DC: The Devil Of Gotham

The morning sun barely touched the windowsill when Matt sat at the kitchen table, quietly eating cereal. The scent of burnt coffee drifted through the air as Foggy walked in, tie half-done, briefcase in one hand.

"Morning, Matt," he said with a tired smile.

"Morning," Matt replied, tapping the edge of the bowl with his spoon.

Foggy poured himself some coffee, took one sip, and grimaced. "I really gotta stop buying the cheap stuff," he muttered, then placed a few folded bills on the table next to Matt. "I'm working late tonight. Get yourself some dinner—pizza, Chinese, whatever's close."

Matt tilted his head. "You sure you're not just trying to bribe me to avoid burning the apartment down with your cooking?"

Foggy chuckled. "Don't tempt me." He slung his coat over his shoulder, paused at the door, and added, "See you later, Matt."

The door closed, and Matt was alone again.

He pushed the cereal bowl aside, his mind already drifting away from breakfast. He let the city in—the vibrations, the sounds, the whispers and roars. Gotham never slept, and neither did the cries for help hidden beneath its surface.

From the apartment next door, a scream cut through the wall. A woman's voice—panicked. Then a sharp slap, the sound of skin on skin. A child began to cry, soft at first, then louder. Another slap. The man yelling. The woman sobbing. The child whimpering.

Matt's hands clenched into fists.

He'd heard this scene before. Too many times. The same family. The same cycle. But tonight, something in him snapped.

"Tonight," Matt muttered under his breath. "You're done."

The man staggered out of a bar, too drunk to notice the chill in the air. He stumbled into a narrow alley, unzipping his pants to piss on a dumpster.

He never saw it coming.

His head slammed against the cold brick wall before he even knew someone was behind him. He groaned, blood trailing from his forehead, and turned around to face a figure dressed in black, a scarf tied tightly around his eyes.

"What the hell—?"

"You're going to stop hitting your wife and your kid," the masked man said coldly. "If I hear it happen again… I'll be back."

Before the man could reply, his head was smashed into the wall again—hard. Then darkness.

Matt pulled the scarf from his face as he climbed back into his apartment window, his jaw clenched tight. He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, his knuckles bruised and raw.

From next door, he heard the family again. The man yelling, the woman pleading, the child crying. Again. As if nothing had changed.

His anger boiled over.

That night, Matt followed the man through the city, down to the train station where he worked as a late-night janitor. The platforms were mostly empty, quiet except for the hum of flickering lights.

Matt waited in the shadows until the man was alone. Then he dropped from the rafters like a ghost, landing hard behind him.

Before the man could scream, Matt kicked his knee, twisting it sideways with a sickening crack. The man collapsed, screaming in pain, but Matt wasn't done.

He mounted him and began punching. Over and over. Blood splattered. Teeth cracked. He didn't stop.

Not until he heard the man's heartbeat slow, his whimpers fade into unconsciousness.

Matt stood over him, chest heaving, his fists dripping red. For a moment… just a moment… he smiled.

And then the smile vanished. He turned, disappearing into the night.

Two Years Later

Two masked men sprinted out of a grocery store, plastic bags clutched in their hands, hearts racing. They cut through an alley, laughing between gasps of breath.

Then—thwack! A red stick spun through the air, knocking the bags from their hands.

They froze, looking up.

There, perched above them on a fire escape, stood a man in a blood-red suit. White bandages wrapped his fists. The mask covered his face, but the glowing red lenses over his eyes made him look almost inhuman.

"It's him," one of them whispered. "The D-Devil…!"

Before either could run, the Devil leapt down, landing between them with a heavy thud.

A split-kick knocked both men out cold.

Matt stood over them, chest rising and falling. "I hate that name," he muttered.

He climbed the wall and disappeared into the shadows, just as the sirens started in the distance.

Back at the apartment, Matt stood in the shower, letting the water wash over his aching muscles. His body bore years of punishment—scars, bruises, a few ribs still not healed right.

In the fogged mirror, his reflection stared back at him. A stranger, almost. Not the blind boy from Gotham. Not the scared kid who lost his dad.

This version of Matt Murdock had become something else.

He thought back to the night Foggy found out.

Matt had barely made it through the window, his suit torn, blood trailing behind him. He collapsed onto the floor, struggling to breathe. It had been a trap—Falcone's men, dozens of them, assault rifles ready. He was lucky to get out alive.

He heard the door slam open. Footsteps. Fast, panicked.

"Matt? Matt!"

He barely had time to whisper his name before the world faded to black.

He woke up hours later, the pain dulled but still pulsing. He didn't have to see to know Foggy was sitting across from him, arms crossed, full of questions.

"Well?" Foggy said. "You gonna tell me what the hell this is?"

Matt didn't answer right away. When he finally did, his voice was quiet.

"You wanna know why?"

Foggy nodded. "That'd be a good start."

Matt took a slow breath. "When Dad was killed… I heard it happen. Heard his heartbeat stop. He died because he wouldn't throw a fight. Because I wanted him to win. He believed in doing the right thing, even if it got him killed."

He looked up. "That stuck with me."

Foggy shook his head. "So what? You put on a mask and go around beating people up for 'justice'?"

Matt sat up, wincing. "Because the law doesn't always work, Foggy. You try—God knows you do—but it's broken. People slip through. I hear them. I hear the ones crying in the dark, and I can't just ignore it."

Foggy looked away. "You don't think I want to help too?"

