha—AUGHH!"

A clean snap. Then a kick to the face.

Matt stood, turning to the terrified woman.

"Call the cops."

Then he was gone.

Later, back at the apartment he shared with Foggy, he found his brother asleep at the kitchen table, legal papers spread everywhere. Matt gently lifted him and dropped him on the bed, chuckling softly.

"Idiot."

He stepped into the living room and leaned against the window, feeling the city hum through the glass.

There were so many voices.

So many cries for help.

He took a breath and whispered to the night:

"I'm going to help them."

And just like that, something new was born in the dark.