DC: The Devil Of Gotham

Matt Murdock woke to the sound of Gotham—the rustle of newspapers blowing in the alley, the distant sirens, and the heartbeat of the city that never truly rested. He lay there in silence, staring at the cracked ceiling of his one-bedroom apartment in the Narrows. The room smelled faintly of whiskey and rain. Another day.

He sat up slowly, his muscles aching from years of strain and fights long past. His body carried the weight of five years—five years without the suit, without the devil, without Foggy.

The old floorboards creaked beneath his bare feet as he shuffled into the living room. Dust floated in shafts of morning light. He reached for the half-empty bottle on the table, poured himself a glass, and sipped it with a grimace. Cheap, bitter, but it dulled the edge just enough.

He turned on the TV. The news crackled to life.

"—Batman, Robin, and Nightwing successfully stopped Joker's gas attack on downtown Gotham last night. Fifteen injured. Four dead. Among the victims—"

Matt closed his eyes.

The names echoed in his mind, their heartbeats gone. Snuffed out. Innocents. He felt the old stirrings—the itch under his skin, the part of him that wanted to do more than just listen, more than just survive. That part of him that wanted to act.

His hand hovered near the closet. Inside it, behind boxes and files and years of pretending, the devil's suit waited. Red, torn in places. Bloodstained. A silent reminder.

He took a step toward it—but stopped. Images of Foggy's face, that night on the rooftop, flooded back. The blood. The final heartbeat. The scream he couldn't control. The crack of Bullseye's neck.

Matt turned away.

He'd made a promise that night, one soaked in grief and guilt. No more mask. No more devil. Never again.

He grabbed a wrinkled suit from the back of a chair, ran a hand through his unkempt hair, and left.

⸻

Far beneath Wayne Manor, in the heart of a cave carved by time and shadow, the Batcomputer glowed blue against the dark stone. Bruce Wayne sat in front of it, his eyes locked on an old Gotham Gazette headline:

"The Devil of Gotham Vanishes After DA's Murder."

Behind him, the flutter of wings echoed through the cavern. A small voice broke the silence.

"Father," Damian said, stepping out of the shadows. "Who's the Devil of Gotham?"

Bruce didn't turn around. His voice was steady, low.

"He was a vigilante. Operated mostly in the Narrows. No gadgets. No team. Just a red suit and a chip on his shoulder. For two years, he dismantled Falcone operations street by street. Then one night—boom. A safehouse explodes. A key witness dies. Hours later, the Devil kills the DA in front of dozens of people. Then? He disappears."

Damian frowned. "That doesn't make sense. Why fight the Falcones just to kill the DA?"

"I've been asking myself the same thing."

Footsteps echoed behind them. Dick Grayson stepped into the light, arms crossed.

"Because it's a setup," he said. "I met him once. Blüdhaven. He was quiet, fast, brutal—but precise. Took down an entire trafficking ring without breaking a sweat. I was tailing the same crew and caught sight of him. He knew I was there. Smiled right at me."

Bruce finally turned from the monitor. "There's more. GCPD recovered his mask the night of the DA's death. Found a body near the scene. Dental records confirmed it was Bullseye."

Dick raised an eyebrow. "Falcone's top assassin."

Bruce nodded. "And here's the real kicker. Every major case the DA won—every one of them—lined up perfectly with someone the Devil took off the streets first. I think they were working together."

He tapped a key. The screen changed. A red-suited figure—the Devil of Gotham—stood frozen in the surveillance still. Another tap. A new face appeared. Older, beard shadowed, eyes hidden behind red glasses.

Matthew Murdock.

Bruce turned to them. "The measurements match. Height. Build. Movement patterns. And more importantly—he's the DA's younger brother."

Dick stepped forward, scanning the profile. "He's blind?"

"Blinded in an accident. Chemical spill. But he didn't just survive it—his hearing, reflexes, balance—all enhanced. I ran a full bio scan. It's not humanly possible unless something changed."

Damian scoffed. "Let me guess. The chemicals gave him powers?"

Bruce's gaze sharpened. "It wouldn't be the first time Gotham's seen stranger."

"He's a PI now," Dick said, pointing at the file. "Living out in the Narrows. Low profile. No arrests. Keeps to himself."

"Exactly," Bruce said. "Which is why I want you and Jason to check him out. Quietly. No suits."

Dick nodded. "What are we looking for?"

Bruce looked at the screen one more time. The red mask. The man underneath it. The legend forgotten.

"I want to know why he quit."

Behind them, the Bat-suit stood in its glass case, as silent and unmoving as the question hanging in the air.

⸻

Back in the Narrows, Matt lit a cigarette with shaking hands. He hated the taste, but the routine kept his nerves in check. His office was a hole in the wall above a laundromat. A broken sign read: MURDOCK INVESTIGATIONS.

The cases were small. Cheating spouses. Missing teens. Some petty crime leads. Nothing that required fists. Nothing that tempted the devil.

He sat at his desk, running a hand through a file. He could hear the couple fighting two floors below. A baby crying down the hall. A man coughing in the stairwell. Every sound, every vibration, painted the world around him in full detail.

And yet, he felt deaf.

When the knock came, he knew the rhythm wasn't right. Too light to be a junkie. Too confident for a client.

"Come in," he called.

The door opened, and two men stepped inside. He didn't need eyes to know who they were. One heartbeat was calm, focused. The other—it danced with restrained fire.

"Matthew Murdock?" the first voice asked.

Matt tilted his head. "Depends who's asking."

"Name's Dick. This is Jason. We're… looking into an old case. Thought you might have insight."

Matt smiled dryly. "I'm out of that game."

"You're a PI."

"Yeah. And I mostly find dogs or people cheating on their taxes."

Jason stepped forward, folding his arms. "You used to be more than that."

Matt didn't flinch, but his pulse ticked up.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You were the Devil of Gotham," Jason said bluntly. "We know."

The room grew still.

Matt stood slowly. "That man died five years ago."

"Did he?" Dick asked. "Because the city could use someone like him again."

Matt walked to the window, listening to the city below. "Well whoever the Devil was probably doesn't want to put the mask on."

Jason took a step forward. "You think hiding from it makes it better?"

Matt turned sharply. "I don't know what you want from but I'm not the Devil so if you dont have a case for me the door is behind you."

Dick stepped between them, quieter now. "Maybe. But sometimes monsters are the only ones who scare the real devils in this city."

Matt didn't answer. He just stared into the night, at the shadows crawling across Gotham's skyline.

The devil stirred in his chest.

But it wasn't ready to rise.

Not yet.