Chapter 11
"Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win." — Stephen King
The morning news hit Gotham like a quiet scream—no fanfare, no warnings. Just a cold headline whispering across TV screens, newspapers, and phone alerts:
THE RIDDLER FOUND DEAD. MURDERED.
THE RAVEN OF DEATH STRIKES AGAIN.
No riddles. No final laugh. Just silence.
The people of Gotham had seen blood before, danced with chaos. But this wasn't chaos. This was surgical. Intentional. Clean.
First, the Mad Hatter. Then Victor Zsasz. Now, The Riddler.
Three names. Three corpses. And a message clearer than anything Batman had ever etched into the Gotham skyline:
"This is war."
...
In the Batcave, the silence stretched like a rubber band pulled too tight.
Damian stood rigid near the Batcomputer, watching the footage loop again and again. The body. The blood. The symbol.
He clenched his fists.
"We need to stop him, father. Now."
Bruce didn't speak. He simply pulled the cowl over his face and walked away.
...
Batman and Robin came again to
The ghost house and it hadn't changed. Still broken, still breathing a silence that felt heavier than the city outside. But this time, something was different.
The front door didn't creak open—it exploded.
Wood split, hinges tore, and the door crashed into the floor with a force that sent dust and splinters across the porch like shrapnel.
And above it—bleeding, bruised, broken—was Catwoman.
Her mask was torn at the cheek. Blood ran from her lip. Her claws were bent, broken. She wasn't moving.
Batman moved fast.
Damian's eyes widened.
Then—
Matthew walked through the broken doorway, barefoot, shirtless, breathing like a man who had been at war.
There were scratches on his neck, a deep cut across his ribs, and a cracked knuckle dripping blood down his forearm.
His voice came low, sharp, raw:
"She touched my mother's necklace."
Batman ran forward. His boot slammed into Matthew's chest, knocking him back into the house. Catwoman lay on the floor gasping, coughing.
Damian caught her.
Batman stepped inside, the shadows swallowing his cape.
Matthew was already standing again, shaking off the kick like it was a tap on the shoulder.
"You said you only kill criminals," Batman growled.
Matthew's eyes flashed.
"And I stand by it. But that little bitch? She walked into my house like it was some museum and tried to steal the only thing I have left from my mother."
His voice cracked slightly. The word mother hung in the air like smoke.
He stepped closer, bleeding but calm.
"Of all the houses in this cursed city, she picked mine. And of all the junk in this place, she touched that."
Batman didn't speak. Not yet. He looked down at Matthew's hand, still shaking slightly. He saw the blood, the bruises. He saw something deeper—something unraveling.
"You beat her nearly to death."
"I stopped before I killed her. That's mercy, right?"
Batman looked back at Damian, who was pressing gauze against Catwoman's head.
Matthew stepped closer.
"You think I'm the monster. But I'm not the one who lets them keep coming back."
Bruce finally looked him in the eye.
"This path ends in one place. Alone."
Matthew tilted his head.
"Better alone and clean than surrounded by ghosts."
Batman's jaw tightened.
"You're losing yourself."
Matthew smiled, faintly. It was not joy. It was bitterness wrapped in resignation.
"You can't lose something that was taken from you a long time ago."
He walked back to the couch, wiping blood from his nose.
"You saw what happened. She came here. She made her choice. I just made mine."
Batman said nothing. Damian stood silently at the door, watching Matthew lie down again, like the world around him wasn't spinning.
Matthew looked at the ceiling, exhaled.
"Next time you want to talk morality, Bruce, don't bring someone who breaks into homes for a living."
He closed his eyes.
And just like that, he was asleep.
Like nothing happened at all.
...
Outside, the wind whispered through the trees.
Inside, a broken door, a bruised thief, and a man lost between vengeance and survival.
Batman stepped outside, his voice quiet.
"We watch him. Every move. Every step."
Damian nodded.
Catwoman said nothing.
Because even she knew—those eyes weren't human.
Not anymore.
And Gotham was running out of time.
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