Chapter 9
"Hell is empty and all the devils are here."
— William Shakespeare
Matthew Vale opened his eyes.
It was morning. Light seeped through the cracked blinds, casting crooked shadows on the floor.
Two figures stood in front of him.
Not Batman.
Not Robin.
The Joker.
And Harley Quinn.
Matthew exhaled slowly.
A sigh. Flat and unimpressed.
"I really should find another place," he muttered. "Everyone just walks in and out like it's a damn Waffle House."
He didn't sit up. Didn't flinch.
Just stared up at them like he was looking at dust.
"What do you want?"
The Joker smiled. That too-wide grin like something painted on.
Twisted. Unnatural.
Matthew didn't blink.
Joker leaned forward slightly, watching him the way a child watches a ticking bomb.
Harley grinned and skipped over.
In one quick, flirty motion, she slid into Matthew's lap.
One hand on his jaw. Her voice sickly sweet.
"You look beautiful," she whispered.
Matthew finally moved.
He turned his face toward her slowly.
And Harley saw them.
His eyes.
They weren't human.
They weren't even monstrous.
They were worse.
Cold. Hollow.
Dead.
Not the kind of dead you see in a corpse.
The kind of dead that lives.
The kind of dead that remembers.
Harley Quinn didn't breathe.
She felt like she was standing in an endless black room, no floor beneath her, just floating… and above her, two eyes.
Staring.
Unblinking.
Infinite.
Then a voice. Flat. Commanding.
"Move."
That was it. Just one word.
Harley jumped off him so fast she hit the floor, her breath caught in her throat.
Sweat rolled down her spine. Her hands shook.
She didn't even speak.
Matthew sat up. Finally.
Looked at the Joker.
"What do you want?" he asked again. This time with less patience.
The Joker cackled. A high-pitched, choking laugh that echoed through the room.
"Well! First off—love that energy," he said, pointing with glee. "Second—I need you to stop taking up Batman's time."
Matthew blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"He's mine," Joker said with a delighted twirl of his wrist. "Always has been. We've got something special, Something sacred. And then you come along, with your knives and your rage and your 'I don't feel anything' vibe—"
Matthew cut him off.
Flat voice.
"Man, I don't…" He paused. "You know what? Sure. Whatever. He's all yours."
Joker opened his mouth to speak again, but Matthew stood.
"And while you're at it," he added, "take this… gay little vibe with you. Because Jesus, it's like you're in love with him."
Joker froze.
Harley gasped.
Matthew ignored both of them.
Walked to the kitchen.
Splashed cold water on his face.
Took his shirt off.
The room went quiet.
Joker and Harley stared.
His body… it wasn't just fit.
It was carved from war.
Every inch marked with scars, stab wounds, burns.
A walking graveyard of survival.
This was not the body of a 25-year-old.
This was the body of someone who had endured.
Matthew began doing push-ups like it was just another morning.
Then squats.
Then picked up a makeshift weight bar.
Joker watched him with a strange expression.
Almost curious.
Almost impressed.
"Y'know," Joker said slowly, "I don't see my name on that little death map of yours."
Matthew didn't stop lifting.
Didn't even look at him.
"You're not on the list," he said.
Joker tilted his head.
"Why not?"
Matthew finally stood up straight and turned.
Eyes cold.
"Because you're not yet on it."
Silence.
The Joker stopped smiling.
Harley slowly stood, backing away a few steps.
The room felt darker now.
Colder.
Matthew walked past both of them.
Lit another cigarette.
The Joker chuckled softly.
"Well," he said, "I like you, . You've got that… classic Gotham vibe. You should come play with us sometime."
Matthew blew smoke into the air.
"I'm not here to play."
Joker licked his lips.
"I think you are. I think you don't even realize it yet."
Matthew didn't reply.
Didn't need to.
The Joker took a step closer, lowering his voice.
"Y'know… killing them one by one? You'll never win. You'll just be feeding the city. Gotham loves blood. Loves madness. You're not fixing it."
Matthew turned his head slightly.
"I know."
Joker raised a brow.
"You do?"
Matthew's voice was steady.
"I'm not trying to fix Gotham. I'm trying to hurt it."
Harley inhaled sharply.
Joker stared.
That smile returned. But this time, it was softer.
Less joy.
More… curiosity.
"You're more like me than you think," Joker said.
Matthew turned toward him.
"No," he said calmly. "I'm worse."
Another pause.
And Joker believed him.
Harley tugged on Joker's arm.
"Let's go, Puddin'. I don't like him."
"Neither do I," Joker muttered, still watching. "But I think I'll keep an eye on him."
He grinned.
"See you soon, ghost boy."
With that, they were gone.
Laughter echoing down the broken hallway as they vanished into Gotham's veins.
Matthew sat back down.
Closed his eyes.
The room fell silent again.
And in that silence…
Gotham exhaled.
---
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