Archive of Our Own ^beta

Agonized screams echoed through his ears, bouncing through his skull like a knife stabbing his brain. In the distance, over three blocks away, Daredevil could hear the ricochet of bullets and the grotesque squelching of blood matter spraying across the surrounding area. Death. Once again, death was permeating his city, and while this time wouldn’t be the last, Daredevil vowed he would never stop until Hell’s Kitchen became safe, or he died trying, dragged to the pits of Hell.

He ran. The sharp cut of wind brushed against his face, the sound of his steps silent in the night. One heartbeat reverberated in his ears, a strong and clear sound against the faded whispers near it. Faster. He had to go faster, cut the head of the snake before it spread its venom any further.

When he finally got to the scene—near the ports, where the old lamps hummed, projecting a waning light—only two heartbeats remained: the mans, and his own.

Copper was pungent on his mouth, a coiling taste he had all become used to. Ten men laid dead around the stranger, littered with bullet holes through the chest, or anywhere else the shots had landed, effectively sending them to their end. There was a car parked, sleek, the nights’ air sliding off it like butter, and Daredevil could feel the presence of a man leaning on it, gazing at the black gleam of the ocean.

Shrouded in the shadow of a nearby alleyway created by rows and columns of shipping containers, Daredevil listened to the sounds around him, head tilted as he searched for any signs of life he might have missed.

No one. Not even the light pattering of small rodents, as if they knew the area was bad, a place of injustice.

Wisps of a freshly lit cigarette drifted past Daredevil's nose, then the man breathed a laugh, heart rate collected, as if he was not surrounded by dead bodies, happy like he had just accomplished a good day's work.

Daredevil could feel blood rush through his body—a song made by trumpets.

With the moon as his only witness, he sprinted, a silent, powerful run to the man, fists clenched tightly, a piece of his soul sacrificed for the elimination of evil.

No soul should deem themselves the judge, the jury, and the executioner. Life was a blessing, and Daredevil had made it his goal to protect those who went unheard, their pain silent in a sea of tragedy. The forgotten shall no longer be left unheard: Daredevil would be the hero for the underdogs.

The grinding of bone sang cheerfully, and a malevolent grin crept upon Daredevil's lips. The man's increased heart rate filled Daredevil's own heart with a schadenfreude joy, and he pulled his fist back, aiming to hit him again, to knock him out for good, but the man pulled back, dodging.

“You fucking shit!” He cursed, swinging a punch of his own, hitting air. A gust of wind sent a wave of salt upon his tongue. The man's back was towards the ocean, his cigarette falling from his lips as he sprinted, screaming, “You think you’re all that, huh?!”

Daredevil turned, body twisting, avoiding the attack. The man stumbled, the force of his swing throwing himself forward, off balance, catching himself on the car. His breath was heavy, and in the man's next breath, Daredevil grabbed his head, bashing it against the side window. With blood dripping down his skull, he slowly fell down.

Before he ever had the chance to cock his gun, Daredevil kicked the man's side, his weapon sliding out of reach—useless. Fingers clenched in the man's hair, his breath pitching, Daredevil drew his knee up, the protection on his knees colliding with a gruesome clang against the man's skull.

Daredevil was never sure how much time passed him, unable to see its changes or perceive the time itself, yet, it was soon after he had tied the man up with leftover rope near one of the shipping containers did the man wake up with a groan. Though he couldn’t see the man, Daredevil could tell he was confused, and when he had finally heard that uptick in breath, that spike of his heartbeat, Daredevil knew the man had spotted him.

“Who do you work for?”

The man spit at his shoes, lips pulled back in a nasty snarl, blood clotted around his nasal passage. “It doesn’t matter,” he laughed, “he can’t be stopped. Not even by the likes of you.”

“He?” Daredevil questioned, stepping closer to the man, a hand at his side, hovering near his baton. “Who is ‘he’?”

Laughing, the man let his head rest against the metal, glaring up at Daredevil. Sucking his teeth, he spit again, this time filled with blood. “The eschaton is coming,” he said instead, pure amusement in his tone. “A reckoning in its purest form. What a fine place it will be for you, Devil.”

The man's head clanged against the metal as Daredevil's fist collided with his jaw, his bones fracturing from the force of his punch. He grabbed the man's shirt, pulling him in close. “Who is he?!” Daredevil yelled, raining punches, each blow splitting skin. “Who is he?!”

The smell of iron was pungent, and though he was choking on his own blood, the man laughed between each hit like a mad man. The sound of his own heart beat filled his senses, a hot rage overtaking him. Ten dead bodies surrounded them, and the weight was suffocating.

Pulse slowing, the man’s body fell lax.

With a hastily scrawled note, Daredevil left the scene, a heavy feeling weighing on his shoulders.

Hell's Kitchen was broken, and a new sin had appeared with it.

When Matt returned to Nelson and Murdock the following day, he headed straight to Foggy, an all present danger in the air that was slowly chipping away at him. He needs them safe. That was all Matt had ever wanted his friends to be.

The door was unlocked, thankfully, Karen's days of locking the door in fear and distrust gone. Matt could smell the cheap fragrance of bitter coffee from the lobby, so it came to no surprise to him that a hot brew was waiting for him at the bar when he arrived.

“Thanks, Foggy.”

There was a smile in Foggy's voice when he said, from across the room, in his office, “You know it!”, and Matt hated, dreaded really, to be the one to flip his smile, to drape a blanket of concern and worry over him, but he needed to know that danger was lurking, and Matt would not take any chances against his friends safety. Foggy said to not lie to him, and Matt had promised him he wouldn’t. This time, without a flaw, he intended to keep it, wholeheartedly.

He pursed his lips, his coffee left untouched in his mug, fingers brushing the ceramic on the counter. Matt could hear paper rustling, Foggy likely organizing his notes for one of the smaller civil cases that their firm had accepted. Yet, Matt's silence was damning, and Foggy turned his head, attention solely focused on Matt.

A rueful, fictitious smile sat upon Matt's lips, and at Foggy's sigh, he knew the other understood.

“Be careful,” Matt warned and asked and pleaded all the same, ears tuned to his friends beating heart, hoping to never hear that upward spike, the break in an otherwise healthy and true beat—to never hear it go silent. Please tell me you’ll be safe.

“I should be the one to say that to you, buddy.” Foggy replied. He set his own mug down, the clank a bomb set off in Matt's ears. “We’re Nelson and Murdock, avocados at law—we can handle them.”

“No, no, Foggy,” Matt whispered, walking towards Foggy's office, cane left by the front entrance. His stomach churned, a sinking feeling spreading through him. There was something different, and while Matt didn’t know who he was fighting against, there was something telling him it was nothing good. “This is more than just petty gangs, Foggy,” he breathed. “These guys aren’t afraid to kill people and less afraid of getting caught.”

