Chapter 12
"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all."
Oscar Wilde
Matthew stood in the center of his dim, creaking house, surrounded by silence. The kind of silence that doesn't just fill a room—it presses against your chest. He glanced at the walls one last time. No sentiment, no sadness. Just stillness. He picked up his belongings: a few sets of clothes, his heavy weights wrapped tightly in canvas, his well-worn map of Gotham, and a weathered notebook filled with marked names.
There wasn't much.
He left without locking the door. Let the ghosts have it.
Out on the streets of Gotham, life went on like nothing was broken. Laughter, chatter, distant horns. Children ran past him. A man shouted for a cab. A woman smiled into her phone. Matthew walked through it all like a shadow—quiet, unseen, untouchable.
No direction. Just movement. A ghost in a breathing city.
And then he saw them.
Two men. Not in suits or masks. No capes. No code.
Bruce Wayne and his son, Damian.
They stood in front of a glowing café on the corner of East and Viceroy, under warm golden lights that seemed almost foreign to Gotham's usual gray.
Bruce spoke first. "Do you mind if I invite you for a drink?"
Matthew blinked slowly, sighed, then nodded once. He followed.
They entered the place. It was elegant, tasteful, and too perfect. Crystal chandeliers, polished wood floors, and a soft piano playing in the background. Gotham forgotten behind velvet curtains.
They sat at a round table near a wide window. Matthew dropped his bag under his chair and folded his hands over the table. A waiter appeared and handed them menus with a practiced smile.
They browsed in silence.
Matthew looked up. "Drinks menu?"
The waiter apologized and returned swiftly with it. Matthew studied it, running a finger down the list until he found something buried near the bottom. He named a dark, potent, aged drink that made the waiter hesitate.
Bruce chuckled lightly. "Bring it. Everything they want."
Bruce ordered an old whiskey, neat. Damian asked for water, simple and direct.
The food arrived quickly. Steak, risotto, grilled vegetables, bread that melted in your mouth. They ate in silence for a while.
Matthew finally spoke.
"So, what now?"
Bruce took a slow sip of his whiskey, watching him. "You're not going to stop. And I'm not going to stop trying to make you."
Matthew smiled. "You know I'm not gay, right?"
Bruce let out a rich laugh, like a man used to opera tickets and scandalous headlines. Damian rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath.
They continued eating.
Time passed slowly in that golden room.
Matthew leaned back in his chair. He reached for his drink, swirling it once, then took a measured sip.
"I'm not killing to save Gotham," he said, voice low. "I'm not killing to protect anyone. I'm doing this because the sickness doesn't stop unless you burn it out."
Bruce said nothing.
"You and I both know that. We know what Arkham is. We know what happens when you leave the snake alive. It grows another head."
Still, Bruce didn't speak.
Matthew looked him directly in the eyes.
"You don't kill because you're afraid. Not afraid of what you'll become—no, not that. You're afraid of how good it'll feel."
Damian glanced at his father.
Matthew continued.
"You've been throwing the same psychos into the same asylum for years, watching them get out, kill again, hurt again, and still you don't cross that line. Not because of your code. That's a lie you tell yourself. You don't kill because you're terrified of the relief. The joy. The release it would give you."
The table went silent.
"One death, Bruce. Just one. And you'd taste something so addictive you'd never stop. You'd become me."
Bruce clenched his jaw.
Matthew looked at Damian now.
"And you… you need to understand something. Your father's code is noble, yes. But it's not unbreakable. The only thing keeping him from crossing that line isn't his willpower. It's you. His family. The Robins. The League. They believe in him, and that belief is the last rope holding him back."
He sat back.
"The difference between us isn't morality. It's chains. You believe in him, so he believes in himself. Take that away, and he becomes something else."
Bruce looked at Matthew, emotion carefully locked behind his gaze. He finished his whiskey in one slow sip and placed the glass down.
"You're wrong."
Matthew shrugged. "Maybe."
The waiter came to collect their plates. He hesitated again when he saw Matthew's glass still half-full. Matthew waved him away.
They sat in silence a moment longer. Gotham pulsed quietly outside the window.
Bruce stood up.
Damian followed.
Matthew remained seated.
Bruce looked at him one last time. "You still have a choice. You always do."
Matthew tilted his head. "And what if I choose to keep going?"
Bruce's voice was calm. "Then I'll be there."
"To stop me?"
"To save you."
Matthew looked away and took another sip of his drink.
When he looked up, they were gone.
And for the first time in years, the Raven of Death sat alone—not in the shadows, not in blood—but in light.
And he didn't hate it.
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