Praise Be The Saint

Matthew walked deeper into the East End, his frame blending seamlessly into the shadows of Gotham's decaying streets. The tattered backpack hung from his shoulder, the weight of its contents light but significant—a symbol of his small victory. His mind churned with thoughts of what came next. Food would sustain him, but hunger wasn't the only thing gnawing at him. Power, control, and survival were always at the forefront of his mind.

He found a quiet alcove beneath an overpass, the walls covered in graffiti and filth. Sliding down against the cold concrete, he rummaged through the bag. A can of beans, a few granola bars, and half a bottle of water. Not much, but enough for tonight. At the bottom of the bag was a small orange bottle of prescription pills.

"Painkillers," he muttered, turning the bottle in his hand. "Worth more than gold around here."

He pocketed the pills, storing them for leverage. Food could be scavenged, but power came from having something others needed.

As he ate, distant footsteps echoed through the underpass. Matthew tensed, his eyes scanning the darkness. A group of three figures emerged—young, rough-looking gangsters, armed with knives and a crowbar.

"Yo," the leader called out, his tone mocking. "That's our spot, big guy. You're trespassing."

Matthew's gaze remained steady as he finished chewing. He rose slowly, towering over the group, his unnatural white eyes catching the faint light from a flickering streetlamp.

"And what," Matthew said, his voice calm and cold, "are you planning to do about it?"

The gang leader faltered for a moment but recovered quickly, gesturing to his friends. "There's three of us, and one of you. Drop the bag, or we'll leave you bleeding in the gutter."

Matthew tilted his head, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "You should have brought more friends."

The first thug lunged with the crowbar, aiming for Matthew's ribs. Matthew sidestepped with ease, grabbing the man's wrist mid-swing and twisting until the bone snapped with a sickening crack. The thug screamed, dropping the weapon. Matthew followed up with a swift knee to his gut, sending him sprawling.

The second thug hesitated but charged with his knife, aiming for Matthew's chest. Matthew caught his arm and delivered a brutal headbutt, the force staggering the smaller man. He snatched the knife from the thug's hand and drove the hilt into his temple, knocking him unconscious.

The leader stood frozen, his bravado evaporating. He took a shaky step back, raising his hands. "Hey, man... we don't want any trouble..."

Matthew stepped closer, the knife now in his hand. "You came looking for trouble. Now you've found it."

The leader turned to run, but Matthew grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall. The man struggled, his fear palpable.

"Wait! Wait! We—we were just messing around!"

Matthew leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper. "I don't care. You're going to deliver a message for me. Tell everyone in this neighborhood that Matthew St. Jude owns this territory now. And if anyone thinks otherwise..." He pressed the blade against the man's cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. "...they'll end up like your friends."

The gang leader nodded frantically. "Y-yeah, yeah! I'll tell them! No problem!"

Matthew released him, watching as the man stumbled and ran into the night. He turned back to the unconscious thugs, kneeling to search their pockets. A few crumpled bills, a pack of cigarettes, and a cheap burner phone. Not much, but enough to start building his foundation.

He glanced at the bloodied crowbar on the ground, picking it up and slinging it over his shoulder.

"Step one," he muttered to himself. "Control the streets. Step two... everything else."

As he walked away, the faint sound of sirens echoed in the distance. Gotham was chaos incarnate, but to Matthew, it was ripe for the taking.

----

The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving Matthew with the familiar ache in his muscles and the chill of Gotham's relentless winter biting through his thin hoodie. His white eyes scanned the street ahead, dimly lit by a few dying lamps, each one buzzing faintly like a mocking reminder of the city's neglect.

The fight hadn't been clean—his knuckles throbbed, raw from impact, and his ribs protested with every breath. Still, he'd walked away, while the others hadn't. That was what mattered.

He pulled the stolen hoodie from one of the unconscious thugs over his head, the extra layer barely warding off the wind. The crowbar hung loosely at his side, a tool as much for survival as intimidation now.

"Gotta find somewhere," he muttered, his breath visible in the freezing air.

The alleys of Gotham's East End were a labyrinth of crumbling brick and forgotten debris, each corner potentially holding warmth—or danger. A few blocks down, he spotted an abandoned building, its windows shattered and boarded up haphazardly. A faint flicker of light from within caught his attention.

Matthew approached cautiously, stepping lightly despite his size. His unnatural eyes pierced through the darkness, scanning for movement. As he reached the building's entrance, the faint sound of voices drifted through the cracked walls.

"Too crowded," he muttered to himself, retreating back into the shadows.

Another block led him to a small maintenance shack near a derelict playground. The door hung slightly ajar, creaking softly in the wind. It wasn't much, but it looked dry, and more importantly, empty.

Matthew slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. The shack smelled of rust and mold, but the walls held back the worst of the wind. He dragged an old tarp over the floor and sat down, resting his back against the cold steel of a rusted shelf.

He rummaged through the backpack, pulling out the can of beans. No can opener. With a sigh, he used the crowbar to punch a jagged hole in the top, prying it open enough to eat. The cold beans tasted like ash, but they settled the gnawing emptiness in his stomach.

As he ate, his mind wandered. The night had been a small victory, but it wasn't enough. A single block, a single gang, a single meal—it was a start, but the city was vast, and survival wasn't enough anymore.

Matthew wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned his head against the shelf, staring into the darkness. His white eyes reflected faintly in the gloom, twin beacons of determination.

"Cold tonight," he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible. He glanced at the crowbar resting beside him. "But I'm not dying in this place. Not here. Not like this."

His grip tightened around the crowbar as exhaustion finally began to take hold. The cold air still crept in through the cracks, but the faint warmth of resolve burned in his chest. Tonight, he'd rest. Tomorrow, he'd find another way to climb higher.

In Gotham, warmth wasn't just a luxury—it was power, protection, and survival. And Matthew St. Jude was determined to have it all.