Chapter 5
"I am not what happened to me. I am what I choose to become."
— Carl Jung
A week had passed since the night Gotham changed. Since the Mad Hatter was found dead with his brain crushed
The city hadn't been quiet since.
Everywhere—from the slums to the penthouses—the same name echoed. The Raven of Death.
Some saw him as a menace. Another lunatic in a city drowning in madness. Another name soon to be thrown into Arkham, sedated, forgotten.
But others saw him differently.
They cheered him. Whispered his name like it was a prayer.
They said Batman locked them up. But they always escaped. Always came back. Always killed again.
But now… now they were dying.
The criminals were afraid. And the people of Gotham were starting to believe something they hadn't believed in years.
Change.
Not justice. Not hope. But fear-driven change.
And in the dark corner of a decaying city, the man at the center of it all prepared for his next act.
---
Matthew Vale had chosen his next name.
Victor Zsasz.
He'd studied him for days, never breaking the pattern. Following him from rooftops. Watching how he stalked his prey. He memorized every move. Every twitch.
He didn't just follow Zsasz's path.
He lived inside it.
He read his history. Learned his story. Understood the mind beneath the monster.
And when the moment came, he was already waiting in the shadows.
---
The abandoned wheelhouse near Tricorner Docks smelled of rot and wet metal. Water dripped from rusted pipes above, echoing through the empty structure.
Victor Zsasz stood in the middle of the vast, dark space with two hostages tied to chairs. A married couple—middle-aged, bruised, terrified. Duct tape covered their mouths.
Zsasz was shirtless, his pale chest riddled with tally marks—each one a life taken. He traced a fresh one onto his ribs with the tip of his knife, humming softly to himself.
Then a sound. A whisper in the dark.
He turned.
"Batman," Zsasz smirked, licking his lips. "Took you long enough. I was starting to get bored."
But the figure stepping out of the shadows wasn't the Bat.
Not even close.
A boy, no older than 20 Dressed in black from head to toe. His mask handmade, crude but terrifying in the flickering light. And in his hand—an iron pipe, wrapped in tape at the base, the end sharpened to a brutal point.
Zsasz blinked, confused. "Who invited this little shit to the party? Go home, kid. I'm waiting for someone important."
Matthew didn't move.
He tilted his head and spoke, voice calm, detached.
"Victor Zsasz was once the head of his own international company. Rich. Privileged. Your parents died in a boating accident when you were twenty-five. Sent you spiraling."
Zsasz squinted. "What the hell are you—"
Matthew kept going.
"You turned to gambling. Lost everything at the Iceberg Lounge. Lost to the Penguin. Lost your mind. Tried to kill yourself off Gotham Bridge."
Zsasz's eyes turned bloodshot with rage. "Shut the fuck up, you little bitch—"
"Then a homeless man tried to mug you. You took his knife. Killed him. Saw the truth in his eyes. That life is meaningless. That nothing matters. You called it a gift. So you started giving the world more."
Zsasz exploded.
Screaming, he charged with his knife raised high.
But Matthew was already moving.
He ducked low and slammed the pipe into Zsasz's neck. Bone cracked. The killer stumbled back—but Matthew didn't stop.
He struck again. Hard.
Stomach.
Thigh.
Feet.
Forehead.
Eye.
Mouth.
Lips.
Zsasz fell. Screaming. Blood pouring down his face and torso, mixing with the tally marks like rivers of punishment.
Matthew stood over him, calm again. Voice steady.
"You fought Batman before. But tonight, you fought without your mind. You fought with anger. And now… you die."
Zsasz roared and lunged, despite his wounds. He grabbed Matthew by the hoodie and drove his blade into his stomach.
But Matthew didn't flinch.
He slipped out of the hoodie like a shadow shedding its skin. Zsasz stumbled back, holding the empty cloth.
He looked up—and saw it.
Matthew's body stood bare-chested now, marked with scars far deeper than Zsasz's. The muscle of survival, not vanity.
But it was the eyes behind the mask that made Zsasz freeze.
Black eyes. Cold. Still. Empty.
The voice that followed was quieter than death.
"Say hi to the devil for me."
Then Matthew drove the sharpened tip of the pipe into Zsasz's chest.
The steel pierced flesh, ribs, heart. Went through clean. Blood splattered across the floor.
Zsasz's mouth gaped open. No scream. Just shock. Then nothing.
Matthew pulled the pipe free and stood there for a moment. Listening to the silence.
He turned to the hostages.
They looked at him like he was a ghost. Or worse.
He moved to the man, cut his ropes with the sharp end of the pipe.
Then walked out.
No words. No thanks. No praise.
Just the soft sound of boots fading into the night.
The Raven had claimed another.
And Gotham would wake up tomorrow with another red X on the board.
Another nightmare buried in blood.
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