Chapter 6
"Behind every great man is a woman rolling her eyes."
— Jim Carrey
They burst through the precinct doors like they'd just crawled out of hell.
The married couple—the ones saved by the Raven of Death—stumbled into Gotham City Police Department, still in shock. The husband's hands shook as he pointed toward the abandoned wheelhouse, trying to explain between breaths. The wife just kept muttering, "He wasn't Batman. He wasn't Batman."
But Batman already knew.
By the time the police scrambled cars and sirens, he and Robin were there first.
The wheelhouse was dead silent, except for the wind and the faint drip of old water pipes.
Victor Zsasz lay sprawled on the floor, his body cold, pale, and punctured clean through the chest.
Batman crouched near the body, his fingers brushing over the handle of the bloody knife Zsasz used. There was blood on the blade—not Zsasz's. Something fresh.
Robin stepped closer. "You think this guy got stabbed before Zsasz went down?"
Batman said nothing. He pocketed the knife and faded into the shadows.
Robin sighed and followed him.
Minutes later, flashing lights painted the building red and blue. Gotham's finest stormed in, armed and barking orders. But it was already over.
Commissioner James Gordon arrived last.
He stared down at Zsasz's corpse, tally marks and all. Then he just sighed.
"This city…"
---
By morning, every news channel in Gotham had it.
"Victor Zsasz Found Dead in Abandoned Warehouse—Raven of Death Strikes Again!"
The city buzzed like a hornet's nest.
Some were terrified.
Another killer. Another freak. Gotham was infected with them.
But others cheered louder than ever.
"He did what Batman never could!" they said.
"He's cleaning Gotham for real!"
"No more Arkham. Just a grave."
The villains of the city, however… they were not cheering.
The Mad Hatter's death was one thing. Everyone knew Tetch was only dangerous when he had his tech. Without it, he was just another creep in a hat.
But Zsasz?
Zsasz was insane. Strong. Fast. Unpredictable.
And now… dead.
They started talking. Whispers in the underworld. Fear replacing laughter.
---
Somewhere in a neon-lit hideout, Joker flipped through the news with a bowl of popcorn in his lap. Harley Quinn sat beside him, painting her nails and chewing bubblegum.
"Ooooh, Mistah J, someone's tryin' to steal your thunder!" Harley chirped, her eyes wide. "Think he's got a thing for fashion too? I mean, black is soooo last decade."
Joker didn't blink.
He stared at the screen, watching the footage of the crime scene again and again. His smile twitched. Not from humor.
"This one doesn't laugh, Harley," he said softly. "He just kills."
Harley popped her gum. "Kinda boring if ya ask me."
"No, no, no…" Joker stood, letting the popcorn spill. "This one's serious. Deadly serious. And I hate competition that doesn't know how to laugh."
---
In a darker, quieter corner of Gotham, Harvey Dent—Two-Face—flipped his coin, watching it spin in the light.
Scarred lips curled into a grin.
"He got Zsasz," he muttered. "Not bad. Not bad at all…"
The clean half of his face frowned.
"But we don't know him. We don't control him."
Flip. Tails.
"We'll find him," he whispered to the coin. "And when we do… we'll flip for his life."
---
Elsewhere, Penguin tightened his security. Black Mask ordered double patrols. Scarecrow started whispering about "new fear" in town.
The villains of Gotham were waking up to the truth.
The Raven of Death wasn't some rogue thug.
He was war.
---
Back in the Batcave, the shadows were thick.
Batman stood in front of the computer, Victor Zsasz's knife in one hand, a drop of dried blood on its edge.
Alfred approached with a tray of tea. "I do hope this won't become your new hobby, sir—sampling the bodily fluids of psychopaths."
Robin chuckled behind him. "Don't worry, Alfred. He only tastes the vintage ones."
Batman inserted the sample into the scanner.
Silence filled the cave as the computer hummed and processed the DNA.
Robin leaned on the railing, waiting. "You think we'll actually get a match?"
Alfred adjusted his cufflinks. "If the gentleman was ever caught sneezing in public, Master Wayne will find him."
The machine beeped.
Match found.
Name: Matthew Vale
Age: 25
Status: Alive
Parents: Deceased—murdered in Gotham when Matthew was 18
Afterward: Disappeared. No records. No sightings. No activity.
Robin raised an eyebrow. "So… ghost boy decides to come back to Gotham and play Grim Reaper?"
Batman didn't speak. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the name.
"Matthew Vale," he said softly. "I remember the case."
Robin stepped closer. "You handled it?"
Batman nodded once.
"His parents were good people. Shot in front of him."
Robin frowned. "And he just vanished after that?"
"Vanished," Batman confirmed. "No college. No work. No ID. Nothing. It's like he stopped existing."
Alfred stepped forward. "And now he's back, carving murderers like Sunday roast. Quite the resurrection story, wouldn't you say?"
Robin crossed his arms. "What now? We bring him in?"
Batman didn't answer.
Instead, he stared at the screen, the picture of Matthew Vale glowing softly.
Not a mugshot. Not a killer's grin.
Just a boy. Eighteen. Eyes hollow even back then.
---
Above Gotham, rain began to fall again.
And in the alleys where even light refused to enter, something moved.
Black clothes. Black mask. Black pipe in hand.
Matthew Vale stood on the edge of a rooftop, looking down at the city that ruined him.
He didn't speak. He didn't smile.
But in his eyes, there was only silence.
And death.
---
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