Chapter 14
"The scariest monsters are the ones that lurk within our souls."
Edgar Allan Poe
The city was quiet again, not because it had found peace, but because it was holding its breath.
The Raven of Death had struck again.
This time, it wasn't a villain with a costume or a twisted riddle. It was five men. Five predators. Five walking sins. Men who had once taken what was not theirs—who had stolen innocence, crushed spirit, and walked free after a courtroom whispered "rehabilitated" and shut the door.
Now those doors were graves.
And Gotham didn't cry for them.
...
The streets of Gotham pulsed with neon and smoke. Garbage lined the alleys like rotting memories, and the people walked with their heads low, shoulders up, each one pretending not to be afraid of what whispered through the night.
But in that silent fear… something new was growing.
Not terror.
Not anger.
But approval.
The Raven had become a shadow myth—some said demon, others angel, others still said he was just a man doing what needed to be done.
People started pinning black feathers on their coats, drawing them on walls, talking about him in hushed tones the way religious folk spoke of salvation.
And high above it all, on a rooftop far from the streets, Matthew stood.
He had no shirt on, just dark pants and scars that told stories he never would. His mask hung at his side, and the cold wind kissed his face.
A cigarette burned between his fingers.
He was watching the city. Studying it like a wounded animal he was slowly putting down.
Then came the voice.
"I thought I'd find you here."
He didn't turn around.
He didn't need to.
He knew the voice.
Barbara Gordon.
Not as Batgirl. Not even as Oracle.
Just… Barbara.
She was standing there in civilian clothes. Her red hair tied back, a coat wrapped around her body, but the fire in her eyes was unmistakable. It wasn't the fire of hatred. It wasn't even judgment.
It was fear.
But not of him.
Of what he was making Gotham believe in.
"You killed five men in their sleep," she said softly. "You didn't even let them see your face."
Matthew finally turned his head toward her. His eyes—dead, hollow, endless—locked onto hers. And he said nothing. Because what was there to say?
She shook her head. "And yet… people are celebrating you. Like you're some kind of savior."
"I'm not," Matthew replied. His voice was calm. Low. Like a storm brewing beneath the surface. "I'm not here to save Gotham. I'm here to clean it."
Barbara stepped closer, her boots clicking on the rooftop tiles. "Do you know what you're doing? You're turning people into believers of death. Not justice. Not law. Death."
"No," he said coldly. "I'm reminding them what fear tastes like. The real kind. The kind that comes when monsters know they're not the apex anymore."
She didn't flinch, but her breath quickened. "What about mercy? What about giving people a chance to change?"
Matthew crushed the cigarette under his boot, eyes never leaving hers.
"They already had it," he said. "And they used it to destroy lives."
Barbara bit her lip. Her voice cracked. "You're becoming something that can't be stopped. Not even Bruce knows what to do with you anymore."
"I'm not asking him to," Matthew said. He took a step closer, and for a moment, there was something in his eyes that flickered—pain, maybe. Memory. "But don't come here and talk to me about mercy. Not in a city that gave none."
There was silence between them. Thick. Heavy. Suffocating.
Then, Barbara whispered, "What happened to you?"
Matthew looked at the city again. He took a deep breath.
And he answered.
"I survived."
...
Later that night, as he walked the rooftops again, the wind brushed his coat and whispered through the empty spaces in his soul. His feet carried him, his mind far away, lost in a place only he could see.
A place where the Raven was not a myth, but a mirror.
And Gotham?
Gotham was slowly falling in love with its reflection.
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