Fans buzzed, breaking the otherwise soundless room. Foggy sucked in a breath, and Matt could hear him grinding his teeth. “I’m pinching the bridge of my nose,” Foggy narrated. He took a deep breath, then exhaled, the tension palpable. “And who are these people? Are you going to be okay?” He asked, then chuckled dismissively. “Nevermind, you wouldn’t tell me even if you weren’t.”

Answering the first question, Matt responded, “I don’t know.” The clack of his shoes was the sound of hidden beasts roaring, each step a step further towards a doom he was unprepared for—another Beast devouring the light he tried so hard to kindle. Brows furrowed, a hand on Foggy's desk, he pleaded, “Please just—please just watch out, alright?”

Foggy didn’t have a chance to respond before the front door opened, the hinges squeaking with the movement. The overly sweet smell of a small box of donuts permeated the air, and as Karen entered the room, heels clicking against the fake, slightly warped, wooden floors, Matt could hear the swish of her hair as she searched the room, then, finally, landing on the pair of them.

Karen headed towards the office, bypassing her own desk and slipping through Foggy's door. She walked around Matt until she was adjacent to him and standing across from Foggy. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah—” Matt shook his head absentmindedly, fixing his glasses, then straightened back up. It was a habit of his when he was flustered, or when he didn’t know what to say, something he was only ever able to stop when he was confined within the walls of a courtroom. “Yeah,” Matt responded, pulling away from Foggy's desk, “we’re fine.”

“She’s looking at you like she doesn’t believe it,” Foggy commented, chuckling. “---raised brow and all.” He pushed out of his chair, amusement laden in his tone, and reached towards Karen, or, more accurately, the box within her grasp. “You’re gonna need to do better than that, Murdock.”

“Well,” Karen sighed, passing the box of donuts to Foggy's hands, who happily cheered in delight, “at least you aren’t telling me you fell again.”

Matt breathed a laugh. “Yeah, uh, not this time.” Reaching out his hand hesitantly for the edge of the door, he slowly backed away. “I’ll get started on Mr. Alfaros case.”

“Want some doughnut holes? They’re a mix of chocolate, glazed, and whatever not-strawberry filling they gave me.”

“Thank you, Karen—” Matt turned towards her direction, giving a slight nod of his head, “---for the donuts, but I’ll have to pass today.”

With that, Matt left the room, shoulders less tense than when he walked in. He’ll keep them safe, he swore it.

Only a few days after Matt had warned Foggy, evidence of the new evil had made itself present, in more ways than one.

Matt and Foggy were out of the office, and it was one of the few days Matt allowed himself a jolt of freetime before he began his prowl during the night. For weeks, Foggy had been trying to convince Matt to join him for a drink, to have an adventurous, chaotic night like the ones they had in college—before Electra, that was—and after much begging, Matt had finally agreed, unable to deny the disappointed beat of Foggy's heart.

“Come on, Matt, live a little!” Foggy whined, a glass of O’Harren’s whisky loosely held within his hand. “We never have nights like these. Just me and you, the iconic handsome and smart duo—with me being the ladies man, obviously.”

“I promise I’m enjoying myself, Foggy.” And Matt meant that. He hadn’t heard much in the few times he tried to listen outside of Josie's rambunctious noise. The early night was somewhat peaceful, with complaints of couples being the only fighting he had picked up on during his time drinking.

“Then have some—”

“---Has Hell’s Kitchen met its maker?” The television spiked up in volume unexpectedly, and Foggy cut himself off, swiveling in his chair until he was able to see the flat screen of the television. Matt followed suit, but in his case, he closed his eyes, focusing on the sound of the reporter.

“---we have been recently informed of a rapid increase in deaths. While we currently don’t know who is associated with the multiple murders of various gang members, innocent lives have been taken from us. The pictures we are about to show will be graphic, so if you have any young ones watching, please be warned now—”

All laughter and drunken ramblings stop abruptly, as if the cord connecting a speaker was suddenly cut.

“What is it?”

“Uh—” Foggy stammered, sounding sick. “Nothing good. God, how can they show this?” Matt could hear Foggy downing the rest of his drink in one shot. His glass hit the table loudly just as the channel was presumably turned off, the reporter's voice gone. “Let’s end the night here, I don’t think I can continue after that.”

“After what, Foggy?”

It was time like these that Matt became overly aware of his blindness. His cane was like a burning flame at his side.

Foggy leaned closer, voice a whisper, as if he couldn’t manage any more strength, or, more accurately, didn’t want to make the connection that what he saw was reality. “There were children. A whole family was murdered. Matt, their wrists were slit and their legs broken.” He took a deep breath, and even being blind, Matt could feel the intensity of his stare. “They were moved to the walkway of the church, the word ‘Retribution’ written in their blood.”

Matt fled Josies in the breath that Foggy used to utter the travesty. His flaming world was dripping red as he rushed towards his home, not even caring for appearances, forgetting his cane. An evil had desecrated his church, proudly walking its way out of the shadows, and Matt felt a raging heat take over his body.

Flying up the stairs, Matt started unbuttoning his shirt, and with one foot in the door of his apartment, he carelessly threw his bag and changed into his gear. The mask felt different than all the other times he wore it before, but as it rested upon his head, Matt knew he wouldn’t stop until he got some answers, willingly or not.

Blood coated his knuckles, breath heavy, chest heaving as he panted. He was on the outskirts of Hell’s Kitchen, body exerted from running all throughout his city. Every pleading breath, he sprinted towards, never taking a moment's breath to rest. Matt knew he was overworking himself, that each place he ran to didn’t need Daredevil to save them, but after what Foggy told him, he couldn’t risk it.

The stench of blood still stung his nose, and from several blocks away, he could still smell it, even as the bodies had already been removed from the sight. Cops and reporters had surrounded his church, Father Lantom hounded by police officers, the sisters and children inside, their anxious whispers bleeding through the narthex. He could feel tens of bodies, but there were three without heartbeats or breaths, and the pungent miasma of blood was most concentrated around them.

He wanted to go over to them, hold his rosary close to his chest as he uttered a prayer of intercession. But he couldn’t. Not now, not when he was dressed as the devil, not when he had been the one to fail them.

Guilt laced his veins, and he threw another debilitating punch to one of the scum around him. The crunch of his bone snapping did little to quell him, and when he heard another scream, he ran, leaving the phone ring out, a tired dispatcher already aware after the silence of the answer that Daredevil had striked again.

Matt could hear the church bell ring, a blade stabbing him in the heart at the reminder. He had yet to visit the church the following day after the incident, but he knew he would make his way there soon, that he wouldn’t be able to stop himself, that the church was calling out to him.

Maybe God knew he was responsible and was calling him to atone; maybe it meant nothing, and it was only his self-condemnation that forced him to visit, but after the fifth time Foggy had caught him listless, caught within his mind in the past three minutes, he collected his papers, letting the bottom of them hit the table so they all lined up neatly.

