The cold bit deep into Matthew's bones as he dozed fitfully in the shack, his body half-curled under the threadbare tarp. He was used to sleeping light—years on the streets had taught him that anything could happen while the city slept. His white eyes fluttered open at the faint sound of voices outside.
It wasn't the usual drunken banter or distant gunfire he'd learned to ignore. This was different—urgent, hushed, and close.
"...He's gotta be around here somewhere. Spread out!"
Matthew sat up, his body tense, the crowbar in his hand before he'd even realized he'd grabbed it. His ribs ached as he moved, but his instincts screamed louder than the pain.
He crawled toward the shack's single cracked window, peering through the grime and frost. Outside, under the dim orange glow of a streetlamp, were four figures. Two held flashlights, sweeping them back and forth across the playground's rusted equipment. Another had a baseball bat slung over his shoulder, while the fourth carried a pistol, held loosely at his side.
"East End gang," Matthew muttered under his breath, recognizing the faded colors on their jackets.
One of them kicked over a trash can, sending its contents clattering across the frozen asphalt. "He messed up Big Ray and the boys, and you're telling me he just disappeared? How does a guy like that vanish?"
Matthew's jaw tightened. The gang he'd fought earlier wasn't going to let him get away with claiming their territory unchallenged.
The one with the pistol barked, "Check the buildings! He's not gonna get far in this weather. When we find him, we make an example."
Matthew pulled back from the window, his breath steady despite the rising tension. He could run. It would be smarter. Four armed thugs against him—no backup, no weapons except the crowbar, and no margin for error.
But running meant losing what little ground he'd gained. It meant starting over. And Matthew didn't start over.
He tightened his grip on the crowbar, his white eyes glinting in the faint light that crept through the cracks in the shack's walls.
"Let them come," he whispered to himself.
Outside
The thug with the flashlight moved closer to the shack, his breath fogging in the cold air. He stopped in front of the door, reaching out with his free hand to push it open.
The door creaked loudly as it swung inward, revealing nothing but darkness.
"Hey, I think—"
Matthew struck without hesitation. He drove the crowbar into the thug's knee, shattering it with a sickening crack. The man screamed, dropping the flashlight as he collapsed to the ground. Matthew stepped out of the shadows, finishing him off with a brutal swing to the side of the head.
The second thug turned, the beam of his flashlight catching Matthew's face.
"There he is!"
The thug swung wildly with his bat, but Matthew ducked low, slamming the crowbar into the man's ribs. The thug gasped, stumbling backward, and Matthew followed up with a blow to his temple, sending him sprawling into the snow.
Gunfire erupted, the muzzle flash briefly illuminating the playground. Matthew dove behind the rusted frame of a slide, the bullet ricocheting off the metal with a sharp ping.
"Stay on him!" shouted the gunman.
Matthew's mind raced. He couldn't rush a man with a gun—not without getting himself killed. He needed to be smarter. The first thug's flashlight still lay in the snow, its beam casting long shadows across the playground.
Grabbing it, Matthew aimed the beam directly at the gunman's face.
"Shit!" the thug cursed, shielding his eyes as he fired blindly.
Matthew darted from cover, moving with practiced speed. He closed the distance in seconds, slamming the crowbar into the man's wrist. The gun fell from his hand, and Matthew caught it mid-air.
The thug froze, his hands raised.
"Don't..." the thug began, but the cold look in Matthew's eyes cut him off.
The gunshot echoed through the night, and the thug crumpled.
The last gang member turned to run, but Matthew was on him in an instant, tackling him to the ground. The man struggled, but Matthew's knee pressed into his chest, holding him in place.
"Tell your boss," Matthew growled, his voice low and menacing. "This is my turf now. If he wants it, he'll have to take it from me himself."
The thug nodded frantically, his breath coming in panicked gasps. "Y-yeah! Okay! I'll tell him!"
Matthew released him, standing tall as the man scrambled to his feet and bolted into the darkness.
