Diabolus et Vespertiliones eius

Chapter 1: Pour me a cup of Blind Ambition

Mary's POV

My hand finds the alarm clock on the first try, muscle memory from years of the same routine, and I silence the beeping with a firm press. The digital billboard outside pulses uselessly against my closed lids, a light show I'll never see.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and wince. Last night's patrol left its mark: a dull ache settled deep in my left shoulder from catching a falling junkie off a fire escape, and my ribs protest when I twist. Worth it. He'd been clean for three months before the Chems started flooding the Bowery again, same supply line I've been tugging at for weeks.

My bare feet find the cold hardwood as I pad into the kitchen. The apartment is small but mine, cluttered with the things I know by touch: the chipped mug from Foggy's failed pottery phase, the coffee tin with the dented lid, the kettle that whistles just slightly off-key.

I measure the grounds by feel, fill the kettle, and set it to boil. The familiar sounds of the Bowery filter through my window—a car horn, someone's radio playing Latin pop, the distant wail of a siren heading toward the Narrows. Morning in Gotham.

I have the screen reader on my phone read me my messages. There is one from Foggy. I tap it and hold it to my ear.

"Don't forget—tailor at 8:30, court at 9. And I swear to God, Mary, if you're late again, Judge Corrigan will have my head. Call me when you're up."

Foggy's voicemail ends with the click of him hanging up. The kettle starts to rumble.

I tap Foggy's contact and bring the phone to my ear. He picks up on the second ring.

"There she is. The living legend." His voice is warm, already caffeinated—the bastard always wakes up before I do. "Please tell me you remembered the tailor appointment."

"I remember," I say, pouring the hot water over the grounds. The smell fills my kitchen—rich, dark, necessary. "Eight-thirty. Corrigan at nine. I wrote it down and everything."

"You wrote it down and then immediately lost the paper?"

"I didn't lose it. It's... somewhere."

Foggy laughs. That easy, familiar sound that pulled me through three years of law school and four years of running a firm together.

"Just don't be late. I can only run interference so many times before Corrigan starts asking questions about your 'medical condition.'"

"Blindness isn't a medical condition, Foggy, it's a lifestyle choice."

"It's a 'you-need-to-be-in-that-courthouse-at-nine-or-we-

will-be-held-in-contempt' choice." He pauses. "Bodega run?"

"You read my mind."

"Two egg and cheeses, extra hot sauce on mine. I'll see you at the office." He hangs up before I can say goodbye.

I sip my coffee, letting the heat settle into my bones. The soreness in my shoulder eases as I roll it, working out the worst of the knots. Outside, the Bowery is waking up; the bodega cat that patrols the block, Mr. Chen opening his laundromat, the rhythm of a neighborhood finding its feet. I finish my coffee in long, measured sips, letting the caffeine work its magic. The mug finds the sink without me looking, I never look, and I head back to my bedroom.

My fingers brush through the clothes in my closet. Court today means professional. I pull out a black blazer, matching trousers, and a red silk blouse. The fabric is soft, worn-in, familiar.

Dressing takes longer than it would for most people—buttons checked twice, seams aligned by touch, the knot of my bow pulled just right. I carefully tie my long ginger hair up and apply a bit of makeup with practiced precision, even though I can't see the result. This begrudging habit started after an aging judge, long past retirement, remarked that a "lady lawyer" looks unprofessional without makeup. My red-tinted glasses sit on the nightstand, and I slide them on, the world settling into its usual warm blur of sound and texture.