The rain hammered relentlessly against the stained glass windows of the old church, a steady drumbeat echoing through the empty pews. The scent of incense lingered in the air, mingling with the cold dampness outside. Matt Murdock stepped inside, water dripping from his soaked coat as he moved silently through the sanctuary.
He paused before a small wooden confessional booth, its dark wood polished but worn from years of whispered secrets. The heavy curtain was pulled aside, and Matt slid into the narrow space inside, the door clicking softly shut behind him.
On the other side, the muffled voice of Father Johnson greeted him gently.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been a long time since my last confession."
Matt took a breath, his voice low but steady, as if unburdening a lifetime in that single moment.
"My father… he was a good man. A hell of a boxer. Tough as nails. But he was murdered." His voice cracked slightly. "I never really got over it. That night… the anger I still carry and it's like a fire burning inside me."
There was a pause, then Father Johnson's calm, understanding voice replied, "Loss can leave wounds deeper than any we can see. But anger, if held too tightly, can consume the soul."
Matt nodded to himself. "Then my mother… she left. Dropped me off at an orphanage and just drove away without saying goodbye. I never saw her again." His fingers clenched into a fist. "For years, I was alone. But then, I was adopted. For six years, I thought I had moved past the anger. I thought I was finally okay."
"You found hope," Father Johnson said softly. "Sometimes, it takes time to heal, but the past has a way of returning."
Matt's voice grew heavier. "Yeah. He left too. The man who trained me… the one who taught me how to live with my abilities. He was gone. Just like that. And the anger came back. Times ten."
A sigh on the other side of the screen. "Abandonment is a heavy cross to bear, but faith and perseverance can guide you through the darkest nights."
Matt exhaled, shifting in the booth. "I kept pushing forward. I went to college. Graduated early, got my law degree at twenty. Landed a job at one of the biggest law firms in Hell's Kitchen hell, all of New York. I was finally happy. I had a best friend someone I could tell everything to, who wouldn't judge me."
A soft chuckle from Father Johnson. "God sends us companions to help carry our burdens."
Matt smirked slightly. "I tried pushing him away at first. Stubborn as a cockroach. But he kept coming back. So, I let him in."
The priest's voice was warm. "Sometimes, it's the stubborn ones who remind us we're not alone."
Matt's tone darkened. "One night, I hear an argument above my apartment. The dad yelling at his wife then he went to his daughter and I heard him force himself on the girl, then the girl crying. I called the cops. The man got arrested but bailed out quick. The mother was too afraid to stand up to him."
His hands clenched again. "So, I went to him. I talked to him."
Flashback
The rain had stopped, but the city streets still glistened under the faint glow of flickering streetlights. Matt's heart pounded in his chest, adrenaline coursing through every vein as he stalked the shadowed alley behind his apartment building. The memory was seared into his mind. The night when justice and fury collided.
He wore black from head to toe. He was like a silent shadow moving through the darkness, his senses heightened, every muscle coiled like a spring. The man stood against the graffiti-covered wall, arrogance dripping from his sneer, but Matt saw through it. With his weakness hidden beneath layers of cruelty.
Without a word, Matt launched forward.
His first strike was a brutal jab, aimed at the man's jaw, snapping his head back. The man staggered but swung wildly, fists flailing like a cornered beast. Matt danced away effortlessly, his footwork precise and fluid, almost like a deadly dance.
A vicious right hook came, and Matt absorbed the blow with a raised forearm, countering immediately with a sharp elbow to the ribs that cracked audibly.
The man grunted, doubling over, but he was far from finished. He lunged, desperate and furious. Matt sidestepped, grabbing the man's arm and twisting it behind his back with a sickening crack. The man howled in pain.
Matt's voice was low, cold. "You will turn yourself in."
The man spat blood but didn't respond.
Frustration flared in Matt's eyes. He drove his knee into the man's midsection, then stepped back, fists ready.
The fight became a brutal symphony of strikes and counters. Matt's fists struck like hammers and sharp jabs to the face, thunderous hooks to the ribs, knees to the gut. The man fought back with wild, savage swings, fueled by fear and desperation, but Matt's training which was years of discipline and control kept him several steps ahead.
A swift uppercut snapped the man's head back again, followed by a spinning backfist that sent him sprawling onto the wet pavement.
Matt crouched over him, rain mixing with blood dripping from the man's cracked lips.
His voice was a harsh whisper, filled with unyielding resolve. "You will confess. To raping your daughter. To beating your wife. Or I will come back."
The man's eyes flickered with terror, the fight draining out of him as reality crashed down.
Matt stood up, chest heaving, heart still pounding with rage and pain.
The night air was thick with tension, the city around them oblivious to the raw justice dealt in that dark alley.
Present
Matt sat hunched, his knuckles clenched so tightly the skin was raw and stained faintly with fresh blood.
He breathed deeply, voice low but steady as he broke the silence. "After my talk with him… he felt guilty. He confessed to everything and turned himself in."
A small chuckle escaped him, unexpected and bitter.
"What's funny?" Father Johnson's voice came, calm and gentle, filled with genuine curiosity.
