Daredevil / Punisher: The Devil’s Trigger #1 – Rinse, Repeat, Routine

Every now and then, one of Marvel’s endless supply of throwback titles manages to snag my attention. The late Peter David more or less owned this loose publishing initiative with books like Symbiote Spider-Man, so I was hopeful that Daredevil/Punisher: The Devil’s Trigger #1 might step in as a similarly noteworthy effort from another veteran creator. It doesn’t quite reach that bar, but Palmiotti and the team still deliver a confident, tightly executed first chapter that treats familiar ground like terrain worth revisiting.

At its core, the book is another round of cat and mouse between Matt Murdock and Frank Castle, two men locked in a philosophical stalemate that erupts, as always, in bruised ribs and emptied magazines. Frank once again tries to expose what he sees as Matt’s hypocrisy through morally gray theatrics, and Palmiotti doesn’t chase novelty or shock value to make the dynamic feel fresh. Instead, he stages this confrontation as if this is the first time their ethical divide has ever existed—stripping away decades of continuity baggage and focusing on the raw ideological friction between them. It’s a deliberate choice, and one that gives the story a strangely timeless quality without relying on nostalgia directly. It’s nothing new on a conceptual level, even in its framing.

My enjoyment of this issue rests on how precisely Palmiotti nails the core identities of both characters. His Matt isn’t beholden to any particular era, he’s simply, unmistakably Daredevil: stubbornly idealistic, emotionally flammable, and ten steps into trouble before he notices the staircase. His Frank, meanwhile, feels like a pressure cooker with legs, channeling a blend of righteous fury and unspoken self-loathing that makes his crusade feel less like vigilantism and more like a slow-motion implosion. This tension gives the narrative real momentum. As Frank’s escalating violence sends the city’s criminal underbelly into a reactive frenzy, the story builds a sense of inevitability where his moral argument is undermine by the direct consequences of his actions. And the way Castle targets Matt has this unsettling Saw-like quality, as though he’s crafting moral torture scenarios to prove a point only he can see.

The visuals, though, polish the story with a rather subtle atmosphere. Bianchi’s linework is jagged, moody, and textured in a way that makes every alley and rooftop feel sticky with grime. It’s not conventionally polished, but it doesn’t need to be; the looseness of his illustrations gives the story a feverish edge, as if the pages themselves are fraying under the weight of these two men’s obsessions. The paneling is deceptively straightforward, yet Bianchi uses spacing, shadow, and texture to coax out a cinematic rhythm that works well with Palmiotti’s scripting style. While not anything unique it embraces the murk, the weight, and the moral rot that have defined these Marvel Knights for years now.