“Matt, just go.” Foggy said. His chair squeaked, and Matt could tell he was turned towards him. “We don’t have much left and you obviously are not going to get anything else done, so just go, take a break.” A hand rested on his shoulder, squeezing. “You know it’s not your fault, right?”

Silence was Foggy's response, and he sighed. “You can’t be everywhere at once,” Foggy commented, giving Matt's shoulder one last squeeze as he pushed his chair back, then stood up. “There are circles under your eyes. You obviously didn’t sleep last night, and I know you plan on going out tonight. Matt,” Foggy breathed, “take a break. Talk to me, to someone, but you can’t handle this alone. I won’t let you. Not again.”

Metal still filled his nose, the cut on his lip stinging each time he licked his lips. “I know,” he whispered. And he did, Matt had no doubt that if he didn’t start to do something he would get dragged into something else, something he probably didn’t want to do. “I’ll talk to someone,” Matt promised, and at Foggy’s exhale, Matt stood up himself, and left.

There was caution tape creating a box in front of the church, and while Matt wished to go inside, he sat on the bench outside, waiting.

Father Lantom sat down beside him soon after, and offered to make him a coffee. Matt gave a small, unconscious smile, but declined. He couldn’t bring himself to step into a holy place right now, not when he was the cause for a desecration.

“People used to warn kids about me,” Matt started, breaking the barrier of silence he had put between them. “Mothers would say that it was in my blood, that the ‘Murdocks had a devil in them’.” Father Lantom had known all that, Matt knew, but he had to say it anyway, get it off his chest. “And I’m starting to think that they were right. That the devil inside me is evil, and that it’s a cursed part of me.”

His cane was in his hand, the one Foggy had returned to him that morning after he left it at Josies, and he tapped on it, too much energy in his body to sit still. Or, maybe, it was the prayers he heard inside trying to push him away. “I used to think it was just another one of God's gifts,” he chuckled, a humorless sound. “---that even though there was the devil within me, I could use it for something else, something good.” The bustle of Hell’s Kitchen was drowned by the tranquility of the Fathers presence, and he continued. “I feel it within me, Father, raging to be let out.”

“Then don’t let it,” Father Lantom replied, as if it was that simple, as if Matt hadn't just let a family die and let their perpetrator run free. “After David had committed sin, God had given him three choices for his punishment. Do you remember them, Matthew?”

“What does this have to do with—?”

“The question, Matthew.”

“Seven years of famine. Three months of fleeing from enemies. And Three days of pestilence.”

Father gave a slight nod. “And in the end, David chose to fall into the hands of the Lord. God is compassionate, Matthew, he chose to forgive him. Don’t let power corrupt you.” Father Lantom reached over, giving one strong squeeze to his fiddling hands. “Remember what the consequences are, and remember your faith. God would never give you a gift you were unable to handle.”

“What if I want the Devil to take over?” Matt whispered, words an uttered breath that he didn't know he would confess, didn’t think he would ever have the strength to put it out in the open, to let himself be judged.

Children were laughing in the distance, their fits of giggling soft sounds against the chaos around them. The sun was covered by wisps of clouds, the bits of warmth that peeked through seeped into the fabric of his suit.

“God is compassionate, Matthew, but he holds his morals strong.”

Matt could hear him loud and clear, even as the Fathers voice never raised. David was still cast judgment, and Matt would pay the price of his sin if he committed it. God offered the chance of forgiveness, but there was still a price to pay—a sin's consequence remains even when a sin is forgiven.

Sister Maggie’s voice echoed in his mind. “Do not forget your faith,” she had told him time and time again. “Do not commit blasphemy against the Holy Spirit.”

While Matt's faith had wavered once upon a time, it had only grown stronger after, or, that is what he had thought. Maybe he needed to reread the bible again. There was a Devil within him, Matt was sure, but he wouldn’t let it overtake him, and he wouldn't let himself succumb to power.

“Thank you, Father.”

The smell of blood still followed him home, the absence of heartbeats deafening, but Matt would fix it, he would find his repentance.

Daredevil stood out like a beacon in the night, a sanguinary grin stretching his lips as the moon's silver light hid from him.

He'll find him, Matt swore. He'll find the evil plaguing his city and destroy it—that, he was certain.

Plunged into the void of the night, only the echoes of the guilty would be heard ringing through the streets.

Blood poured down the man's face, one of the leads Daredevil had found. A group of arms dealers who were distributing merchandise. Two vans full of ammunition were parked, twenty men had lined, ready to get their share. The scent of gunpowder was strong, and Daredevil was sure it was more than guns being stored.

Fists painted in blood, sparkling black under the moonlight, Daredevil growled, voice like shards of glass, “Who is he?” A broken light buzzed behind him, sparks of electricity jumping off the exposed wires. A sea of unconscious bodies were beaten to a pulp left scattered and disregarded around them.

Answers. He needed answers. Needed a name. Needed something, but the leader, the mastermind, had a hold on them, each perpetrator a loyalist that thought death was better, that their “Retribution” would be met in the end.

A choked sound bubbled up from the man's throat. “Remember this, Devil,” he spat, “When he comes, Hell will be forgotten.”

A punch landed straight to his temple, and the man collapsed.

Every day, the number of souls being taken too soon had risen, and death had permeated the air like a bad smog. Blood tinged the air, and Matt was sure if he could see, Hell's Kitchen would be stained in red. “Retribution” was written after each murder, a symbol that Matt detested with every fiber of his being.

This “Retribution” was undisguised murder, a blatant act of sin posed as a holy act of God.

“You can’t keep going on, Matt,” Foggy worried, pulling Matt's wrist, preventing him from heading into his room.

Cuts littered Matt's face, his lip more split and scabbed than smooth flesh, with bruises a molted purple scattered across his muscles like wilting flowers. A frustrated huff of breath escaped his lungs. “I have to, Foggy, you know what’s been happening. People are dying even when I’m out there, so how can I not go when I can still fight, when I can still get back up?”

Foggy sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “I know, Matt, trust me.” A bitter laugh slipped through his lips like a snake, toxic. “I watch the news.” He tugged on his hair, once, twice more, then he let his hands fall lax, muscles around his jaw pulled taunt, teeth pressed together. “But I can’t watch you destroy yourself, not again, not this time.”

The sun was still out, though just barely. Daredevil had only been a nighttime hero priorly, but after five group deaths within the past month, each one a family with a daughter, Matt had left earlier and earlier. He still clung to the shadows, but he didn’t restrain himself to sticking with them, and soon cast his own.

“I’m going, Foggy, that's final.”

“That’s not final!” He exclaimed.

Matt ripped his wrist from Foggy, walking towards his room, heading into his closet, Foggy following him close behind.

“Matt, please, I just—I can’t see—I’m just worried for you.” Another breath slipped past his lips, and when he spoke again, his words sounded choked. “Just promise me you’ll make it back alive.”

“I’ll find him,” Matt said in response, tugging on the rest of his gear. “I’ll find him, and when I do, he’ll be begging I was as forgiving as God.”