Aftermath
The playground was silent once more, the faint glow of the flashlight flickering in the snow. Matthew stood amidst the fallen gang members, the pistol still in his hand. His breath fogged the air as he looked down at the weapon, a small smirk forming on his lips.
"Step one," he muttered, sliding the gun into his waistband. "Now it's official."
As he turned to leave, the distant wail of police sirens reached his ears. His smirk widened. Gotham's predators had come hunting tonight, but they'd found something far more dangerous than they expected.
For Matthew St. Jude, the climb had only just begun.
---
The cold playground was littered with unconscious bodies, faint trails of blood staining the snow. Matthew crouched over the fallen thugs, working quickly but methodically. He rifled through their pockets, ignoring their groans of pain. Each one had brought something useful to the fight—or so they thought. Now, it all belonged to him.
The first thug, the one he'd struck down at the shack door, had a pocket knife, a cheap flip phone, and a handful of crumpled bills. Matthew pocketed the cash and the phone, leaving the knife.
The second thug had a silver chain around his neck and a slightly battered wallet with a Metro card and twenty bucks inside. Matthew took it all, yanking the chain free and stuffing it into his hoodie.
The gunman had a spare magazine for the pistol, another fifty bucks in his pocket, and a pack of cigarettes. Matthew slipped the magazine into his waistband alongside the pistol and threw out the disgusting cigarettes.
The last thug—well, Matthew didn't waste much time on him. The man had fled, leaving behind little more than a broken bat and the faint echo of fear in the air.
In total, Matthew counted just under a hundred bucks, a pistol with spare ammo, two phones, and a chain he figured he could pawn. Not bad for a night's work.
"Thanks for the donation," he muttered to the unconscious thugs, blowing a thin trail of smoke into the freezing air.
The faint wail of sirens in the distance reminded him that Gotham's predators weren't the only ones prowling the night. He had to move.
Searching for Shelter
Matthew hurried away from the playground, keeping to the shadows and taking a circuitous route through the East End. The stolen hoodie and his dark clothing helped him blend into the night, but his white eyes glinted faintly in the dim light of the occasional streetlamp.
The crowbar rested on his shoulder, a comforting weight. The pistol tucked into his waistband felt heavier—not in a physical sense, but in the promise it carried. A gun wasn't just a weapon. It was a symbol of power, fear, and survival in a city like Gotham.
But power didn't mean much if he froze to death.
He knew better than to head back to the shack. It was compromised now, a beacon for retaliation. Instead, he thought of places he'd scouted before. There was a partially collapsed warehouse a few blocks west, but it was too exposed. The sewers? No. Too dangerous without knowing the layout.
As he walked, his mind raced. Somewhere warm, dry, and isolated. Somewhere he could lay low for the night without being disturbed.
That's when he remembered: the old subway station.
The Subway Station
The entrance to the abandoned station was hidden behind a chain-link fence, the padlock rusted and loose. Matthew used the crowbar to pry it open, slipping through without a sound.
Inside, the air was stale and damp, but it was noticeably warmer than the freezing streets. The faint drip of water echoed through the empty tunnels, and graffiti covered every surface. Broken turnstiles and shattered tiles told the story of a place long forgotten by the city above.
Matthew moved cautiously, his steps echoing faintly. He found an alcove near one of the old platforms, partially shielded by a crumbling support pillar. It wasn't perfect, but it was out of sight and defensible.
He dropped his loot onto the ground, leaning back against the cold wall. The pistol sat in his lap, the crowbar within arm's reach. He lit a joint, the small glow illuminating his face in the darkness.
"Not bad," he muttered to himself, exhaling smoke.
As he sat there, he started going through the phones. One was locked, but the other wasn't. He scrolled through the contacts, noting names and messages that might be useful. Gang chatter, deals, debts—it was all there.
"Information is power," he whispered, a smirk forming on his lips.
The subway station was silent except for the occasional distant rumble from the active tracks above. For now, it was safe. But Matthew knew this was only temporary. Gotham's predators didn't sleep, and neither could he—not for long.
Tonight, he'd rest, but tomorrow? Tomorrow, the climb would continue.