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[right][sub][b][color=ed1c24]Volume 1: Revelations[/color][/b][/sub][hr][sup][b]Chapter 4:[/b] [i]Offerings[/i][/sup][/right]
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>"Police have called for a manhunt for former NYPD detective Frank Castle this morning. Law Enforcement has linked ten murders to him, and reports indicate he is calling himself the Punisher. He is believed to be armed and extremely dangerous. He was last seen leaving the Royal Palace in lower Manhattan, and is confirmed to be the suspect in the mass shooting at the Stardust Lounge. The NYPD is investigating several other murders in the area to determine any connection to the suspect. Police are also looking into the possibility of this mass shooter having any connection to the masked vigilante terrorizing citizens in Hell's Kitchen-"<

Matt turned off the tv, sighing with a raspy exhale. He was sprawled on the couch, a half-empty liquor bottle and an old first aid kit littered on the floor next to him. His ribs were bruised, his head clouded by fog and confusion. He had been through worse, but the strength of the big bastard the night before had rung Matt's bell. A little recovery would be needed. And if he was going to face people like the Ox, he was going to need tools.

Luckily, he knew just the place.

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Fogwell's Gym smelled of mildew, rust, and mothballs. It had been abandoned years ago, shortly after the death of Jack Murdock. Most of the boxers who came out of Fogwell's ended up dead. It was a blessing, in that regard, that the gym was home only to cobwebs and memories. It wasn't even good enough for the rats.

Half the sandbags had fallen to the ground, rusted chains shattering under tremendous weight. Of those that remained, several had holes in them. The holes were relatively uniform... someone used them for target practice at some point. Or stray shots, given the faintest whiff of blood soaked into the creaky wood flooring. It could be any old boxers. It could be his dad's. It could be someone who was gunned down for making the wrong choices. The ghosts of this place wouldn't tell him, if Matt could be bothered to ask them.

Matthew Murdock wasn't at this gym to reminisce. He clutched at his bruised ribs, the jolt of pain clouding his focus for a moment. He had thought about his father plenty. He was here for a different memory.

[i]666.[/i]

His father wasn't as staunch of a Catholic in his final years. He believed in God. He believed in salvation. He believed in loving your neighbor. But he was flippant with most other tenets. Its why he put on that persona, and even made the "Mark of the Beast" his locker combo. Matt heard the door click open and pulled on the small handle. He reached forward, rubbing his fingers along the fabric of Jack Murdock's old boxing robe, and then the fake devil suit. It was hard to picture the outfits now, after so many years. Even when they were in his hands, he couldn't easily remember what color the robe was. Red? White? Yellow? He didn't know for certain.

Of course, what he came for was in the bottom of the locker. An old wooden box, the faint indent and burn of a symbol on the top Matt never quite knew. The parting gift of an old flame. The box was slightly ajar, certainly from the last time he had checked it was still there a few months prior. He knew the contents, the letter printed out in braile, the faint whiff of her expensive perfume. It was all still there. Matthew Murdock removed the lid, and slowly removed the contents.

First were two tonfas, made of near solid metal. They were light and durable in his hands. Next, a grappling hook with a fiberwire cord. Lastly, a small set of throwing knives tucked into a black sash. She knew he would want them some day, even if he hadn't. If she even remembered him, she probably was smiling at the mention of a vigilante in Hell's Kitchen. She would know it was him.

Matt placed the items back inside the box, and slid it into an old duffel bag. Before he zipped up the bag, he paused. The faintest ruffle of old fabric reminded him of the robe and outfit left in the locker. Without dwelling on it further, he ripped the costumes off their hangers and shoved them into the duffle bag. Sufficiently packed, Matt zipped up the bag and swung the strap over his shoulder. He slipped out of Fogwell's, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt up to obscure his face as he joined the foot traffic on the sidewalk outside.

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Matthew Murdock stood atop a brownstone, overlooking the Hudson river. From the ringing of the bells of Saint Cyril's, it was 1 am. He had slept most of the day, having called in a sick day with Foggy. He'd get shit for it later. But they didn't have many clients, and those they did have were all well taken care of. Matt shot off a few emails and did a little brushing up on case law while he popped painkillers and prepared for another night out.

The Devil was roused from his musings as he heard something that had been surprisingly absent that night so far. Metal scraping metal, along with the pull and release of a spring. A gun being loaded, several blocks away. Not a mere handgun... a rifle? He took a deep breath, before he jumped off the side of the building, swinging his way down the fire escape.

He had no idea what fresh Hell was waiting for him.
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