The church was lit with rows upon rows of candles. Daredevil could feel the heat of the fire on his skin, brushing against him in a dangerous tango from the porch. Terrified crying boomed throughout the church, originating in the clear aisle of the nave.

“Please don’t let him get me!” The man prayed. His heartbeat was wild, an erratic thump-thump-thump that threatened to burst from his chest. Daredevil could smell the metallic scent of blood dripping from the man's nose, and the grinding of the man's ribs told him he had two fractures ready to split.

He had just come from a fight of his own.

“I swear, I’ll change. I’ll change! Please, God, please just don’t let him get to me.”

“Let who get to you?”

The man startled, panting, chest heaving as he stared at him. Daredevil knew he probably looked terrifying, standing at the entryway of the church, shadows wrapped around his body, illuminated only by the orange flame of the candles and the red glow that was cast from the glass.

Shaking his head, intelligible words fell past the man's lips. Daredevil took a step closer, entering. He’ll ask for forgiveness tomorrow, but he felt the importance of this encounter, and knew that this was his only chance to get a proper lead.

Daredevil could hear the man pushing back, his hand slipping on blood. His body trembled as if he had been submerged in icy water.

He took another step closer.

“Don’t kill me, Don’t kill me—” the man repeated. He sounded like he was standing before Thanatos, his life expired. “I have a family. I have a family, please, I can’t leave them—I can’t leave them!” He cried.

“Who is coming after you?” Daredevil demanded, taking another step closer.

Blood drained from the man's face, paling.

“James! James Blamore,” he answered hurriedly.

The sound of the name landed bitter on his tongue. His evil. His Beast.

“What does he want with you?”

Tears started pouring down the man's cheeks, his body trembling and trembling. “He wants to kill me,” the man said, voice pitching. Daredevil could sense the fear radiating off the man, lingering heavily in the air. “Everyone who goes against him. Everyone who is part of something. Anyone who has a family,” his voice cracks at the last word, likely thinking of his own.

Blood slid down the man's side, and there was blood on his hands that Daredevil was sure wasn’t the man's own.

“Turn yourself in.” Daredevil commanded.

The man shook his head again, stuttering, “I can’t—I can’t. They will find me. They’ll kill me in there.” His breath picked up again, but Daredevil needed him to listen.

No more people will die on his watch.

“Turn yourself in,” Daredevil demanded, “or you’re leaving your family for the wolves.” He took a step closer to the man, but he continued shaking, heart beating and beating in fear. “Go to Brett Mahoney, tell him you are turning yourself in and that your lawyers are coming. Nelson and Murdock, remember that.”

A tense silence hung in the air, but the smell of the candles were comforting, and after taking multiple deep breaths, the man asked, voice in a whisper, “Do you swear they can help?”

Daredevil nodded, and as the man looked down, thinking, he disappeared.

As he left, he heard the man say that he would go, then silence, his ragged breath and hard thumps the only noise in the church. Daredevil would watch over him, and when he got to Mahoney, he was sure Foggy would scold him for the call he was about to receive waking him up.

“So, let me get this straight,” Foggy started, an irritated tone seeping into his words like water through a cracked dam. “You did your thing last night, and during that you met Danial whatever-his-name-was and made him come to us, a guy with a criminal history that would rival your own if you were ever caught, and expected us to protect him?”

“He has a family, Foggy, and he means it.”

Foggy sighed. It was early in the morning, the day not having broken yet, or, at least, from what Matt could tell. The warmth of the sun had yet to caress his skin. Matt had seen to it that the man—which he found out later was named Danial Rainsford—was safe with Mahoney, and did as Matt asked, asking the detective to ring up the “‘Nelson’, in Nelson and Murdock”.

Foggy had rushed to the station when he got the call, Matt tuning in to the sound of his apartment, at his jolly ringtone he had switched the sound of back when they were in college—a more subtle homage to the old Captain America cartoon that aired when they were kids—so that Matt would know it was his in a sea of other calls.

“You and your bleeding heart, Matt.” There was noise in the background, people moving throughout the small precinct, radios echoing through his ears. “I’ll handle this, but when you come to work tomorrow, I better see a bagel from the cafe on the corner and a coffee from Brewed Awakening on my desk.”

Matt smiled, grateful. He didn’t deserve him, after everything he had put him through. But he stayed with him, and Matt would be forever grateful that he did. “Thanks, Foggy.”

Heading into his apartment, Matt took off his Daredevil suit, attempting to catch a few hours of sleep before the chaos that would consume his life until he caught James Blamore welcomed him.

As Matt drempt, he imagined what it would be like to slit the wrists of the man, to watch him bleed in Matt's own form of Retribution.

After that, more gang members and men of the underground sought out sanctuary with Brett Mahoney, bandages wrapped around their wrists with clumsy stitches weakly holding the skin together.

They were scared. And like rats, they were fleeing, each one uttering a name like a curse, pleading for their life.

“Send me to jail. Somewhere,” one of the men had asked, desperation pouring out of them. Foggy had told him that they all looked as if they had seen death himself, eyes wide and hair drenched in sweat, covered in the muck of their own blood. “Just send me far away from him.”

Two more families had died, bleeding across the pavement in front of the church, and four men died running, bleeding out before they made it to the precinct or a hospital.

Daredevil was making a name for himself, and while criminals were fearful in their old home of the night, Matt was oblivious to the carnage he had released to the very people he had sworn to protect.

Nelson and Murdock were becoming infamous, and only time knew when their infamy would catch up to them.

“It isn’t safe, Matt,” Foggy pleaded, and Matt knew he planned on saying more, to scold him, to hold him, to punch him then gently brush each new injury adorning his skin like jewels, but Matt, for all he loved and followed God, wasn’t the kindest man, and that wasn’t going to change in one night.

Foggy never got to finish his lecture, and Matt never got to hear Foggy's worried, hushed confession of concerned love, falling into the oblivion of missed opportunities and fracturing hearts that danced between them.

The stench of blood was still too fresh in the Kitchens air, and soon, in a blur, Daredevil had set out into the night, scouring for a man who he only knew the name of, who only let his most loyal run as far as they could manage with the chain wrapped around their throats and blindfolds over their eyes.

Matt would protect his city, his people. That vow rang over and over in his mind, a prayer, and oath all in one breath. Matthew Murdock was the city's savior during the day, and Daredevil would be their prayer in the night.

Faster.

Faster.

He needed to run faster.

How naively he had spoken, had let himself become, falling into arrogance, turning into a fool. He had unleashed the Beast onto the people he loved, had left them unprotected---an easy target---lambs to the slaughter: a waiting sacrifice.

Foggy's pained prayers to him echoed agonizingly in his ears, yet each breath he heard was an angel's blessing. He knew not many got to see the light of day after an encounter with the Retributions gang, and though his blood had frozen over, he chanted every prayer he knew to his God to keep Foggy alive.

