DC: The Devil Of Gotham

Matt stumbled into his bedroom, blood seeping through the fabric of his suit, each step heavy with exhaustion. The pain was familiar, almost welcome—it meant he was alive. He dropped his baton near the bed, unzipped the top half of his red suit, and peeled it off slowly. His body was a canvas of bruises, fresh cuts crossing old scars like a roadmap of violence.

He grabbed a roll of bandages from the drawer and began wrapping his ribs, wincing as he pressed down on a deep gash near his side.

The door creaked open. Foggy stood there, his face pale under the low light. "Is he safe?"

Matt nodded, barely. "Yeah. Barely. But someone got there first—Falcone's assassin." He hissed as he tightened the bandage. "Calls himself Bullseye. Fast. Precise. Psychotic."

Foggy's eyes widened. "I've heard that name. He's more than just muscle. That guy's a ghost—shows up, kills who he wants, disappears. He's… dangerous."

Matt looked up, his face blank but his voice low with warning. "Yeah. He is."

Foggy didn't say anything for a moment. Then he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Matt, pulling him into a tight embrace. Matt hesitated, then returned it.

"I'm just glad you came back," Foggy whispered.

In Falcone's penthouse office, the air reeked of cigar smoke and expensive bourbon. Rain trickled down the tall glass windows behind him as Gotham groaned under the weight of another storm.

Bullseye was seated backward on a chair, idly tossing a butterfly knife into the air and catching it without looking.

Falcone turned away from the window. "You failed."

Bullseye raised an eyebrow. "Witness lived. Yeah. Not ideal."

Falcone's eyes narrowed. "You said you'd take care of it."

Bullseye's smile widened. "Oh, don't worry. I'm still on schedule. In fact, I've got a better idea now." He flipped the knife and caught it with a snap. "Let's kill the DA."

Falcone leaned back, nodding. "Do it clean. Do it fast."

Bullseye stood. "Clean? No promises."

Two nights later, Matt followed Foggy into a dive bar nestled between two shuttered pawn shops. The place reeked of sweat and stale beer, but it was familiar. Safe, in a way.

"Why are we here?" Matt asked. "I'm twenty. I can't even drink."

Foggy grinned and threw an arm around his shoulders. "You're not here to drink. You're here to meet someone."

From across the room, a woman waved. Blonde hair, confident posture. She walked up, eyes lighting up. "Foggy!"

They hugged.

"Karen, this is my brother. Matt—Karen Page. Karen—Matt Murdock."

Matt extended a hand. "Nice to meet you."

Karen shook it, giving him a curious look. "The famous little brother. Foggy talks about you all the time."

The night passed in easy laughter and shared stories. For a few hours, things felt almost normal.

But it didn't last.

Foggy's phone buzzed. He answered—and Matt could already hear the panic in the witness's voice through the speaker.

"What's wrong?" Matt asked as they stepped outside.

"They're moving him again. Something went wrong."

Matt's face hardened. "Where?"

Foggy gave him the location, and Matt was already ducking into a nearby alley. Off came his jacket and shirt—his suit was underneath, hidden beneath civilian clothes. He pulled up his mask, sprinted for the fire escape, and ascended.

He moved like a phantom across the rooftops, his senses on fire. The city spoke to him—footsteps, heartbeats, the distant hum of a van engine—and then—

An explosion. A flash of heat. The safe house erupted in a roar of fire and concrete.

"No…" Matt whispered, fumbling for his phone. He called Foggy. "It's gone. They hit the safe house. But this wasn't about the witness—this was a distraction."

Then he heard them—familiar footsteps closing in on Foggy's location. His blood ran cold.

"Foggy's the target."

Matt ran, faster than he ever had. Buildings blurred past. The only sound in his ears now was his heartbeat and the echo of his father's last words. Get back up, Matty. Always get back up.

He reached the courthouse steps just in time to hear a gunshot.

"FOGGY!"

Foggy fell to the ground, a crimson stain spreading across his chest. A figure in a red suit—identical to Matt's—disappeared into the shadows.

Matt sprinted after him, rage building like fire in his lungs. He chased the imposter down an alleyway, where the man stopped and slowly peeled off his mask.

Bullseye grinned. "Hey, Red. Miss me?"

Matt's scream of fury tore through the night as he charged.

The fight began like a storm.

Matt threw the first punch—Bullseye caught it with a knife, slicing his knuckles. Matt ducked under a counterattack, sweeping Bullseye's legs, but the assassin backflipped, landing on his feet and tossing a razor-sharp playing card at Matt's face.

Matt turned his head just in time, the card slicing his cheek.

They clashed again—Matt struck with a flurry of brutal jabs, elbows, knees. Bullseye dodged like a dancer, grinning the entire time, retaliating with surgical strikes—a knife to the ribs, a jab to the throat, a baton to the jaw.

Blood painted the alley walls.

They crashed through a chain-link gate into the next street. Rain began to fall, slicking the pavement. Matt's senses adjusted—the rhythm of Bullseye's breath, the squeak of his boots, the shifting wind as a blade was drawn.

Bullseye lunged, stabbing low. Matt twisted, the blade grazing his side. He retaliated with a roundhouse kick that sent Bullseye stumbling into a dumpster.

"I'm going to kill you!" Matt roared, voice raw.

"You're welcome to try," Bullseye laughed, flicking blood from his lip. "But I've got a head start. Your friends dying."

That hit harder than any punch. Matt's ears honed in—Foggy's heartbeat was slowing.

thump… thump… thump…

They fought up a fire escape, clawing and punching and bleeding their way to the rooftop. Lightning struck as they reached the top. Bullseye drew twin daggers.

Matt caught one with his forearm—flesh tearing—but grabbed Bullseye by the throat and slammed him into a ventilation unit.

"I won't let him die!" Matt screamed, pummeling him, fists raining down like vengeance. Each strike came with the fading beat of Foggy's heart.

thump…

Another punch—Bullseye's nose exploded in blood.

…thump…

Another—his jaw cracked, teeth flying into the dark.

…

Matt stopped.

He couldn't hear it.

No heartbeat.

Foggy was gone.

A howl ripped from Matt's throat—anguish, fury, helplessness—and he slammed Bullseye down onto the rooftop with inhuman strength. He straddled him, his fists trembling, blood dripping from his face and hands.

"WHY!?" he roared.

Bullseye coughed, chuckled, blood bubbling at his lips. "Because…" he grinned, "it's fun."

That was the last thing he ever said.

With one brutal twist, Matt snapped his neck. Bullseye's head lolled sideways, the grin frozen in place.

Matt stood, breath ragged, shaking. He dropped to his knees, soaked in blood and rain, and let out a scream that tore through the city like thunder.

He pulled off his mask, threw it off the rooftop, and collapsed beside it—just a broken man in a devil's skin.