"I know you do. But the system you trust? It's corrupt. Slow. It's not enough."

Foggy sighed. "So what—you fix it by becoming some vigilante? What's the end game here?"

Matt leaned forward. "If I can stop one more kid from growing up without a father… if I can make a difference, even a small one… maybe it's worth it."

Silence. Heavy.

Then Foggy spoke again. "You're gonna get yourself killed."

"Maybe," Matt said. "But I can't stop."

Foggy stood up. "You're one year from graduating college. You could be a real investigator. With your skills, your hearing—you could change lives legally."

Matt gave a faint smile. "Maybe. But I couldn't wait to start making a difference."

From that moment on, Foggy didn't try to stop him. Not exactly. Instead, he did what Foggy always did—helped in his own way.

He found a former arms dealer who owed him a favor. Together, they designed a new suit for Matt. Something durable. Something that could take a beating… and give one back.

Now, two years later, Matt stood in the apartment doorway as Foggy pulled on his coat.

"Another long night?" Matt asked.

"Yeah," Foggy sighed. "We've got a witness—someone who can actually testify against Falcone. We're moving him tonight, closer to the courthouse."

Matt froze. "You serious? You can actually put Falcone away?"

Foggy nodded. "Maybe. If he survives the night."

"I'll talk to our mutual friend," Matt said, half-smirking.

Foggy laughed. "Tell him thanks."

That night, the Devil watched from the rooftops as a black van rolled through the city. Inside was the witness—the man who could topple Gotham's most untouchable crime lord.

Matt followed silently, ears tuned, heart steady.

Then—click.

A rifle. A sniper.

He ran toward the sound, leaping from rooftop to rooftop then

Matt hit the apartment window like a wrecking ball, shattering the glass with a powerful side-kick that sent shards raining inward. The sniper barely had time to react as Matt tackled him, slamming him into the floor with a thud that shook the room.

But this wasn't just any thug. The man recovered fast—too fast. He rolled with the fall and kicked Matt off him, springing to his feet with inhuman precision.

He wore a dark, tactical suit, and a manic grin stretched across his face. A belt full of throwing knives glinted under the flickering light of the broken window.

"Well, well," the man said, flexing his shoulders. "The Devil of Gotham. Man, I've been dying to meet you."

Matt rose, his breathing steady. "Who are you?"

"Name's Bullseye," the man said, whipping a knife from his belt and tossing it into the air casually. "And I never miss."

The knife flew.

Matt heard it whistling through the air—spinning, slicing—and tilted his head just in time. It passed by, grazing his cheek. Warm blood trickled down.

Before he could react, Bullseye had already drawn another. This time, he aimed low—straight for Matt's thigh.

Matt spun, avoiding it by inches, and hurled his billy club. Bullseye ducked it, laughing.

"You're quick," Bullseye taunted. "But let's see how long you last."

He threw three knives in rapid succession. Matt weaved between the first two and caught the third mid-air, flipping it in his hand and throwing it back.

Bullseye deflected it with his own weapon, then closed the distance in a blink, going hand-to-hand.

The apartment exploded into violence.

Matt blocked the first jab and countered with a quick elbow to Bullseye's jaw. It connected—solid—but Bullseye absorbed it like nothing, spinning around with a sweeping leg kick that caught Matt off-guard.

Matt stumbled, but caught himself with a handstand and kicked upward, striking Bullseye in the chin. The man staggered back, laughing even harder now.

"You fight like a dancer," Bullseye said, wiping blood from his mouth. "Shame I'm more of a brawler."

He rushed forward, tackling Matt through a coffee table. Wood splinters exploded as the two hit the floor. Bullseye mounted him, raining down fists.

Matt brought up his arms to shield his face, absorbing blow after blow, until he rolled and reversed the position, pinning Bullseye down with a knee.

He pummeled him—once, twice, a third time—before Bullseye pulled a hidden blade from his sleeve and slashed upward, catching Matt across the ribs.

Matt recoiled, gasping as the sharp pain flared across his side. Bullseye kicked him off and sprang to his feet again, twirling another blade between his fingers.

Matt's blood dripped onto the hardwood.

"You're bleeding, Devil," Bullseye said with glee. "Now you're just human."

Matt stood, chest heaving. "So are you."

They clashed again—this time like two storms colliding.

Matt ducked under a slash, countered with a spinning backfist that sent Bullseye crashing into the wall. He followed it with a flying knee, driving the air from Bullseye's lungs. But Bullseye retaliated with a headbutt, dazing Matt, and hurled a knife at near point-blank range.

It sank into Matt's shoulder.

He grunted in pain, tore it out, and used it to slice Bullseye's thigh.

Bullseye screamed and swung wildly. Matt ducked, twisted his arm behind his back, and drove him face-first into the wall. The drywall cracked.

But Bullseye wasn't finished.

With a roar, he elbowed Matt in the face, breaking the hold, and pulled another blade. He swung—it missed. Matt grabbed his wrist, twisted it, and shattered the bones with a brutal snap.

Bullseye dropped the knife, howling in pain.

Matt didn't let up. He spun, delivered a crushing roundhouse kick to the jaw, then used his baton—recovered mid-fight—to deliver a final blow to the gut that sent Bullseye flying through the broken window.

Matt stepped toward the ledge, his body battered and bleeding.

But when he looked down… Bullseye was gone.

Vanished into the night.

Only the wind answered him.