Chapter 7
"Do not go gentle into that good night… Rage, rage against the dying of the light."
— Dylan Thomas
In a forgotten corner of Gotham, where broken glass lined the windows and the walls carried memories of screams, Matthew Vale moved in silence.
His small house was more a tomb than a home. Dust lingered in the air like ghosts. Shadows clung to every corner.
On the old wooden table, a weathered map lay stretched and pinned. Dozens of names were written across Gotham's streets—names that once echoed with fear, power, and blood.
And over six of them, a bold red "X" had been marked.
Victor Zsasz.
Mad Hatter.
And four others not even known by Batman
Matthew didn't smile. He didn't speak.
He sat down on the torn couch, took off his hoodie, and looked at the wound on his side. A small cut from the fight with Zsasz.
It barely hurt.
He threaded a needle, calmly sewing the flesh without flinching. His fingers were steady. Mechanical.
Like he'd done it a hundred times before.
When the final stitch was pulled tight, he leaned back.
Eyes closed. Smoke rising in the cold room.
He didn't care what the news said.
He didn't care what heroes thought.
Or what villains whispered.
He only cared about one thing.
Killing them all.
---
The sound of boots on old wood stirred him.
Matthew opened his eyes.
Two figures stood before him, cloaked in shadow and silence.
Batman.
Robin.
He didn't move at first. Just sighed, stood up, and walked past them like they weren't there.
In the dim kitchen, he drank water from a chipped glass. Then lit a cigarette with a match he struck on the wall.
The smoke danced in the low light.
He walked back into the room. Calm. Unbothered.
Batman was already looking at the map. His eyes scanned the names. The pattern. The intent.
Robin stood beside him, fists clenched, jaw tense.
Matthew exhaled a thin stream of smoke.
"What brings you here?" he asked, voice low. "I don't remember inviting Bruce Wayne to my ghost house."
Both Batman and Robin flinched, if only slightly.
Batman's gaze narrowed.
Robin took a step forward.
Matthew's smirk was faint.
"You're not the only one who can put two and two together, Bruce," he said. "You think the League doesn't keep files? Or that I wouldn't find them eventually?"
Batman said nothing. But his silence spoke volumes.
"You killed the Mad Hatter," Batman finally said. "And Victor Zsasz."
Matthew shrugged. "And?"
Robin stepped forward, voice edged. "We want you to stop, kid."
Matthew's eyes slid to him.
"Damian Thomas Wayne," he said flatly. "Son of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul. Grandson of Ra's al Ghul. Raised in blood. Raised to kill."
Robin's expression cracked. Batman's eyes widened ever so slightly.
Matthew kept smoking.
"I know everything. I know the parts you buried. The things you don't tell even each other."
Robin opened his mouth to snap back, but Matthew's voice cut through.
"You saw how I fight, Batman. You already guessed. Yes—I was trained by someone the League thought they killed. Someone Ra's himself tried to erase."
He took another drag from the cigarette, letting it burn.
"But your not here to talk about the League. Or your son. Or your secrets."
He turned toward the map. Toward the blood-red marks.
"You remember, don't you?" he asked. "Seven years ago."
Batman didn't reply. But his silence now… it was heavy.
"A criminal," Matthew continued, eyes locked on the wall. "One of your regulars. Nothing special. But he made a game out of it. He took one of your Robins. And he took my parents."
Robin went still.
"He made you choose," Matthew said, voice low. "Save the boy. Or save the couple."
Batman closed his eyes. Just once.
"You tried to save them all. I know. I know you did."
Matthew turned to him. His eyes weren't angry. They were hollow.
"I'm not blaming you, Bruce. I respect you for trying."
He walked closer, ash falling from his cigarette.
"But tell me this," Matthew whispered. "Why?"
Batman looked up. "Why what?"
Matthew stepped even closer. His voice cracked just slightly, showing the first sliver of pain beneath the control.
"Why did you catch him?" he asked. "Why put him in Arkham?"
Batman didn't answer.
Matthew kept going.
"He killed my parents. Tortured them. Made you choose. And when you caught him, when you had him… you put him in Arkham."
He inhaled slowly, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Two weeks later, he was out. Playing the same game. Different family. Different victim."
Batman's eyes lowered.
"It kept happening," Matthew said. "Again. And again. And again."
And now, his voice was sharp. Bitter.
"You knew he'd escape. They always do. And every time he did, more people died. Good people. Like my parents."
He let the cigarette fall to the floor. Crushed it under his heel.
"So tell me," Matthew whispered. "Why didn't you kill him?"
The silence that followed felt like a storm about to break.
Robin looked at his father, searching for the answer himself.
Batman's jaw tightened.
"Because if I start," he said finally, "I won't stop."
Matthew just stared.
"That's the excuse?" he asked. "That's the grand line between us?"
"I live by a code," Batman said. "A line I won't cross. It's the only thing that separates me from them."
Matthew shook his head slowly.
"Then maybe that's the problem," he said. "You refuse to cross that line, and they… they count on it."
Robin stepped in, his voice firm. "You think killing them fixes it?"
Matthew met his gaze.
"I think it ends it."
He turned and walked back to the couch, sat down like the conversation had drained him.
"You're not here to arrest me," he said. "You're not even sure if you want to stop me."
He looked at Batman.
"You're here because part of you wonders if I'm right."
Batman didn't answer.
But he didn't deny it either.
---
Outside, Gotham breathed in smoke and rain.
Inside that ghost house, three souls stood in silence.
One wore the mask of justice.
One wore the scars of war.
And one, the hollow eyes of vengeance with nothing left to lose.
And somewhere, far from that house… another name waited for its red "X."
---
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