New York, United States - October 1987
A month had passed since that night in the alley, and Matthew Harkness was discovering that saving a life had consequences he hadn't anticipated.
"The problem with doing something good," he thought as he walked through Chinatown one Saturday afternoon, "is that people start talking. And when people talk about gods and miracles, others start listening."
He had come to Chinatown for a specific reason. In recent weeks, he had felt something strange. A different pull. Not from dying souls, but from something else. Something mystical. Something calling to him.
And after some research (thanks to public libraries and their ever-growing collections of books on the occult), I'd traced the feeling back here. To a small antique shop on a side street that smelled of incense and secrets.
"The Dragon's Pearl," he read the worn sign above the door. "Sounds like a B-movie kung fu title. I love it."
He entered.
The interior was exactly what he expected: dark, filled with shelves of dusty objects, statues of Asian gods, masks, and scrolls. And in the back, behind a counter, an elderly Chinese woman looked at him with eyes that had seen too much.
"You," she said in English with a marked accent, "you're not normal."
Matthew smiled, approaching the counter.
"Hello to you too, ma'am. Do you always greet your customers like this?"
The old woman did not smile.
"I can see the shadows in you, child. I can see death following you like a faithful pet. You are not human. Not entirely."
Matthew felt a chill. This old woman knew too much.
"And that's a problem?"
"It depends," the old woman stood up, revealing that she was tiny, probably not even five feet tall. "Have you come to bring death to my shop? Or have you come looking for something?"
"Searching," Matthew answered honestly. "I felt something here. Something calling to me. Something... powerful."
The old woman studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded, as if she had made a decision.
"Follow me."
She led him through a beaded curtain into a back room. It was smaller than the main shop, but filled with objects that made the air feel heavy, stuffy.
"These are the true treasures," the old woman said, gesturing around. "Not for tourists. For those who know how to see beyond the veil."
Matthew looked around, fascinated. There were masks that seemed to vibrate with energy. Swords in decorated scabbards. Scrolls with symbols he recognized from his studies of Eastern magic.
And then he saw it.
On a shelf, almost hidden among other objects, was a small medallion. Black, with dark green jade inlays forming a symbol that made her gasp.
The symbol of the Underworld. The same one he had engraved on his armor.
"That one," Matthew said, pointing. "What's that?"
The old woman followed his gaze and turned pale.
"No. Not that one. That one is cursed."
"Perfect," Matthew held out his hand. "I want it."
"Child, you don't understand. That medallion belonged to a black sorcerer three hundred years ago. They say he made a pact with the Lord of the Dead, who gave him power over souls. But the power consumed him. He died screaming, and the medallion absorbed his soul."
Matthew smiled.
"And how much does it cost?"
The old woman looked at him as if he were crazy.
"It's not for sale."
"Everything is for sale at the right price."
He took out his wallet (full thanks to summer jobs and a very generous allowance) and put five one-hundred-dollar bills on the table.
The old woman looked at the money, then at Matthew, then at the medallion.
"If it leads you to hell, don't say I didn't warn you."
"If it takes me to hell," Matthew took the medallion, immediately feeling the dark energy pulsing in his palm, "I'm going to tell everyone I've arrived home."
The old woman made a protective gesture with her hands as Matthew left the store.
That night - Matthew's room
Matthew sat on his bedroom floor, the medallion in front of him. Shadows swirled around the object in the room, as if curious.
"Okay," he murmured, "let's see what we have here."
He extended his power, touching the medallion with his consciousness.
And he was hit by a wave of memories that were not his own.
A man. Wang Chen. Sorcerer. Desperate. Dying. Calling upon dark powers. Offering his soul for power. A pact. A voice from the shadows accepting. Power flowing. Years of control over the dead. And then... the price being paid. Madness. Pain. Death. The trapped soul.
Matthew gasped, snapping back to reality.
"Damn it. That poor guy made a deal with something from the Underworld and they screwed him over badly."
He lifted the medallion, looking at it in the dim light.
"But the medallion still has power. Power connected to the Underworld. Power that..."
