Hell's Kitchen. Clinton Church, Roman Catholic Archdiocese of New York.
It was seven-thirty Wednesday morning.
Inside the old building, a middle-aged man with a balding head knelt at the altar in front of the statue of Christ.
He wore black clerical attire and rosary beads hung around his praying hands.
He was Father Paul Lantom.
It was his usual routine to have a word with his Lord and savior, Jesus Christ every morning.
After the morning liturgical mass, it was the only thing he could do.
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit," Father Lantom muttered in a low voice while performing the sign of the cross.
"Amen."
He slowly stood up, bowed, and once again found himself absentmindedly staring at the sanctified altar.
He then pocketed the rosary and sat at the front seat in silence.
It was then that he heard the distant taps of a stick against the floor and footsteps.
Lantom didn't turn his head. He was all too familiar with the taps.
He knew who it was, but what always happened next was what surprised him.
Matt Murdock… Lantom knew the kid because he was a frequent seeker of the mercy of Christ, just like all believers should do.
He always had interesting things to share, things that had better stay under the binds of the seal of confession.
Lantom was a man of his word as a representative of God and also his personality.
The taps grew near and finally, Matt sat behind him.
"Good morning," Matt greeted him.
"Good morning, Matt," Lantom replied, shifting in his seat and looking behind at the blind man.
"You know… you always surprise me how you can pinpoint whatever position I am," Lantom said with slight incredulity in his voice.
Matt chuckled lightly. "I'm not going to confess to that one, Father."
Lantom shook his head with a faint smile and said, "I thought so too. This is the earliest you've ever been, by the way."
"I have a feeling it's something that needs divine intervention, huh?"
"Um, something like that," Matt replied with a heavy sigh.
"I needed someone to talk to and you're the only one I could think of in matters of faith," he added, tilting his head a bit.
"You've come to the right person. So what is it?" Lantom patiently asked.
Matt briefly looked to the side, a hesitant expression on his face.
The memories were fresh inside his mind, vividly replaying like a projected film.
The horror of it—so existential that he couldn't sleep a wink that night.
Ironically, he was a nocturnal animal, always coiled and ready to strike in the darkest of nights.
"Remember, the seal of confession is under immediate effect the moment you enter the house of God," Lantom reminded amiably.
"Everything we share in this space remains with me," he continued.
Matt's lips parted slightly.
"No, it's not that. I'm deciding how to articulate what I have in the sanest way," Matt said.
"Oh? I'll listen even if it's crude. In my line of work… you listen to every type of lingo out there. I've evolved, Murdock," Lantom chuckled, reassuring Matt.
"Okay… so it's like this… do you believe the Devil exists, Father?" Matt asked.
Lantom arched his brows in surprise.
Of all the questions, he hadn't expected that kind to be aimed at him, a clerical man.
Lantom smacked his lips in contemplation.
"I believe he exists and takes many forms among us. That's what he does best… subterfuge," he finally said.
"I think…" he then paused.
"I think he's inconsequential in the grand scheme of things," he added.
Matt scoffed lightly. "Inconsequential? I believe that's what the Devil wants you to think."
"He's a liar," Lantom said, nodding in agreement.
"You said the Devil takes many forms, right?" Matt questioned.
Lantom nodded with interest.
"What if… would you believe me if I said… I saw the Devil in the flesh?" Matt continued in a hoarse voice.
"I think I saw the angel of death made form, Father."
Lantom remained silent, considering Matt's words.
"Angel of Death, huh? That's a pretty abstract thing to say. But I believe you," Lantom responded.
"In the Holy Scriptures, the destroying angel was sent by God during the tenth plague to execute divine judgment. That was God's will in action in his omnibenevolence."
"Omnibenevolence?" Matt lifted his brow.
"While I haven't read much of the Bible, sometimes it makes me… wonder. Why did he kill the Egyptian firstborns?" he inquired.
"I can't say I know, really. God works in mysterious ways, after all. Truth be told, I was quite skeptical of some things in the Scriptures in my youth," Lantom answered honestly.
"So… this angel of death you saw… how many did it kill, Matthew?"
Lantom had already caught on what Matt was trying to imply.
Matt softly slapped his hand on his thigh, surprised by Father Lantom's perception.
"Twenty men. Turned to ash. Like it was God's will. What… what could have heralded the descent of such an entity?" Matt asked, clenching his hand that was slightly trembling as he recalled that night.
"I don't know," Lantom sighed.
He had heard such a thing circulating in the press as much as the top dogs wanted to suppress it.
But fear… fear was one of the deepest and most primal emotions in man.
"What would you have done, Father? If you'd been in the presence of the Devil?" Matt asked.
Lantom diverted his gaze to the altar before returning to Matt.
"Matthew… if I'm being honest with you, I would have shat my pants. Not everyone gets to be Jacob," Lantom replied truthfully with a small smile.
Matt smiled widely. "I guess so. I remained frozen in the face of the inexplainable."
"She was effortless. In her view, there was no distinction between light and darkness."
