Chapter Text
He possessed the Devil and the Shadow, holding them both within the palms of his hands, small enough for him to believe they belonged there.
He wanted them to see what he saw, to feel what he felt—to experience the emptiness that had become as familiar to him as the word nothing itself. And for a time, he succeeded. He made them carry the signs of death, made them understand the hunger that demanded blood to soothe their veins. Perhaps he simply held them too tightly. Perhaps they were never meant to remain within his grasp. They slipped through his fingers, escaping the very hands that believed they had the power to possess them.
Or perhaps he had been too blind to see that they had already escaped.
Maybe the Devil and the Shadow had always been more lethal, more cunning, and more stealthy than even he could comprehend. Perhaps they were seeing things beyond what he could ever see, despite the Devil never seeing eye to eye with him, while the Shadow possessed eyes that could witness everything he could not.
Maybe the Devil was never truly his to possess. Even though he had possessed him for a time, the Devil had always carried something within him that could not be owned. Something human. Something that could not be extinguished no matter how deeply the darkness consumed him.
As for the Shadow, he had held her in his possession for as long as he could remember—or at least as long as she could remember herself.
But he had never expected either of them to become more than what he had made them.
He had never expected them to feel.
To suffer.
To love.
To become human.
And he had certainly never expected the Devil to make a sin of his own.
....
The baby cooed as he gazed up with his hazel eyes, shining with innocent trust at the nun who cradled him so tenderly, her own eyes softening beneath the warmth of his gaze. She had been holding him since the days after he had been brought within the walls of the orphanage following that terrible night, and every time she held him, she wished she could keep him safe in her arms forever.
She carried him toward the cradle with a gentle smile, lifting him slightly higher before slowly lowering him onto the mattress. The baby gave another quiet coo as he settled into the warmth of his blankets, his tiny arms and legs stretching before his little face scrunched up sleepily. Sister Margaret smiled and brushed her fingers through the soft tufts of hazel-brown hair upon his head. “You ready for your dreams to take you away, Peter?”
Peter answered with another tiny coo, and she gently rocked the cradle while humming beneath her breath. Sister Margaret continued the quiet melody as the baby blinked his tired eyes, fighting sleep for only a few more moments before his eyelids finally closed.
She leaned down and pressed a tender kiss against his forehead. “There now, my little angel, dream on, Peter,” she whispered soothingly before covering him with his blanket.
She switched off the light and quietly closed the door behind her, leaving the baby alone in the small room. The orphanage had fallen silent. The halls were dark save for the faint glow of the night-lights stretching across the walls, their dim illumination barely enough to guide a soul through the sleeping corridors. Somewhere within the old building, wood creaked softly beneath the weight of the sleeping hours.
But someone else was awake. He stood alone in the shadows, listening to the silence around him.
Stick had entered without being seen, moving through the halls with the practiced ease of a man who had spent his entire life learning how to go where others could not follow. His cane rested lightly against the floor as he stopped outside the small room where the children slept. There was no hesitation in him. No uncertainty. Only purpose.
A purpose he had carried with him ever since he had first sensed that tiny heartbeat.
The heartbeat was small and steady, surrounded by the countless other sounds of the orphanage, but it was unmistakably familiar. There was something about it that had caught his attention from the beginning.
Something that reminded him of his former pupil.
Something that made him wonder what the boy could become.
Stick reached for the door and slowly opened it. The hinges gave a faint creak, almost like a warning, but he silenced it with a careful movement before stepping inside.
His entire body became still.
There.
He could hear him.
The tiny heartbeat.
The soft rhythm of his breathing.
Stick slowly turned his head toward the cradle and walked toward it.
For a moment, he said nothing.
The baby shifted slightly in his sleep, his tiny fingers curling into a fist against the blanket. A soft coo escaped his lips before he became still again.
Stick tilted his head.
He listened.
The boy's heartbeat was strong. Healthy. Alive. Stronger than the doctors had expected.
He gave a quiet scoff. “And they told your father and Elektra at that damn hospital that you wouldn't make it.” His expression hardened. “I thought you weren't going to make it either.”