(And how evil was Matt, that Foggy was praying to him, pleading for Matt to save him when Matt was the one to lead the Beast to him in the first place?)

When he got to the scene, the men had already begun fleeing as they saw his silhouette approach, their knife clattering to the ground like a gunshot sounding off next to his ear.

Daredevil doesn’t go after them, his mind flooding with memories that have never left him since he was a child.

Foggy's blood permeated the air, staining the wet concrete, darkening it further. All his senses were drowned out, left forgotten, leaving him running completely blind.

Matt was scared. He was scared to go near Foggy; scared that the only way he'd know it was him was if he touched his face and felt the other's blood pool around his fingers, the shape of his friend remembered by the scarring fracture of death.

God, he prayed every night with his whole soul that he would die first, that Foggy would die peacefully of old age—that he would die safe and happy.

“Foggy,” Matt called, panic seeping into each letter of his friend's name. “Foggy, Foggy, Foggy.” It's his turn to whisper the others name in a prayer, searching for, begging for, the other to come find him.

A thundering heart pounded in his ears, and he couldn’t tell if it was his own, Foggy's, or someone else's, but his hand touched a puddle of blood of all same—the feeling familiar—and tears pricked the corners of his useless eyes, helmet constricting. Or maybe that was the lack of air in his lungs, the way his skin felt as if it was compressing his bones, suffocating him? His hands scoured, searching for that familiar warmth of his friend, prayers falling from his lips like tears, pleading that what he’ll feel is a lively pulse.

“Foggy! Foggy, please be okay.” Matt called, voice cracking and words getting caught within his throat. His hands caught fabric, then warmth spread across his body, scuffed knees and bloodied clothes inconsequential as he could finally breathe.

“I’m here, Matt,” Foggy coughed, the pungent smell of copper attacking his senses full force. “I’m okay. But I broke my phone and I need to call an ambulance.”

Matt swallowed thickly, hands reaching for both Foggy's steadily bleeding wrist and his phone simultaneously. “Here.” The phone gets shoved in his friends uninjured hand unceremoniously, and while Foggy dialed for an ambulance, Matt wraps his hands around Foggy's wrist, thumb brushing against the wound, thankful that its shallow, that whatever blade was kissing Foggy's wrist didn’t penetrate his skin deeply.

He could’ve died.

He could’ve died if Matt was too far from the office being Daredevil. He could’ve died and it would’ve been all his fault.

Guilt ebbed away at his soul, his heart shattering as Foggy set the phone down—the distant tune of the ambulance resounding in the night—and placed his free hand on Matt's hair, fingers gently caressing the lower half of his face, then trailing to his back, rubbing soothing circles.

“I’m okay,” Foggy promised. And God, did Matt wish that were true. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t—it couldn’t be—because Foggy was actively bleeding, and all Matt knew how to do was wait for an ambulance to arrive at the scene, Foggy's blood still seeping past Matt's fingers no matter how hard he pressed his hands around the wound, to preserve Foggy's life with his sinful hands.

Matt repeated, “You’re okay. Everything will be okay,” over and over for what felt like centuries. He couldn’t tell if he was saying that for Foggy, or for himself, but he had to say that, had to believe it, had to let the words turn his blood into stardust, for if his words turned into a lie once more, he was sure the Devil would take over for good.

“We’re okay.”

The Devil held a bleeding angel and prayed.

“Is Foggy going to be alright?” Karen asked as soon as he entered the office. There was a faint smell of coffee in the air—the pot having turned cold long ago—and the small box of donuts that Karen had bought right before Matt had called her from the hospital that morning sat lonely on the counter, uneaten.

“He’s hurt,” Matt stated, voice sounding detached from himself, as if he was barely there in his own body. Karen made a wounded noise, and Matt could feel her hand reaching out, her other hand brought over her mouth—a tick that happened whenever she was shocked or worried.

He walked past her, slinking away from her touch as if he couldn’t tell she was trying to soothe him, using his blindness as a crutch. He didn’t deserve her kindness. He wasn’t the one that needed comfort right now, but Foggy, the person who he left alone in the hospital, where anyone could get him, and by the time he arrived there, Foggy would already be dead.

“The doctor said he got lucky—” as if anything that happened could be deemed lucky. “And he should be discharged later today.”

Karen's shoulders dropped, her muscles losing their tension at the news. She didn’t try to touch Matt again, and he was thankful for that. He didn’t think he could handle someone treating him as if he were human when he was the reason why Foggy was in that situation in the first place.

“I’ll get some fruits then!” Karen declared, brushing her hair behind her ear, and making her way to her desk, pulling out a notepad and pencil. There was a smile in her voice as she asked, teasing, mustering up a wavering but determined strength, “What do you think he would like? Besides microwaved popcorn, that is?”

Matt could still feel the blood on his hands—Foggy’s blood. He remembered his wavering heart. The sound of his breaths. The feel of his wound. The scent of metal. The smell of Foggy’s faded, cheap cologne.

“Plums,” Matt responded, voice hardly more than a whisper, but heard nonetheless. He had tried so hard to get Foggy to eat something healthier back when they were in college---or perhaps it was a more selfish quest, so that he no longer had to deal with the overwhelming scent of grease and butter lingering in their shared dorm---but they had found that Foggy loved the taste of plums, so whenever Matt got him something---congratulations, apologies, birthdays---a plum had always accompanied, and Foggy always narrated the smile on his face. “And strawberries.”

The faint breeze of air indicated to him that Karen nodded her head, pencil scribbling away on her notepad. “Then that is what he’ll get, if that’s the last thing I do.”

How Karen could be so positive, Matt wasn’t sure. He didn’t know how she could remain so strong when he was one bad day away from breaking, from being unable to hide his tethering string away from the Beast any longer—the string that kept him in line from snapping, from sending him loose.

“He would appreciate that, Karen, thank you.”

“So,” Foggy said, dragging the sound as he made a complete circle around him, then stood before Matt, hands on his hips and head cocked to the side like a puppy. “Are you going to keep me in your sight forever, or is this our new thing? Because, I have to warn you, humans need to sleep, and I chronically get up at night for a drink, and I know you are a light sleeper. But—” he leaned in closer, a smile on his lips and a wink of his eye, “---if you can handle that, and won’t complain about my processed sugar snacks, then I guess I wouldn’t mind if you lived with me.”

Matt's fingers lightly danced on the bandages encircling Foggy's wrist, the texture rough beneath his skin, guilt filling his heart and pumping through his veins. He did that. He was the one who hurt Foggy, who let him be harmed. “You would be living with me, more like it,” he joked, but it fell flat at the end, his eyes pinched, brows furrowed as his fingers kept tracing the bandage.

Foggy fell silent, the sound suffocating. “It’s not your fault.”

