Praise Be The Saint

Matthew woke to the distant rumble of trains above and the faint dripping of water from the subway ceiling. He stretched, his body stiff from sleeping on the cold ground, but the discomfort was nothing new. What mattered now was survival, and survival demanded action.

The stolen phone lay beside him, its screen cracked but functional. Matthew swiped through the contacts and messages he'd skimmed the night before, looking for anything useful. Most of it was the usual chatter: threats, plans for pickups, and talk of gang business. But then he found something interesting.

A message chain between "Ray" and someone listed as "Duke" caught his eye:

Duke: "We're hitting the drop at Elm & Payne tonight. Boss said stash everything in the factory after."

Ray: "Got it. Nobody's getting in without us knowing."

Duke: "Good. Don't screw this up, Ray."

Matthew's white eyes gleamed as he read the exchange. An abandoned factory near Elm and Payne. A stash. Likely weapons, cash, or other valuable supplies.

"Jackpot," he muttered.

Planning the Raid

He spent the next hour prepping. The pistol was loaded, the spare magazine tucked securely into his waistband. The crowbar was slung through a makeshift strap on his backpack, which now carried the stolen loot from the night before.

This wasn't going to be a direct confrontation. Matthew wasn't stupid; he knew the factory would be guarded. But he wasn't looking for a fight. He was looking for a way to slip in, grab what he could, and disappear before anyone realized what had happened.

"Time to make a name for myself," he said quietly, his voice echoing faintly in the empty station.

Scouting the Factory

By the time he reached Elm and Payne, the sun was fully up, casting long shadows across Gotham's decaying industrial district. The factory stood like a fortress of rust and neglect, its windows shattered, its walls tagged with gang graffiti.

Matthew crouched behind an old dumpster, surveying the area. Two guards stood by the main entrance, both armed—one with a shotgun, the other with a baseball bat. Another thug patrolled the perimeter, a pistol holstered at his side.

He noted a side entrance partially hidden by piles of scrap metal. It was padlocked, but the lock looked old and brittle.

"Amateurs," he muttered, shaking his head.

Infiltration

Matthew waited until the patrolling thug disappeared around the corner, then made his move. Sticking to the shadows, he crept toward the side entrance, his steps silent despite his size. The crowbar made quick work of the padlock, and he slipped inside.

The interior of the factory was a labyrinth of rusted machinery and broken conveyor belts. The air smelled of oil and mildew, and faint voices echoed from deeper within. Matthew moved cautiously, sticking to the shadows as he followed the sound.

He found the stash in a side room near the back of the factory. A large metal table was piled high with guns, ammo, and several duffel bags filled with cash and drugs.

"More than I expected," Matthew whispered, his lips curling into a grin.

The Heist

He worked quickly, stuffing as much cash as he could into his backpack. The duffel bags were too bulky to carry, but he made a mental note of their contents: weapons, mostly, with a few brick-sized packages of what he assumed was cocaine. He grabbed a single handgun as a backup, sliding it into his waistband.

Just as he zipped his backpack, a voice called out behind him.

"Hey! Who the hell are you?"

Matthew turned slowly, his white eyes glinting in the dim light. It was the patrolman, his pistol already drawn.

"Calm down," Matthew said, raising his hands. "I'm just here to help myself to what you won't miss."

The thug frowned, confused for a split second, and that was all Matthew needed.

He lunged forward, grabbing the barrel of the pistol with one hand and smashing the crowbar into the man's wrist with the other. The thug yelped in pain, dropping the weapon, but Matthew didn't let up. He drove his shoulder into the man's chest, slamming him into the wall.

A single blow to the temple with the crowbar silenced the thug for good.

Matthew grabbed the fallen pistol and checked his surroundings. The noise would've drawn attention.

The Escape

Shouts echoed through the factory as the guards realized something was wrong. Matthew slung his backpack over his shoulder and bolted for the side entrance.

A shotgun blast rang out, the pellets narrowly missing him and peppering the wall with holes. Matthew dove behind a stack of crates, his mind racing.

He reached for the pistol, leaning out just enough to fire a few shots in the direction of the entrance. The guards shouted and ducked for cover, giving him the opening he needed to slip through the door and into the alley.

He ran, his breath visible in the cold air, his heart pounding in his chest. By the time he reached the safety of another abandoned building, he was drenched in sweat, but his smirk was as sharp as ever.