Stick leaned slightly closer, listening to the tiny rhythm beneath the silence. “But I was wrong.” His mouth tightened into the faintest hint of a smirk. “You're small. Damn small. But you're still fighting. Just like your old man.”
His head tilted again.
Then the thought returned.
The thought that had been following him ever since he had learned that his pupil had become a father.
“You could be useful.”
The words lingered in the darkness.
Yes.
He could do it.
He had wanted to for some time.
Ever since Matt had told him Karen was pregnant, Stick had watched from the shadows. Even after Matt warned him to stay away. And even after Elektra threatened him with the same words. He had followed the trail that had eventually led to the hospital, watching from a distance as Karen went into labor and Matt's world narrowed to the woman he loved and the child struggling to enter it.
Stick had waited.
He had considered taking the boy.
Taking him before Matt could raise him.
Before the world could make him softer and weaker than he had been with Elektra, before Karen, and now… this. He had truly expected Peter to die in the hospital, born in such a critical condition. A fate that would have been—at least to some—soothing, a way to make his former pupil suffer.
He had done it before.
He had taken children beneath his wing.
Trained them.
Broken them down.
Taught them how to survive.
Elektra had been one of them.
Stick had watched warriors train, watched men die, watched good people become monsters and watched monsters convince themselves they were heroes. He knew what the world did to the weak. And he knew what happened when someone learned how to fight back.
He looked down at the baby.
Yes.
He should take him.
Right here.
Right now.
He could lift the child from the cradle, disappear into the night, and raise him far away from the life Matt wanted for him. He could teach him everything Matt had once learned. Discipline. Survival. Pain. Death. Kill. No mercy. How to listen when the world went quiet. How to sense danger before it came. How to become something no enemy could ever break.
Peter could become his pupil.
His weapon.
His trophy.
Something that would never slip through his fingers.
But Stick remained still.
Something inside him refused to move.
Not compassion.
Not mercy.
He wasn't foolish enough to call it either.
Perhaps it was instinct.
Perhaps it was something he didn't understand.
He slowly shook his head. “No.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “No. This isn't your path...not yet.”
Stick stepped away from the cradle. He turned toward the door but stopped once more. His blind eyes remained fixed toward the sleeping child as though he could see the future waiting inside him.
“But when you show it...”
His jaw tightened.
“When you show me what you're capable of, I'll come for you.”
He paused.
“And you will be mine.”
His fingers tightened around the handle of his cane.
“Just like your old man.” A faint, humorless smile touched his face. “And this time...maybe I won't let you slip through my fingers.”
Stick turned away.
His cane touched the floor once.
Then again.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
He walked through the doorway with the same silence with which he had arrived, disappearing down the dark corridor before finally leaving the orphanage behind and stepping into the cold night.
Inside the small room, Peter remained asleep. His tiny heartbeat continued without interruption.
Completely unaware that someone had already looked upon him and decided that, someday, he might become something far more dangerous than anyone could possibly imagine—someone they wished would rise, if only to force his former pupil to face the source of his sins.
But until then…he waits.
....
He walked with measured motion through the alley, which was empty and dark except for the distant hum of the city and the faint glow of a streetlamp hanging above him. Stick walked and walked and walked, his steps calm and steady, but then he froze, and slowly, his lips curled into a low smile beneath his blind, empty gaze.
“Still following the same damn heartbeat,” he muttered. “And that same damn heartbeat is enough for me to listen to it forever and for even to make the heavens shiver and burn.”
He suddenly ducked beneath a swipe of a punch, then spun away from another strike, ducking beneath the next punch and avoiding the kick that followed. Stick swung his walking stick toward his attacker, forcing him to duck beneath it.
Matt growled as he spun, and Stick did the same, their weapons—the batons and walking stick—colliding in the darkness.
Stick replied, “Blood that shares another may drift apart, but that same blood always remembers where it came from and for another to follow it.”
Matt's fists tightened around his batons, and then he gave a growl of rage as he charged. Stick spun, swinging his stick, and the cane collided against Matt's batons. After several spins, strikes, and swipes, Stick grunted as Matt knocked his walking stick from his grasp, sending it flying several feet away. But Stick immediately spun and aimed a punch at Matt.