Matt laughed, but it wasn’t light or humorous, just a raw, bitter sound that escaped through his throat unbidden. He wanted to beg for forgiveness and not be accepted. He wanted to grovel at Foggy's feet, hands crossed in a prayer as he searched for atonement. Instead, all he said was, “You can get the bedroom.”

He could tell that Foggy wanted to say more, but he remained silent. Foggy's footsteps bounded over towards the open bedroom door, and as he got to the threshold, he turned back, his eyes burning Matt's skin, and whispered, “It wasn’t your fault, Matt. I don’t blame you.” Then, he walked away, the door sliding closed behind him, leaving Matt to drown in the silence he left behind.

For the first time since he had become Daredevil, Matt found it hard to leave his apartment and take off into the night. Foggy was there, hurt and vulnerable, sleeping away the darkness that the sun had abandoned after her descent into the horizon. More than anything, more than he knew he could even feel, than he could’ve ever anticipated, Matt wanted to stay by Foggy's side, to shield him from the world they lived in, the one he had brought Foggy into.

But yet, at the same time, there were hundreds of people in Hells Kitchen just like him, innocent and unprotected, battling their fears and the monsters that lurked in the abyss of twilight. He never wanted Foggy to be hurt again, to shed his own blood for Matt's pursuit, to have his life taken instead of his own, and that guilt was what drove him to adorn the mask once again, to leave the sanctuary of his apartment and prowl the darkness of his city.

Daredevil was the Hero for the Underdogs, and he would fulfill that vow even if it killed him.

When he got back that early morning, the sun peeking through the splintering cracks of the fading night, Foggy was already awake.

There was a question in the air, one that asked: are you okay? Citing the early morning arrival and split knuckles.

Matt nodded his head at Foggy, leaving the question unanswered. He heard the other take a sip of his coffee, and in that brief moment of early morning silence, he made his escape to the bathroom, holding off the question for as long as he could.

When he couldn’t stay holed up in the bathroom any longer, he crept his way out, making his presence known, Foggy's eyes immediately detecting him. There was a new scent in the air—fried eggs without any seasoning and a glass of freshly ground coffee set right next to it.

“Thank you, Foggy.”

“Well, after your night, you’re gonna need it.”

The phrasing sent a pang down Matts heart, and he was sure that Foggy didn’t mean it, but his lips formed an apology all the same, eyes downcast, mouth pulled in a grim line.

A noise escaped the back of Foggy's throat as he hurried to correct himself. “That’s not what I meant—” at Matt's rueful smile, Foggy took a deep breath, steadying himself. Matt let himself breathe with him, as if his lungs were Foggy's own, both alive and present at that moment, together and one. “You know that music major I dated in college?”

Matt raised an eyebrow at the sudden change of topic, but welcomed it anyways, and, after a slightly confused nod of his head, Foggy continued.

“Well, one of the criminals ringtone—James, I think it was? Was playing Für Elise, and it was so jarring at the time.” Foggy stole a sip of Matt's coffee, and added, a teasing lit to his tone, “Who would’ve thought street thugs still liked classical music?”

Matt's mind came to a sudden halt. James. Foggy said James.

Foggy was in the presence of the evil that was tainting Hell's Kitchen: James Blamore, and lived to sing the tale. Matt knew Foggy was fortunate to still be alive, but he didn’t realize how close his bestest friend was to death, that a miracle had really occurred that day at their mistake with the knife.

His heart was jackhammering in his ears, but he was able to make a choked-chuckle sound.

The smell of his own shampoo drifted under his nose as Foggy gave a tilt to his head, reading Matt's face but unable to come to any proper conclusions. Matt would keep this to himself. Selfishly, he didn’t want his friend to know just how bad he had messed up, and at the same time, he wanted to hide Foggy from the horrific truth for as long as he could.

Foggy toed the line of no longer escaping and leading a normal life. Matt would stand on the opposite side of the line, guiding Foggy away from where Matt would be forever trapped, sending Foggy into the light.

“Where is he?” Daredevil growled, each word cutting his throat, making him bleed. There was a cold, pulseless body being carted away at the Church, the holy ground a grave stained in red. “Where is James Blamore? What is he planning?”

The man's heart was pounding, the wind from above the rooftop chilling, biting into both of their exposed skin and tearing their flesh. He laughed through the blood spilling past his lips, hands balled into fists even as they were tied behind his back. “Retribution!” He proclaimed, "For everyone to feel our pain.”

Daredevil tightened his grip on the man's collar, opaque eyes inches from the man's own. “You answer the questions, or you’ll find out what real suffering is like.”

“Fuck. You.”

A thick stream of blood coursed down the man's face, the crack of his nose the first step to atonement.

“Fuck.” The man groaned, breathing heavy through his mouth, chest and shoulders heaving. “You—Fuck. You don’t know shit what suffering is like, what we’ve all been through.” Heat spread throughout the man's veins, adrenaline pumping. “You will learn what suffering is, what we will become.”

Before Daredevil could respond, foam bubbled from the man's mouth, another life taken in the form of mass retributional hysteria.

Matt didn’t know why he was here.

How he had let Karen and Foggy convince him to take a night off and go to Josies, he wasn’t sure. Maybe it had something to do with the bandage still wrapped around Foggy's wrist, or maybe it was the soft narration of Foggy describing that both him and Karen were giving him their best kick-puppy face even when they knew he couldn’t see them.

Either way, they had managed to trick him long enough that, by the next second, his world was surrounded by the smell of cheap alcohol and rambunctious noise, his original plans of patrolling discarded.

Passing the cue stick, Foggy groaned. “The only reason I’m losing right now is because I’m injured. If I wasn’t, you guys would be wishing you could bet on me.”

Matt held his cane, trying his best to give Foggy an expression that casted doubt on his statement, raised eyebrow and all, but he must’ve been off of where he was sending the look, because Karen gave a light chuckle as Foggy commented, “Three inches too far,” and gently moved his chin so that he was more accurate.

A smile quirked the corners of his lips as a huff of light air blew from his nose. “I’ll get the drinks.”

“Our hero!” They both cheered, clinking their glasses and downing the rest.

Notorious and revered lawyer and reporter they were.

“My Elise, she never cared for drinking,” the man beside him commented as Matt waited for the drinks to be handed to him.

There was a smooth timber to the man's voice, and from the smell of his cologne, he was a man with confidence. Yet, Matt's hair stood on end, instincts warning him of danger-danger-danger. Underneath the cologne was the muted smell of blood and gunpowder.

The man shifted, no sound of the swish of a tie, but instead it was replaced with the unmistakable outline of a gun holstered at his hip.

“I take it she doesn’t like you coming to places like this then?”

His heart rate sped up, a strong, familiar beat of anger rising in the man's chest. “My dear Elise is no longer with us.” The man took a harsh swing of his whiskey, the glass clinking on the table like an earthquake. “She was taken from me. By the people this city churns out.”

Matt could feel the man's eyes locked on to him.

“Did this city take something from you as well?”