"Are we talking about the angel of death?" Lantom asked, changing his posture.
"Yeah. I could give her various names. She was as beautiful as Lucifer," Matt nodded.
"A fallen angel."
"Yes."
"And what… what you're asking is whether you can be a divine executioner or not?"
Matt nodded, unclenching his hand.
"Matthew, this is a church and I'm only a clergy man. Such things should only be left to God. Things like judgment and punishment. I saw it once and I know that killing is the bane of existence," Lantom said with a reminiscent gaze.
"I know what you do."
"I'm a law—"
"I'm not stupid. The sacrament of penance is still in effect."
Matt shut his mouth.
"In the face of things that you cannot explain, in a world where green monsters and a man in flying armor live amongst us, you can only take a step back. Leave such things to the Divine."
"You're only a man, flesh and bones. What happens when you turn to ash?" Lantom continued.
Matt quietly considered. So far he had survived two encounters with HER.
What if he one day got in her way? He would be turned to ash, extinguished from existence.
Heck, maybe even worse.
'I should just stick to my lane and never piss off that person,' he thought with a prolonged sigh.
'I still have Foggy and Karen waiting for me.'
"Thanks, Father. I needed such clarity," Matt said with gratitude.
"You're always welcome. Matthew… maybe that angel of death is a sign for you to tread the path of righteousness," Lantom said.
"Maybe," Matt responded, shaking his head as he stood up.
"Goodbye. I'll come by another time," he then said.
'I really could use some cheap brandy from Josie's,' Matt thought as he walked away.
Lantom looked at Matt's receding figure, tapping his fingers on the chair.
He then sat upright and turned his gaze to the figure of Christ.
'Angel of death? Lucifer? Devil? My Lord, what are you trying to reveal? What's happening to the world?' Lantom thought in his mind.
He then palmed his face and sighed.
He would pray for the world and Matt.
To stave off the Devil.
Father Paul Lantom was no longer certain.
Uncertainty…
~~~<>~~~
Meanwhile…
Inside an expensive penthouse in the richer parts of Manhattan, Wilson Fisk stood before a big canvas hanging on the wall.
The painting showed no exquisite brushstrokes from famous painters but only a complete whiteness.
It was like a white chaotic void.
Chaos and stillness were merged into the intention.
With his large hands clasped behind his back, Fisk immersed himself in the painting.
There was peace.
The demons inside him calmed when he looked at the whiteness and simplicity.
Wesley entered the large room, a heavy expression on his face as he walked toward Fisk.
"Sir—" Wesley said but Fisk cut him off.
"Wesley, what do you see when you look at this painting?" Fisk calmly asked.
Wesley gazed at Fisk's wide back, adjusted his glasses, before looking at the painting.
"I only see… white," Wesley answered straightforwardly.
"True. I also only see white and nothing exquisite. That's why I like it," Fisk said.
"Beyond the whiteness… I see certainty and aloneness." He slightly shifted on his feet, his eyes glazed with meaning.
He then turned around and stared at his right-hand man.
"What news do you bring?" he asked.
"It's about the decimation of the Russians we sent to Queens. Twenty were turned to ash. Our contacts in the precinct said the pattern's consistent with the other case of the ten men," Wesley shared in a serious tone.
"Not even Rozanov survived, sir."
Fisk creased his brows. "And have you found who interfered with our operations?"
"I apologize, Mr. Fisk but we're still investigating. Word's going around that we're dealing with a ghost or rather… the Ash Devil," Wesley explained, the title causing small shivers along his spine.
"Ash Devil?" Fisk tensed imperceptibly.
The Ash Devil of Queens, an uncertain element, a variable in his grand plan over the future of New York.
"Well, I don't believe in ghost stories, but I believe this isn't the work of a mere man. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen is merely a clown compared to whoever this entity is," Fisk said as he walked past Wesley and stopped before the floor-to-ceiling window.
"Have you confirmed it isn't Madam Gao's side or Nobu's?" he asked.
"Yes. Both of them have stated no direct relation to the situation. Madam Gao lost her heroin and that's lost profit. As for Nobu… they're currently dealing with some internal matters," Wesley said with a sigh.
"Should we seek Nobu's aid in this bizarre situation?" Wesley suggested carefully.
"Not yet," Fisk said, looking down on the city. His city.
No one could cause mayhem in his own backyard. Anything beyond his control should be eliminated, forced out of the system he envisioned.
"I want every eye and ear in Queens. Money is the biggest motivator. Set up a bounty on every street."
"We will send no more cannon fodder," Fisk concluded.
"Yes, sir," Wesley nodded. "I'll get to it now."
Wesley fished out his phone while walking away, leaving his boss to his solitude.
Fisk exhaled heavily.
A ghost was only a ghost because it always stayed in the dark.
What if he spread light in every corner of Queens?
There would be no place to hide.
No place for the so-called Ash Devil.
That was certainty.
But Fisk didn't know who he was dealing with.
She was a walking catastrophe of statistical improbabilities.
And somewhere in Queens, someone was already planning to have a date with her.
~~~<>~~~