Chapter 8
"The only real prison is fear, and the only real freedom is freedom from fear."
— Aung San Suu Kyi
They looked at each other.
No words.
No anger.
No masks.
Just three men standing in a broken house with too many ghosts.
Matthew Vale.
Bruce Wayne.
Damian Wayne.
The silence between them was louder than any scream.
Because in that moment, the masks didn't matter.
The capes didn't matter.
The codes.
The lines.
The oaths.
None of it mattered.
Batman didn't move.
Robin didn't speak.
And for the first time in a very long time…
Batman didn't know what to say.
Because Matthew was right.
Every time Batman caught them—Scarecrow, Zsasz, Mad Hatter, Two-Face, Joker—they went to Arkham.
And every time, they escaped.
And every time, someone else died.
He told himself he was doing the right thing.
He told himself his code was sacred.
That if he crossed that line—just once—he would become the very thing he fought against.
But now, looking at Matthew, he wasn't so sure anymore.
Matthew had no cape.
No emblem.
No legacy.
Just loss.
Just pain.
And now—a mission soaked in blood.
And maybe… he wasn't wrong.
Matthew sat on the couch, finishing his cigarette like it was the last one on Earth.
Then he looked at Bruce.
"One day," he said, voice low and dry, "you'll have to choose."
Batman didn't answer.
"You'll either kill your enemy," Matthew continued, "or someone you care about will die. And that guilt? That weight?"
He tapped the side of his head gently.
"It'll live right here. Inside you. Forever."
Robin's jaw clenched. His fists tightened. But he didn't interrupt.
Matthew's eyes were hollow now—old despite his age.
"In that moment," he said, "if you kill him, you'll break your code. But if you don't… you'll break yourself."
Batman flinched—but just barely.
"And it won't be loud. It won't be a scream. No. It'll be slow. Quiet. You'll go on, doing your mission. But inside? You'll be bleeding every day."
He looked at Damian now.
"And you," Matthew said.
The boy stared back, unblinking.
"You're torn between two legacies. One teaches peace. The other teaches death. Your mother taught you that power is absolute. Your father teaches you restraint. But someday, you'll be alone in a room with a killer, and no orders. Just your own voice."
He pointed to his heart.
"Whose voice will you listen to then?"
Damian said nothing.
He didn't know.
Matthew leaned back into the couch.
His eyes half-closed.
The city howled in the distance. A siren. A scream. Maybe a laugh. Gotham's lullaby.
"You know what I realized?" Matthew murmured. "Justice isn't a symbol. It's not some bat on a chest or a courtroom or a cage."
He lit another cigarette, even though he didn't finish the last one.
"Justice," he said, "is a body that doesn't get to kill again."
The smoke hung between them like fog.
Batman looked down at the map again. Six red Xs.
And dozens more waiting.
He looked back at Matthew.
The young man's face was calm now. Not peaceful. But quiet.
There was no hate in his voice.
No rage.
Only conviction.
The kind that couldn't be broken.
Only buried.
Batman opened his mouth—but nothing came out.
Robin stepped forward—but didn't speak either.
Because what could they say?
What could they offer a boy who already lost everything but purpose?
Matthew's eyes flicked to them one last time.
"If you're here to fight," he said, "do it. If you're here to take me in, then try. But if you're here because you don't know what to do…"
He turned away.
"Then get out of my house."
He laid back onto the couch, pulling his hoodie over his eyes.
"I'd like to sleep now," he muttered. "Been a long week."
Batman didn't move.
Robin didn't speak.
They just stood there.
Two symbols of Gotham's hope and order—left speechless by a man with no mask, no name, and nothing left to lose.
---
Outside, the rain started falling.
Slow. Cold. Unrelenting.
Inside, Matthew slept.
Or tried to.
And Batman stood in the ruins of someone else's grief…
Wondering if this was how it all ended.
Not with a scream.
Not with a gunshot.
But with silence.
---
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