There were many things that were taken from him. Many things he wished he could go back in time and reverse, his dads death the most painful one of all. The word “Retribution” sung in his mind like a siren call.

“My father.” Matt answered, the response almost drowned out by the noise around them, but he could tell the man heard it anyway, felt it within his bones.

The man took the final sip of his drink. “We are similar. I can tell. Tell me,” the man asked, leaning on the bar top, his world closing in, a pocket of time, “do you desire retribution?”

Matt's heart pounded in his ears, hands curling into fists. Foggy-Foggy-Foggy. Blood, so much blood. Matt couldn't see the world like most people. Instead of immortalizing an image, he remembered everything else to the smallest detail—the scent of faded perfume mixing with the pungent smell of copper, of a sodden teddy bear, the last breaths someone took, and the sound of a dying heart.

Retribution.

They knew nothing about that.

The sound of a piano prevented him from saying anything, their pocket of time removed, their private bubble popped.

Cash landed on the table, and the man offered his goodbye—“Our Retribution is coming, do bask in it when it comes”---and excused himself, walking away, the classical tune of the piano cutting off as he answered his phone.

The sound rang in his mind on loop, the notes familiar in a far-off way.

“Well, one of the criminals ringtone—James, I think it was? Was playing Für Elise, and it was so jarring at the time. Who would’ve thought street thugs still liked classical music?”

James—The man who spoke of Retribution, who exuded the confidence and anger of all the world, was right there, and he could do nothing. James Blamore was a man among the many. How many times had he been in the same room as him? How many times had he walked the streets and been none the wiser of the man so close to him?

His evil was right out in the open, and Matt had been oblivious to him.

“You’re drinks.” The glasses clacked on the table top, but Matt couldn’t spare Josie anything more than a quick, miniscule nod. He tried to block out the noise around him, letting go of the rest of his senses as he tuned into the conversation James Blamore was having just outside the pub.

“Is everything ready?”

There was a static sound on the other side of the line, the audio quality of the device poor.

“Yes. Warehouse 09, though I’m not sure why you want it to begin in that one, the other warehouse was more convenient.”

Adrenaline spiked, Blamores heart pumping more blood in response to what had to be the unmistakable tells of anger.

Still, Blamores' voice remained steady, built from confidence—from the rage of unacceptance, that cold, dead sound. “Convenience is inconsequential. The message—our Retribution—is what matters.”

There was a noise of agreement, then an echo of the phrase---"To our Retribution"---the line cutting off soon after.

When, was the only thought in his mind paired with the question of, What?

When was their “retribution" planned to occur? And what was in the warehouse that could set off the event? Matt could tell from each well composed tick of the man that he was calculated, but underneath that intelligence was a cold seeded fury at the world—at Hell’s Kitchen.

He needed to stop him. There was a panic in Matts chest that never spiked when he fought, when he went against people tougher—stronger—than him, but his heart was pounding, and the clack of Blamores shoes hitting concrete, and the soft purr of an engine that was no doubt waiting for the aforementioned man, spurred him into action.

Yet, as he tossed money on the counter, senses coming back to him, underneath the pounding of his racing heart, he heard a tick. Tick-tick. . . Tick-Tick, The noise was repetitive, the echo of a timer, the sound matching to the beat of his heart contracting.

The resonance of the timer was far, pushed to the max of his hearing, the outskirts of Hell's Kitchen—the ports.

Sirens blared. People screamed, yelling at officers. The smell of gasoline was heavy in the air, seeping and mixing into the overwhelming smell of alcohol in the bar.

Matt didn’t have to think long about the questions, as soon they answered themselves in the form of Eschaton.

The first explosion rang—the sound of a titans roar and a choir of angels weeping. The Earth shook, trembling as the ground split into two, and Hell was raised.

Once more, Hell’s Kitchen was at war.

Glass cut his skin, a crimson trail left in its wake from the rebound of the symphony of explosions. Smoke covered the heavens, a thick plume of smog cloaking the city, clogging his lungs and poisoning him. Matt had fled the bar, calling out to Foggy and Karen in the screams that followed the tremor—the rattle of their city breaking—and left, chasing after the fading engine that had blurred with the hundreds that ignited with it.

Terror. Panic. Tears. Anguish.

Breathe.

He needed to focus. Focus on the sound of the engine, at the sound of the other man's heart. At the smell of blood and gunpowder.

Ash. Smoke. Cars. Hundreds of them.

In a sea of thousands, in the madness and hysteria of panic, Matt couldn’t narrow where James Blamore was. He continued to run in the first direction he heard, narrowing his senses further and further, ears picking up every quiet and thundering noise that echoed within the Kitchen.

Stick had trained Matt to push his senses, to make them a tool, and advantage instead of a liability. He had drowned the room in sounds so loud Matt couldn’t tell what they were, and had asked him what the neighbors were talking about, or what the people in the next building were cooking, or if the criminals two blocks away who were getting interrogated were telling the truth.

Matt remembered the way his head rang. Remembered how it felt to really be blind, to be trapped in a world where he was vulnerable to everything around him, his senses heightened so high that he was a trembling overstimulated mess of a broken child.

He remembered the feel of hot tears pouring down his cheeks, remembered hearing Stick's disappointed sigh underneath all the chaos. He remembered the quietude of the world when he had finally managed to tune into scenes he never could’ve seen had he been seeing. He remembered the hand that had ruffled his hair as he relayed the information.

Matt was stubborn. He was stubborn, and combined with his penchant for justice, for violence, he had become a weapon that the Chaste couldn’t leash.

Breathing, he slowed his heart rate, calming himself, letting his senses wash over him.

Wind rushed over him, but it didn’t take up space within his mind, as he concentrated like Stick had told him, like how he had practiced over and over, breaching past that barrier where he was nothing, then became everything.

He tapped into his sense of sound, ability pushed to his limit. Beneath the pandemonium, he heard a soft humming.

It was the hushed, whispered melody of Für Elise.

What was it mothers had warned their children about? Beware of the Murdock boys, they’ve got the devil in them.

And like a devil, he hunted.

His legs burned, muscles exerted, unprepared for the chase. That melody was his seven trumpets, the sound of death.

He could taste the wet, metallic sting of blood on his tongue, and felt the cut above his eye drip down.

Daredevil knew the city like the back of his hand, but he didn’t need to know where they were headed, as the vengeful fire prowled around the streets, creeping into vehicles and setting them alight. It was that one miscalculation that had caused the hummed melody of Für Elise to be truncated, as an abandoned car had exploded, and the driver swerved, crashing into the corner of a building.

By the time his body had caught up with the scene his senses had shown him, the driver was left dead, the scent of blood and smoke thick in the air. Still, that same melody was hummed, confident as the world burned around him—the world he, James Blamore, had created.

James Blamore walked the streets as if he was God walking on water.