An idea began to form.
"Power I can use."
She put on the medallion. She immediately felt the difference. Her connection to the Underworld was amplified. It was as if before she had been listening through a closed door, and now the door was ajar.
She could sense more. The souls in the city. The recently deceased whose spirits had not yet fully passed on. The places where the veil between worlds was thin.
"This is incredible," he whispered, feeling the power flow through him.
And then he heard the voice.
"Release..."
Matthew froze.
"Please... release..."
The voice came from the medallion. It was weak, tired, desperate.
"Wang Chen?" Matthew touched the medallion. "Is that you?"
"Three hundred years... trapped... please... lord of the dead... free me..."
Matthew felt a pang of compassion. This guy had been trapped in the medallion for three centuries. That was torture worse than death.
"If I release you, what happens to the medallion? Does it lose its power?"
"No... the power belongs to the Underworld... not to me... only my soul is trapped... free me... and the medallion will be yours alone..."
Matthew thought about it. He could leave the guy trapped, just use the medallion. Or he could free him and maybe earn... what? Karma? The universe's goodwill?
"Oh, fuck it. I'm not going to be a jerk like the Olympian gods."
He closed his eyes and channeled his power, this time for a different purpose. It wasn't healing. It wasn't shadow manipulation. It was his authority as Lord of the Underworld.
"Wang Chen," he said in a voice that resonated with divine power, "you have served your sentence. By my authority as Emperor of the Underworld, I release you. May your soul find peace."
The medallion glowed with violet light. A spectral figure emerged, the translucent form of a Chinese man in ancient clothing. He gazed at Matthew with tear-filled eyes.
"Thank you... thank you, my lord..."
And then it faded away, its soul finally free to continue its journey.
Matthew stood there, holding the medallion that now shone with a soft glow.
"Well," he murmured, smiling, "that was epic."
The medallion pulsed, and Matthew felt the connection strengthen even further. It was as if the object, freed from its burden, now fully accepted him as its owner.
"Okay. This is my first official mystical artifact. Very cool."
Two days later - Monday, Midtown High
Matthew was at his locker when he overheard the conversation.
Two students, a couple of computer club nerds, talking in low voices but not low enough.
"I'm telling you, I saw it on the news, bro. They say there's a new vigilante in Hell's Kitchen."
"Another security guard. What is this, a fad?"
"No, listen. This one's different. They say he can control shadows. That he appeared out of nowhere and saved a guy from dying. Witnesses say he was like... like a demon or something."
Matthew felt his stomach lurch.
"Are they talking about me?" he thought, remaining still to listen better.
"Bro, that sounds like an urban legend."
"But there are photos! Well, not clear photos. But you can see a shadow. And they say that the people who were there swear they saw something."
"And what do they call it?"
"I don't know. Some call him 'The Shadow.' Others 'The Black Angel.' It's all very mysterious."
Matthew closed his locker, processing that.
"Great. One month and I already have an unofficial superhero name. Although 'The Shadow' sounds kind of lame. 'Black Angel' doesn't convince me either. I'm a god of the underworld, not an emo teenager."
But at the same time, there was something exciting about it. People were talking. Her first intervention had made an impact.
"I have to be careful," he thought as he walked to his next class. "I can't let this get out of hand. I'm not ready to come out completely yet. I need more time, more power, more preparation."
"But I also can't stand idly by when I hear someone dying. Not after experiencing what it feels like to save a life."
It was a difficult line to walk. To be the hidden player he wanted to be, but also to use his powers to help.
"I'm going to have to be selective," he decided. "I only intervene in extreme cases. And always making sure not to leave any traces."
That night - Central Park
Matthew hadn't planned to go out. He had planned to stay home, study, maybe practice a little with the new medallion.
But then he felt the pull.
Not one. Five. Five panicked souls, calling out to the Underworld.
"Shit."
He put on his makeshift "uniform" (mask, shadow jacket, the medallion hanging from his neck under his clothes), and went out the window using his shadow paths.
Ten minutes later he was in a secluded section of Central Park, where he found the scene.