Matt slowly removed his red-tinted glasses, rubbing his tired eyes. "It's just… something my grandmother used to say. She was a God-fearing woman. Used to warn me, 'Watch out for those Murdock boys. They're got a devil in them.'" He glanced down at the glasses cradled in his hands, a small, almost sad smile playing on his lips. "Guess she was right."
A pause hung heavy between them as Matt's expression darkened. "I feel this anger inside me… waiting to be unleashed. And I'm going to let it out."
Father Johnson's voice softened, careful but firm. "Anger can be a powerful force, Matt. It can drive us to fight for justice, but it can also consume what little peace we have. You must be careful not to let it control you."
Matt slid the glasses back on, the red lenses casting the world in a different light. "Father, God, I ask for forgiveness not for what I've done, but for what I'm about to do."
Timeskip
The cold wind bit sharply at Matt's skin as he stood perched on the edge of a rooftop, high above the restless city streets of Hell's Kitchen. The sky was a canvas of midnight blues and stormy grays, the faint glow of neon signs flickering below like scattered embers. His black and red shirt clung tight to his lean frame, the two bold Ds emblazoned on his chest glowing faintly in the dim light. It was a silent symbol of the man beneath the mask.
Two small horns jutted from the cloth mask resting in his hands, a devilish silhouette against the night. The soft leather of his red Billy clubs felt familiar at his sides, secured snugly in their holsters, ready to be drawn in a heartbeat.
Matt closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. He let the sounds of New York wash over him with the sounds of the distant honking of taxis, the hum of the subway beneath the pavement, the chatter of late-night pedestrians. He listened intently, his heightened senses peeling back layers of noise to catch even the faintest whisper of distress.
Then a sharp, piercing scream shattered the night.
A woman's terrified cry, cut short by the rough grunt of a struggle.
Matt's eyes snapped open, the world sharpening instantly. From his vantage point, he spotted a van idling nearby, its side door swinging open as shadowy figures dragged a struggling woman inside.
Without hesitation, Matt slipped the mask over his face, the cloth settling against his skin like a second skin. The small horns on the mask seemed to flicker to life, casting an eerie glow in the darkness.
The man beneath the mask was no longer just a man.
He was the Devil of New York.
With a fluid motion, Matt drew his Billy clubs, their weight reassuring in his grip. He leapt from the rooftop, landing silently on the fire escape below. The city's heartbeat thrummed through his veins as he disappeared into the shadows, ready to unleash the fury that had been simmering inside him for years.
Tonight, the Devil was awake and the city would know fear.
The dockyard loomed ahead like a shadowed beast, a sprawling tangle of rusted shipping containers, flickering lights, and the salty bite of the harbor air. Matt moved silently through the maze of metal and shadows, his senses sharp, every footstep measured and deliberate. The red horns on his mask caught the faint glow of a distant streetlamp as he crept closer to the source of the menace.
Ahead, a battered white van was parked, its rear doors wide open, revealing a terrified woman huddled inside. Six men stood in two groups of three, flanking the van like predators guarding their prey. The atmosphere was thick with tension, the weight of illegal dealings and broken lives pressing down like the humid night air.
One man, clearly the buyer, stepped forward, his voice cold and authoritative. "The Maggie family thanks you," he said with a sinister smile.
Matt froze. The name cut through the haze of his fury like a dagger. Joseph Maggie was the man who had killed his father and he haunted every corner of his mind. His heart hammered, blood boiling with a mixture of rage, pain, and vengeance.
Without hesitation, Matt leapt down from his hiding spot, landing with a powerful thud on the cracked concrete. The thugs barely had time to react before he was on them.
His first move was lightning-fast a spinning kick to the nearest thug's ribs that sent him crashing into a stack of crates. Another thug swung a heavy pipe, but Matt ducked low, catching the pipe mid-swing and twisting it from his attacker's grasp. With a sharp elbow to the jaw, he sent the man sprawling.
The fight erupted into a brutal dance of fists, feet, and flying weapons. Matt moved with deadly precision dodging punches, blocking strikes, and countering with devastating blows. A left hook snapped a thug's head back; a knee to the gut folded another in half; a swift jab to the throat left one gasping for air.
Despite his skill, Matt wasn't invincible. A heavy punch caught him off guard, slamming into his ribs with a sickening crack. Another thug caught his arm, wrenching it painfully before Matt twisted free and delivered a crushing uppercut.
Blood and sweat mixed in the cold night air as Matt pressed his advantage, fueled by years of pent-up anger and loss. The thugs, battered and bleeding, fought desperately, but none could match the ferocity and skill of the Devil of New York.
Finally, Matt stood over the last man who was the one who had uttered the cursed name. He grabbed the thug by the collar, lifting him off the ground with terrifying strength. The man's eyes widened in fear, sweat mingling with tears.
"Who is Joseph Maggie?" Matt demanded, his voice low and threatening.
The thug trembled, voice barely a whisper. "Hammerhead… that's what they call him."
Before Matt could press further, the distant wail of police sirens sliced through the night.
With a final glare, Matt released the man, who collapsed unconscious onto the wet pavement.
Without looking back, Matt melted into the shadows, the weight of his mission heavier than ever. The night had been won but the war was far from over.