Blood covered Daredevil's face like a mask, painting his features in a veil of red. He was a man born from spilt blood: vengeance in its purest form. Evil was before him, James Blamore left untouched from the crash as if he had been protected—but God never let anyone go without punishment, and Blamores punishment was in the form of the Devil.

“You will be punished.” Daredevil ground out, stalking towards Blamore, the fire red in the night. There was a broken pipe from a collapsed building next to his foot, and people were crying and fleeing around them, their lives crushed.

He picked it up, felt the indents, memorized the weight, and let the pipe become familiar within his hold. “You are no Retribution. You are a beast that brings suffering—there is nothing holy about your destruction.”

Heat flooded Blamore, skin scorching almost as hot as the flames that burned throughout Hell’s Kitchen. Anger. That same anger from the bar. Indignation colored his words, mouth twisting like a dagger at each syllable. “Death is the curse of this city, Devil!” He boasted, a predatory noise in his laugh, a sound that came from being pushed past anger. As suddenly as the sound came, it was gone, and was replaced by a cold fury. “You know nothing of my Retribution. This,” he raised his arms, gesturing to the cataclysm around them, “is the sign of my love for Elise, of the grief this city gifts to its people in return for loyalty. My retribution is towards this city, Devil—to the people it gives birth to. Let it all burn down to the Hell it came from.”

An explosion resounded, echoing against the pleading, against the cacophony of prayers that were both screamed and whispered. The sound of the city was loud, and while the people were screaming, there was a lack of beating his ears had grown familiar with. Hundreds of people in Hell's Kitchen were dead, their heartbeats—their sound—gone. Silent.

Karen could have been one of them.

Foggy could have been one of them.

His dad had been one of them.

Elektra was one of them.

Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t a city that sprouted evil from its shadows, it was a city that had love, that people cherished, that people called home to. And that very home was being stripped away due to another's evil—due to Daredevils failure to remove that evil.

“Come at me, Devil! Show me the demon that this city has made you become.”

We are similar.

That phrase repeated brokenly within his ears.

We are similar. We are similar. We are similar. We are similar.We are similar.We are similar.We are—

With a guttural roar, Daredevil threw the pipe and ran straight for him.

Fists were bloodied, ribs and bones of all kinds cracked. Daredevil could feel his bones grinding together into dust, could hear at the same time the ragged, agonal breaths that escaped from Blamore.

Blamore was above him, landing a punch to Daredevil's stomach, knocking him to the ground.

“You are nothing more than a man, blind to the evil that this city is. A dog loyal to a master who abuses it.”

Daredevil dodged another attempt for his stomach, moving, using the momentum of his body to land a punch to Blamore's jaw.

“They all deserved it!” Blamore boasted. A declaration. “Never should they have kept this city alive. It was destroyed once, and it should’ve remained that way. Hell’s Kitchen is a mockery to what's pure of this word, a black mark that needs to be erased.”

Blows were exchanged, and Daredevil sent a flurry of hits once he found his opening, never falling or staying down—it was in his blood, after all, to get back up. Murdocks were stubborn, that was their one gift to ward off the Devil in them.

Blamore stumbled back, spitting. His chest heaved, adrenaline pumping through his veins in a rush. His head tilted upward in the direction of Daredevil. From the grinding of his teeth and the taunt movement of his muscles—his heart beating that truthful steady beat even as it pounded rapidly from a mixture of wrath and exertion—Daredevil knew James Blamore was smiling a genuine smile.

“Everyone should just die.”

The disaster, the chaos and tragedy that his city had suffered from at the hands of this evil had replayed in his mind, body remembering each sensation that had accompanied it.

The devil rose inside him like an inferno, raging to take over. It clawed and scratched at the cage of his soul, God the only one holding him back for turning his vengeance into revenge—to hurt Blamore for all the wrong doings he had caused, to endeavor his own path of personal retribution.

Families had bled out at the church, his holy ground not desecrated because of their innocent blood, but because of the sadism of a man who had written his message in red.

Foggy had gotten caught, had been cut like an animal and left to die as one. The rough texture of the bandage never got easier to feel, the stitches underneath still healing, as if they couldn’t leave unless the evil was gone for good—the mark of evil.

Businesses were crushed, and homes had toppled to the ground, the ash and debris shrouding the heavenly light, sending Hell’s Kitchen into a darkness, its citizens unknowing of how to navigate without the light.

A man-made reckoning.

“You are not a God.” Daredevil snarled, knuckles bloodied and raw. He could taste copper on his teeth, felt the absence of the sun and the wrath of flames that replaced her. The shadows he knew loomed high, and unknowingly, the darkness of the night draped over him, his silhouette a mangled beast revealed in the clash of the moon's soft light and the fury of the raging flames. “You will rot in a cell, stuck in a prison where your Elise will watch you die in, forever knowing that her hero had burned down the world she loved.”

“Don't speak of her!” He yelled, that same heat coursing through his body. “You know nothing. Nothing!” he repeated. "This was all for her. This city had caused her death, so it shall die in her honor."

Blamores fists had curled, muscles tensing in preparation for a strike that would never land, as Daredevil jumped back, body twisting, his leg shooting out from behind him in an aerial move that struck Blamore and knocked him down once more.

“I know this was her home. I know that you are recreating the very thing that had caused you suffering. I know that families will never be the same and that the people in Hell’s Kitchen will mourn.” Daredevil grabbed Blamores collar, the face of man turned into one of the devils stared at the evil it couldn’t physically see, but knew he was facing. “But know that they will know of your failure, that they will live in opposition to your miraged truth, that they will rebuild this city out of the goodness this city had instilled in them.”

Daredevil wasn’t worried about a sudden suicide. He knew he wouldn’t have to tear a tooth from Blamores mouth, because Daredevil knew he wouldn’t have one. That wasn’t the kind of man he was. James Blamore would never let himself die before he could taste the fruit from the seeds he planted, was never a man to shy away as he made his statement.

No.

James Blamore was a man who had carved himself from revenge, who let the rage within him consume him like the hungry flames around them. If there was one thing Daredevil was certain he knew about Blamore, it was this: Jame Blamore would never kill himself. Because if what he had said was true? If they really were the same, then that was the decision Daredevil would’ve made.

With a final punch, Hell’s Kitchen's evil had fallen.

He was more blood than man, and when the citizens of Hell’s Kitchen would speak of this day, they would remember the sight of the Devil purging the streets of evil, the body of a man dragged down the blazing, collapsed street in a message that spoke: “This is what will happen. This is the consequence of evil—a price paid by blood.”

They would remember the sight of the Devil, at the punishment he dealt, and experience real change.

“He’s real.”

“I don’t believe you,” a child snorted, a New York accent thick on their young tongue. “Your mom is just scaring you to make sure you do your chores.”

Another child piped up in agreement, standing close to the one who had just spoken.

The first child shook his head. “The Devil is real, I saw him.” he whispered, his voice low, sharing a secret of his city. “He was the shape of a man, but his body was made of blood. A real demon that purges evil—The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.”