Five people. A family. Parents, two children, and a grandmother. Surrounded by a gang. Eight guys, armed, threatening.
"Your wallet, old man. Now."
"Please," the father, a man in his forties, hands raised, "I have children. Take what you want, but let us go."
One of the gang members laughed and pointed his gun at one of the children.
"Maybe I'll take more than just my wallet."
Matthew felt anger explode in his chest.
"Oh, no. Not a chance."
He emerged from the shadows.
Literally. It emerged from a shadow cast by a tree, its form materializing as if it were smoke taking on a solid shape.
The gang members froze, turning towards him.
"What the hell...?" one muttered.
Matthew said nothing. He simply let his eyes glow violet. He let the shadows swirl around him. And he projected his presence, the presence of Hades, Emperor of the Underworld.
The effect was immediate.
The eight gang members fell to their knees, their weapons slipping from their trembling hands. Some began to weep. Others prayed.
"I see their souls," Matthew said in a voice that resonated with divine authority, "and I see their sins. Blood on their hands. Ruined lives. Destroyed innocence."
He approached the one who had pointed the gun at the child.
"You especially. I see what you did last month. The girl in the alley."
The gang member cried openly.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"
Matthew felt tempted to do something permanent. Something dark. He could feel he had the power to rip this guy's soul out right here, right now. To condemn him to the Underworld for all eternity.
But it stopped.
"I'm not like them," he reminded himself. "I'm better."
Instead, he did something different.
He touched the gang member's forehead, channeling a fraction of his power.
The guy screamed. His eyes rolled back. And then he collapsed, unconscious.
"I marked him," Matthew explained to the other terrified gang members. "Every crime he commits, every person he hurts, he will feel it multiplied tenfold in his own soul. His guilt will be his prison."
He looked at the other seven.
"Do they want the same treatment? Or would they prefer to change now?"
"We'll change!" they shouted in unison. "Anything! Just don't hurt us!"
Matthew nodded.
"Then go. Leave this life. Seek redemption. Because if I feel your souls calling to me from the darkness again... next time I will not be merciful."
The gang members ran as if hell itself were chasing them.
Matthew turned to the family, who were looking at him with a mixture of terror and amazement.
"You're safe," she told them, her voice softening. "Go home. Forget you ever saw me."
The father nodded, taking his children.
"Thank you... whoever you are."
Matthew was about to leave, but Grandma stepped forward.
"I know who you are," he said in English with an Italian accent. "My grandmother told me about you. Il Signore della Morte. The one who walks between worlds."
Matthew felt that chill again. Someone who knew again.
"Your grandmother was wise," she replied. "Take care of your family."
"Will you come back?" the woman asked. "Will you protect us?"
Matthew thought about that.
"I protect all who deserve protection. The innocent. Those who cannot defend themselves. That is my promise."
And with that, he dissolved into the shadows, leaving the family alone in the park.
Back in his room - Midnight
Matthew was exhausted but satisfied. Two interventions in one month. Two families saved. And although he had used a lot of power, he felt... good.
"This is going to become a habit," he thought, sinking down onto the bed. "I can't help it. When I feel someone needs help, I can't just stand by and do nothing."
"But I have to be more careful. If I keep going like this, eventually someone with real power is going to notice me. SHIELD. Hydra. The X-Men. Doctor Strange."
The name Strange made him pause.
"Strange. The Sorcerer Supreme. If anyone can sense what I am, it's him. I have to avoid him as much as possible. At least until I'm strong enough to face him if necessary."
He looked at the medallion on his chest, glowing softly.
"But I'm growing. Every time I use my powers, they get stronger. Every artifact I find, every connection I make with the Underworld... I get closer to what I'm meant to be."
She closed her eyes, smiling.
"Patience, Mateo. Patience. Your moment will come. And when it does, this universe won't know what hit it."
He fell asleep dreaming of full suits of armor, armies of shadows, and a dark kingdom that awaited him in the depths.
The Underworld called him.
And soon, very soon, I would answer.
END OF CHAPTER