St. Michael looked down upon Matt Murdock's shoulders, through the light of moon, as the sun sank into the night, leaving the Church overlapped in darkness. Were St. Michael alive today, he would've had two distinct reactions... the first, a look of a pity, as he would've seen the obvious weight that Murdock carried upon his shoulders, even as he sat down in the first row in solitude. The second, would've been a visible confusion, at Matt's seeming comfort in the darkness surrounding him. But the truth was... Matt couldn't have cared less if he wanted to, whether it was night or day. Because this was the hour he needed reassurance.
"Forgive me, father, for I have sinned."
Matt removed his glasses, within the confessional. Father Loeb, a priest of which had known the troubled man since he was a mere boy, on the days young Murdock had run inside the church's protective walls for protection against countless bullies and tests of his own faith, looked upon Matt's face within the darkness. A look of dread overshadowing any other emotion, as Matt's blinded eyes stared out at the shadows infront of him.
"And how have you sinned, my son?", Father Loeb asked, knowing he probably didn't even want to know the answer, in truth.
"It's been... a month, probably, since my last confession,", Matt began, a bit ashamed.
"But I had nowhere else to turn."
"Has your faith... diminished, in any way?", Loeb guessed.
Matt was silent, for a moment, before shaking his head, clutching a minature cross he kept within his jacket's lapel at all times. It reminded him of both his vulnerability, and his shortcomings... and rid them from his mind, so he could seek redemption on a day to day basis. Or, in Matt's case, a nightly basis.
"Blindness is my handicap, Father..., Matt answered, looking over at the faceless being beside him.
"Never my faith."
"Then to what sin have you come to confess, Matthew?"
Matt didn't know how to truly go about confessing. He never did. Often, he'd leave the booth before he had the chance. But tonight, he felt, God was the only one he could truly turn to. Because for all of his beliefs, and all of his own contradictions... Matt was most confident in the fact that if anyone was to spare him the condemnment to hell, it would be the Lord. And even that was becoming a slimming chance.
"I had a moment of weakness, a few nights ago.", Matt began.
"A testament to my own will. And I'm afraid that... if I don't face what brought it out, it may never leave me."
"Weakness?", The father questioned. "Weakness in what way?"
Matt's head lowered.
"My morality, Father...", The young blind man answered, clutching the charm in his pocket even tighter.
"I was given the temptation to take a life."
The radio dispatch on a passing cruiser from the streets had hit his radar just minutes ago. And the moment the details became clear, amongst the relays of static... He was off, like a demon from hell, dancing upon the rooftops as if he were one with them. Unintimidated, determined... a true man without fear.
But what had caught The Daredevil's attention most had not lied within the details... they lied within the lack of them. The radio dispatch had been cut off, mid-sentence, as the overseeing officer of a barfight on 5th's larnyx was obviously severed. He recogised the sound, even through the static. And that alarmed him. So it was to no surprise that, despite the fact that he had been secluded blocks away, atop a gargoyle... He never stopped, until he got there. Even with ached muscles and bruised ribs, Daredevil fell through the air, a grace about his movements, as he latched his billy club onto a streetlight below, and grabbed it upon falling.
With three airel twists, each accompanied with the prescision of an acrobat, Daredevil flipped foward and kicked high, smashing through twin doors that were illuminated under the heat of a neon light reading "JOSE'S TAVERN". But upon landing, his billy clubs gripped tightly, Daredevil soon realised that despite the various accounts of body odor and subtlelty of inner temperature... he heard only one heartbeat within the establishment.
That's when it hit him. He was standing in a circle of dozens... perhaps hundreds of fresh corpses, sprawled upon the massive bar that circled him. And in the center, he could hear a live pulse, and smell a definative prespiration of a man who had too good of a time, creating this horrifying revealation as it visibly dawned upon Daredevil.
A clap, followed by a laugh came, before The Man Without Fear finally gathered enough sense about him to grit his teeth, in anger, facing the individual infront of him.
"You've murdered these people!", Daredevil exclaimed, knowing that it wasn't a question, by the blood that he could smell coating the man's fingers, even now.
"Aye. You noticed, I see.", The man exclaimed, as Daredevil sensed a grin come upon his sweat coated face.
"'Twas a barrel of laughs, up until the cops showed up. But I got them in the spirit easily... Heh, they just had to lose their eyes, first."
Daredevil's eyes widened. Usually, when he faced a murderer... any murderer... there'd be a hint of remorse in his voice, or even the faintest jolt of a rise in their pulse. But with this man... he sensed nothing. Just pure, obvious adrenaline. Whoever he was, he clearly enjoyed what he had done here, tonight.
"What kind of monster are you?", Daredevil asked, as the man began to step in his direction, armed with an object he couldn't quite place, at first.
It wasn't a gun. Or a knife. Even a chain. It was small... thin, almost materialistic. But laced with the smell of silver. A razor blade, He noted, as the figure grinned again.
"Monster? I'm touched. Though I'm not one for introductions, really, so I'll just let you call me..."
"BULLSEYE!"