Matt blocked it and moved to strike back, but Stick dodged and drove his fist into Matt's face before striking him hard in the chest. The Devil grunted as Stick kicked him to the ground. Matt landed hard against the pavement, panting heavily as he stared at Stick.
Stick smiled. “Still mourning. Still angry. Still hunting. And wanting to make the world burn. And yet mourning is blinding more than your anger, making you go from powerful to weak. Just as she made you more than Elektra.”
Matt gave another growl, followed by a grunt that became a roar as he recovered instantly. He swung a fist, but Stick ducked beneath the blow, drove his cane against Matt's stomach, and swept his legs from beneath him.
Matt hit the pavement hard again, only this time harder. Before Stick could move, he rolled and kicked upward, catching him in the chest. Stick stumbled backward with a grunt, and his cane once again slipped from his hand.
Matt moved quickly, retrieving his batons as Stick stood several feet away, his pale, blind eyes locked upon the crimson lenses of the Devil's mask.
For several seconds, neither man moved.
The Prophet locked onto the Devil, and the Devil locked onto the Prophet, both remaining silent. Their pale, dead eyes remained fixed upon one another while their living hearts continued to pound within their chests.
Stick then spoke. “You came here because of the boy. Even though you vowed to your mother, and to him, and to yourself, even for his own good, to stay away.” He gave a quiet scoff. “Heh. I wonder if you can take it when he gets adopted.”
Matt's jaw tightened as his grip around his batons coiled harder, his chest heaving as Stick chuckled softly, listening to the pounding drums of his heartbeat. “You stay away from him.”
“Ah, there it is. The same look you had for your wife. The boy’s mother. Only this time, it’s stronger. Strong enough to make you kill.”
Matt stayed his ground, but he was eager to make the next move, and Stick sensed it immediately.
“You came tonight for the first time in all your life since you had the night as your kingdom. Not as the Devil...”
Stick tilted his head. “...but as a father.”
He let the words hang between them.
“Just a father.”
Matt stayed his ground, but something inside him shattered. He kept his grinding grip around his batons tight, as if they were the only things left to anchor him, but it was impossible. “You wouldn't understand, cause you don't.” His voice lowered. “He is my son.”
Stick's expression barely changed, not even a little. “Your son, Matty.” He let the words linger between them before giving a quiet, humorless chuckle.
“I still remember you, just like I remember Elektra when you two were nothing more than a little boy and girl. I remember you when you were that little boy.” His blind gaze remained fixed on Matt, his tone heavy with disgrace, and his expression sharp enough to feel like he was poisoning Matt with every word. “And now look at you. Look at what you and Elektra have become. I expected so much more from both of you, and now this is what you are.”
His mouth curled into a faint, merciless smile. “You're sitting in a corner in the dark, rocking yourself and crying over the death of your wife, while your own son is being kept away from you. And yet you can't seem to stay away from him.”
Matt froze.
Then he snarled.
His grip around his batons tightened until his knuckles ached.
“But your blood...” Stick continued, his voice dropping lower. “That blood makes you his father. I can recognize it. Blood knows blood, Matty.”
He stepped forward. “And someday, that kid is going to grow up. Maybe he'll get married. Maybe he'll have that warm, happy, sweet life you thought you were going to have with Karen. Maybe he'll have children of his own. Maybe you'll even have grandchildren.”
Stick's smile became colder.
“But none of them will know you.”
He paused.
“Just like he won't.”
Matt's breathing grew heavier.
Stick tilted his head, listening to every ragged breath, every violent beat of the heart beneath Matt's armor. “You lost him once. He was born too early. Twenty-nine weeks. Nearly died before you even had the chance to hold him. He struggled just to breathe.” His voice remained disturbingly calm. “If I had been that merciful, I would've gone in there and done him a favor.”
Matt's jaw tightened.
“And now look at you.”
Stick's voice sharpened.
“Karen is dead. You lost your son. And soon, when he gets adopted, he'll never know you. And now you're crawling out of the shadows because you suddenly remember what it means to be a father.”
He gave a quiet scoff.
