Seventy-two hours.
The city became like a patient who had a high fever for three days, finally recovering in the early hours of the fourth day.
But this is not a recovery.
The surface of the Tenth Avenue was littered with charred car skeletons.
The shop window was shattered, with corpses scattered all over the floor.
The corpses were covered with newspapers soaked by the rain, revealing a foot wearing a cheap sneaker or a hand clenched white.
There were no sirens.
That's the most terrifying thing.
The police evacuated Hell's Kitchen 24 hours ago.
They set up a yellow cordon on 42nd Street, erected barricades and machine guns. The message was clear: it didn't matter if everyone inside died, as long as the insanity didn't spread.
This place became abandoned land, a no-man's-land.
Daredevil walks through streets filled with sewage.
The dark red battle suit had turned blackish-brown, a mixture of dried blood and smoke.
He passed by that familiar donut shop.
The shop owner, Old Joe, was a chubby old man who was always smiling.
No matter how much protection money the gang demanded, he would always secretly leave the child two freshly baked sugar-coated donuts, saying it was a "reward for good kids."
Now, the shop is wide open.
Old Joe hung on the ceiling fan.
The rope used to hang the sausages got stuck in his thick neck.
At Old Joe's suspended feet lay the corpses of two teenagers.
Those two boys were neighbors that Old Joe had watched grow up.
Just last week, Old Joe brought those two kids bread that was nearing its expiration date, and watching them wolf it down made him sigh with heartache.
"This is the person you are meant to save."
There seemed to be voices in the air mocking him.
Daredevil didn't stop, nor did he even bother to remove Old Joe's body; he had seen too much like this along the way.
Ahead lies St. Clinton's Church.
That was his pillar of support, a place where he could repent and seek peace after each injury.
The priest would always leave a lamp lit and wait for him.
But now there's only firelight.
The church's century-old oak doors were chopped into firewood and piled up in the center of the square to burn.
By the firelight, Daredevil looked up.
His Radar Sense mapped out the patterns on that sacred wall.
The once pristine white stone wall was now splattered with scarlet paint. There were no intricate patterns, just a simple stroke—an upward-smiling face.
"You're too late. The priest has already gone to see God."
The sound came from above.
Daredevil didn't assume a fighting stance; instead, he looked up at the church steeple.
The purple figure was sitting on the cross.
The cross, which originally symbolized redemption and sacrifice, became the Joker's throne.
The Joker wasn't wearing his ridiculous hat, and his green hair was disheveled in the wind.
His face didn't have that exaggerated, maniacal the Batman Who Laughs; he was as calm as a university professor who had just finished class.
His two legs dangled in mid-air, wearing a pair of ill-fitting oversized leather shoes, swinging idly, and he was even humming an off-key children's song.
He was holding a thick book in his hand.
The cover is embossed with gold foil and made of black leather.
" Bible ".
"A very interesting storybook." The Joker turned a page. " Cain killed Abel, but God gave Cain a mark, so that he would wander the earth and no one could kill him."
The Joker closed the book, his fingers gently tracing the creases of the cross on the cover.
"Look, even that old man knows that killing is an instinct etched into our genes, and the law... is just a pair of pants that the old man puts on the monkeys to save face."
"You ruined everything."
"No."
The Joker held up an index finger and shook it in front of him, looking wronged and innocent.
"Don't flatter me, I don't have that kind of ability. I didn't do anything, really. I just... gently pierced that thin layer of window paper."
He pointed to the street in the distance, where black smoke was still billowing.
"To the father who bought medicine for his daughter, I only gave him a knife. He chose to stab you himself. To the bullied student, I only gave him a pack of explosives. He chose to blow you up himself."
The Joker held up the Bible to the gloomy, oppressive sky, as if performing some kind of blasphemous sacrificial ritual.
Daredevil, do you really think that was my fault?
"Everyone has a Beast inside them. Before, Kingpin fed it with fear, Vought numbed it with vanity, and you... you try to reform it with that ridiculous sense of morality."
The Joker loosened his grip.
A heavy Bible fell from a great height.
"Snap."
The spine of the book slammed onto the muddy ground, its pages scattered and soaked with dirty water.
The sound was particularly jarring in the square.
"But I just opened the cage door, and look, this is the real Gotham... oh no, Hell's Kitchen."
"There are no rules, no feigned goodwill, only vibrant chaos."
Daredevil "looked" at the Bible soaking in the mud.
Three days ago, he would have rushed up and broken this madman's ribs and sent him to prison.
But now, that image—the young man pulling the pin on a grenade in front of him, a wild, liberated the Batman Who Laughs on his face—replays endlessly in his mind.
He can't save someone who wants to die.
He can't save someone who wants to become a devil.
"You win."
Daredevil loosened his clenched fist and whispered those three words.
The Joker paused for a moment.
He didn't expect " Little Red Riding Hood " to give up so quickly.
He jumped off the cross.
Without any attempt to slow down, he crashed heavily onto the church roof tiles, rolled twice, then got up as if nothing had happened, squatted on the eaves, and looked down at Daredevil.
Disappointment was evident in those eyes, which were painted with black eyeshadow.
That's it?
The Joker curled his lip.
"It's broken already? I thought you could hold on a little longer, at least give another boring speech about 'justice will prevail' or 'light will endure' to amuse me."
He pulled a utility knife from his pocket and idly pushed the blade around.
"Click, click."
"Order..."
The Joker pointed to the still-burning building in the distance.
"Order is a stone placed on a tombstone, but beneath it always lies a corpse."
"Just move the stones and the body will crawl out."
"And you, dear Little Red Riding Hood, you kept trying to push the stone back. You pressed and pressed until your fingernails bled, until your hand bones broke. But didn't you notice? Your hands have long since rotted together with those corpses."
Daredevil lowered his head; his gloves were torn, and the skin exposed at his knuckles was already a bloody mess.
In the three days of chaotic fighting, in order to protect himself and survive, he broke the bones of at least several hundred people.
Among those people were drug dealers and hitmen.
But more than anything, it was... those citizens he had once protected, those children he had incited, and those unemployed workers.
He tried to maintain order.
But wherever he went, he left behind only more pain and hatred.
The game is over.
The Joker stood up, dusted himself off, and spoke listlessly.
"This audience is so boring. They're like firecrackers, easily ignited by a spark, but all that's left after they burn is ashes. They have no depth whatsoever."
He turned away from Daredevil and walked to the other end of the church roof.
"I heard the view from the top of the Vought Tower is pretty good. Do you think that giant baby in the Stars and Stripes cape, who only drinks milk all day, would cry for his mother if he saw his statue turned into a guillotine?"
Daredevil didn't chase after him.
He simply stood quietly before the Bible, which was soaked in mud and water.
The Joker's figure disappeared into the darkness, leaving behind only a chilling humming sound.
A cold wind blew by.
A tattered newspaper was pasted onto Daredevil's leg.
The newspaper's headline featured a bright, smiling image of Homelander, with the headline. " Vought Promises: Superheroes Will Always Protect Your Safety."