A life lived in darkness. Surrounded by violence and evil in order to understand it. Sense it. Fight it.
While others looked away, tacitly consenting to the rot of society from the inside, I answered the call. I did what was necessary - even when I was branded an outlaw and a threat.
But no matter how many mobsters I terrified, or thugs I left broken, I was still haunted. Not by my deeds, but, strangely, by the more noble deeds of another. My father. The shadow that clung to me, even in the pitch black.
A ghost that could not be exorcised. Blood could not wash it away. Screams could not silence it.
I had to learn to stop trying to kill what was already dead. I had to accept that my father's murder - perhaps more so than his life - was what had made me into the dread arbiter of unflinching justice I've spent so lon --
(bedroom door opens)
-- Son, for the last time, will you take out the recyclDAMMIT ARE YOU PRETENDING YOUR MOTHER AND I ARE DEAD AGAIN? I TOLD YOU TO KNOCK THAT STUFF OFF, LANE!!!
(in whispered hush) I'm BatKiff.