“Like the one you had?”
A pause.
“Oh, right.”
Stick's smile disappeared.
“Your father was killed.”
The words struck harder than any punch.
“And you lost the meaning of what it was like to have a father. So tell me, Matty...how do you sleep at night?” Stick leaned closer. “I can hear your screams from farther away than you think. Sometimes they're almost music.” His lips curled into another cruel smile. “The price you paid for turning your back on me. On Elektra. All for this.”
He gestured toward Matt.
“All for what you think you owe them.”
Then Stick mocked him further.
“I mean, look at you, Matty. Look at what you've become.”
His head tilted.
“Did you really think you could do it? That you, the Devil, could create something so pure as your son and believe it was a gift?”
He gave a quiet, contemptuous laugh. “Did you really think you could do that?”
Matt's rage was growing.
His hands shook.
His entire body trembled beneath the armor as every sound around him seemed to become sharper, hotter, louder—the distant traffic, the electrical hum of the streetlamp, the faint movement of the city beyond the alley, all of it becoming one unbearable blaze of sound. His anger burned so fiercely that for one terrible moment it felt as though the darkness itself had caught fire.
Stick remained completely unintimidated.
Then he gave him one final smirk.
“Maybe I should have taken the boy when I had the chance.”
A pause.
“At least I could've made a better man out of him.”
That did it.
Matt moved.
In a savage instant, he crossed the distance between them, seized Stick by the front of his clothing, and slammed him hard against the brick wall.
Stick grunted as the impact echoed through the alley.
Matt drove his forearm against his throat, pinning him against the cold stone with enough force to make the brick scrape beneath his armor.
“YOU STAY AWAY FROM GABRIEL!!!! DON'T SAY HIS OR KAREN'S NAMES AGAIN!!!!”
Their eyes locked.
The alley fell silent.
Only Stick's breathing remained, accompanied by the rapid pounding of his heart beneath Matt's forearm and the deep, furious breaths coming from the Devil himself.
Stick didn't flinch.
He simply listened.
Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted.
“Funny.”
A beat.
“I thought the lady...your mother...said his name was Peter.”
Matt stared at him.
Stick's expression remained almost unnervingly calm. “Did you really think I’d stay that far away from you and Ellie?” he asked.
Matt didn’t answer. He stayed silent, feeling his rage coil tighter inside him.
“That rage...it really has made you as lethal as Elektra when she was young and even now. Maybe I should have done better for the two of you.”
A strained grunt escaped Stick as Matt's elbow dug deeper into his neck.
Stick wheezed, his breath catching painfully in his throat.
But Matt only leaned closer.
Every muscle in his body was tense, every bone and fiber straining beneath the armor. His heightened senses were filled with the sound of Stick's heartbeat, the rasp of his breathing, and the faint creak of his clothing against the brick wall.
Matt looked as though he wanted to kill him.
His voice dropped into a low, vicious snarl. “If you go near my son again...I'll kill you.”
Stick choked.
Then he gasped out another wheezing breath as Matt rammed him against the wall one final time before releasing him.
Stick dropped to the ground in a crouch, one hand immediately rising to his throat as he coughed and struggled to catch his breath.
He listened.
He could hear Matt walking away.
The footsteps grew quieter as the Devil disappeared deeper into the shadows of the alley.
Stick slowly rose to his feet, still rubbing his bruised throat.
Then he called after him.
“You can't protect him from what he is, Matty. You can't protect him from what you are, Matt. No matter what name you gave him, no matter how many names you will give him, and no matter how many families he can have...he is still your son.”
Stick stood alone in the darkness, his blind gaze fixed toward the direction Matt had gone.
“He is still made of your blood, and nothing can change that.” A faint, humorless smile touched his face. “I really just came here to see if he really did share your heart more than your wife's.”
Matt ignored him as he kept walking, refusing to look back. More than anything, he was concealing the rage and instincts inside him, forcing himself not to turn around, enter the orphanage, and go to his mother and son.
He hadn't been near his mother or his son since that night when he lost...his wife and made the choice to give his son the life he deserved. He forced his steps to keep moving and never turn back, at least that was what Stick had taught him.