The thugs would be furious, but Matthew didn't care. He'd gotten what he came for, and the loot in his backpack was more than worth the risk.

"Step two," he said to himself, pulling out the thick stack of cash and flipping through it. "Gotham's gonna learn my name real soon."

___

Matthew sat in the shadows of the abandoned building, his back against the wall. He laid out his loot in front of him: nearly $30,000 in cash, a handgun with a suppressor, and a few extra items from the stash. Among them, a cheap burner phone, a combat knife with a serrated edge, and a pair of gloves that had clearly seen better days.

He ran his fingers through his braided hair(singles), his white eyes fixed on the money. The feel of the cash—the crispness of the bills, the faint smell of ink and sweat—ignited something in him. This wasn't just money; it was potential. A key to more power, more control.

But power came with risks. If he was going to make moves, he needed to be smart. The gang would be looking for him after what happened last night, and it wouldn't be long before they put a price on his head.

He couldn't afford mistakes.

The Plan

Matthew picked up the suppressor-equipped handgun, turning it over in his hands. It felt good—cold, precise, deadly. A tool, like any other, to be used as needed. He slid it into the waistband of his jeans and grabbed the cash.

First, a shower. He hadn't bathed in days, and the grime of the streets clung to him like a second skin. Then, he'd need body armor and a mask. If he was going to keep hitting this gang, he couldn't risk being recognized.

A Psychopath's Resolve

As he walked through the empty streets, his thoughts grew darker. Images flashed through his mind: the thug's wrist snapping under his crowbar, the sound of the patrolman's head hitting the wall, the way the last one begged before running.

He felt nothing. No guilt, no remorse. If anything, it thrilled him.

They were obstacles—nothing more. Tools, like the gun, the money, the crowbar. Their lives didn't matter. Only his survival did.

Matthew stopped in front of a cracked storefront window, catching his reflection in the dirty glass. His white eyes glared back at him, sharp and piercing. He tightened his jaw.

"You're better than them," he muttered to himself. "Smarter. Stronger. They'll remember you long after they're gone."

A smile crept onto his face—a cold, dangerous thing.

The Shower

Matthew found a cheap motel a few blocks away, the kind that didn't ask questions if you paid in cash. He handed the clerk a few bills, enough for a room and some silence, and took the key without a word.

The shower was small, with cracked tiles and barely any water pressure, but it was warm. He stood under the spray for as long as he could, letting the water wash away the dirt and blood.

As he dried off, he stared at himself in the mirror. His chocolate skin was marred with faint scars—old reminders of fights, accidents, and the hard life he'd lived. His white eyes stared back at him, unnatural and otherworldly.

He smirked. "This is just the beginning."

Gearing Up

Matthew used the burner phone to search for nearby pawn shops. One of them, tucked away in a bad part of town, advertised "no questions asked" and "self-defense gear." He figured it was his best bet.

The pawnshop smelled of gun oil and desperation. The clerk, a wiry man with greasy hair, gave Matthew a once-over before nodding silently.

"I need body armor," Matthew said, his tone flat.

The clerk raised an eyebrow but didn't argue. He led Matthew to the back, where a few racks of bulletproof vests hung alongside other gear. Matthew picked one that was lightweight but sturdy, sliding it on over his hoodie.

"What else?" the clerk asked.

Matthew grabbed a black ski mask from a shelf, slipping it over his head. The fabric clung to his face, hiding his features but leaving his unnatural eyes visible. Perfect.

"A bag for the cash," Matthew added, tossing the clerk a few bills.

By the time he left, he felt ready. The vest fit snugly under his hoodie, and the mask was rolled up into his pocket. The handgun sat at his hip, its weight a comforting presence.

A Psychopath's Dedication

As the sun began to set, Matthew found himself wandering back toward the East End. He wasn't done with this gang—not yet.

But this wasn't about revenge. He didn't care about the thugs he'd killed or the ones who'd gotten away. No, this was about dominance.

They had something he wanted: control. Over the East End, over the people, over the flow of cash and weapons. And if Matthew wanted to rise to the top, he'd have to take it from them.

He stopped in an alley, pulling the ski mask over his face. He drew the suppressed handgun, checking the chamber one last time.

"They won't see me coming," he said to himself, his voice cold and calm.

And with that, he disappeared into the shadows, ready to take his next step up Gotham's food chain.