The cold wind howled through the shadowed alleyway, carrying with it the stench of decay and desperation. A distant gunshot echoed like a cruel lullaby over Gotham's East End, where the streetlights flickered erratically. Hidden beneath the shadows of a crumbling building, Matthew St. Jude crouched in silence, his pale white eyes glinting faintly under the moonlight. His stomach churned with hunger, the gnawing emptiness threatening to overwhelm him. Yet his mind was razor sharp, his focus unshakable.
In the distance, a muffled scuffle caught his attention. Two menāboth large, their faces obscured by hoodsāhad cornered a smaller, wiry figure against a graffiti-smeared wall. The victim, an older man draped in rags, clutched a tattered backpack to his chest.
"Give it up, old man," growled one of the attackers, slamming the man against the wall.
The older man whimpered, his voice cracking. "Please... it's all I have!"
Matthew watched silently, his breath steady despite the adrenaline surging through him. To most, the scene would provoke pity or horror. For Matthew, it was an opportunityāa chessboard where all the pieces were disposable except him.
The backpack was the key. Whatever scraps of value the old man clung to were worth fighting for. Or, at least, worth taking.
As the first mugger swung a fist into the victim's gut, Matthew rose from his crouch. He moved with a predator's grace, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the narrow alley. The muggers didn't notice him at first. The older man did, his wide, bloodshot eyes meeting Matthew's unnaturally pale ones.
"Help..." the man croaked, his voice filled with desperation.
Matthew didn't respond. Instead, he closed the distance in a heartbeat. The first mugger turned just in time to see a flash of braided hair and the glint of light off his eyes before Matthew drove an elbow into his temple. The man crumpled like a ragdoll, his head bouncing off the concrete.
The second mugger let out a startled curse, drawing a switchblade from his pocket. "Who the hellā"
Matthew didn't give him time to finish. He grabbed the mugger's wrist mid-swing, twisting it with precision. The knife clattered to the ground, and the man let out a guttural yell of pain. Matthew shoved him hard against the wall, pinning him in place with his forearm pressed against the mugger's throat.
"You're not worth my time," Matthew said, his voice low and cold. Then, with a sudden, brutal motion, he slammed the man's head into the brick wall. The mugger dropped unconscious.
The old man gasped, clutching his chest as Matthew turned to face him. "Th-thank you, son... Iā"
Matthew cut him off with a piercing glare, stepping closer. His presence was overwhelming, like a storm rolling in.
"What's in the bag?" he asked, his voice calm but devoid of warmth.
The man hesitated, clutching the bag tighter. "Just food... and medicine. Please..."
Matthew's stomach growled, but his expression didn't waver. He extended a hand. "Give it to me."
The man froze, his eyes darting between Matthew's face and the unconscious thugs on the ground. Fear outweighed gratitude, and he reluctantly handed over the bag.
Matthew slung it over his shoulder and began walking away. The old man called after him. "But... what about me? What am I supposed to do now?"
Matthew didn't stop or turn around. "Survive," he said flatly, disappearing into the shadows.
As he vanished into the night, a faint smirk tugged at his lips. He wasn't just surviving anymore. He was hunting.
Notes on Matthew St. Jude's Traits:
Physical: Tall and intimidating (6'5"), exceptional strength and reflexes honed by a life of hardship.
Mental: Highly intelligent and calculating; psychopathic tendencies make him emotionally detached and ruthless.
Personality: Cold, opportunistic, and pragmatic; driven by an unrelenting hunger for power and control.
Current Goal: Survival through dominance and acquisition, with a long-term ambition to rise above the chaos of Gotham.