Chapter 13
"There is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in."
Leonard Cohen
After Bruce and Damian left, Matthew sat alone for a minute longer, letting the warmth of good food and old whiskey settle in his stomach. The soft clink of glasses and low hum of elegant laughter surrounded him, but he was no longer part of it. He didn't belong in this golden place built on top of Gotham's rot.
He stood, grabbed his worn duffel bag from beneath the table, and made his way to the door. The night had settled in completely by now, stretching its velvet shadows across the city like a blanket of secrets. Outside, the Gotham air smelled like smoke and wet pavement. Matthew lit a cigarette with one hand, watching the flame reflect in the puddles near the curb.
The moon hung low and bright above the skyscrapers. For the first time in what felt like centuries, Matthew felt… something. Maybe it was that dinner. Maybe it was Damian and Bruce sitting across from him like he mattered, like they weren't just waiting to shoot him in the back. Maybe it was just sharing a drink with people who didn't look at him like a monster.
He didn't know. And truthfully, he didn't care.
A small smile flickered across his face. Not one of triumph or satisfaction—just a flicker of something human. Something fragile. It disappeared almost as quickly as it came.
He walked deeper into the night.
---
The next morning, Gotham woke up to another shockwave.
BREAKING NEWS: The Raven of Death Strikes Again. Five Men Found Dead in Apartment Complex. All Previously Convicted of Rape. All Released from Blackgate Prison Within the Last Year.
The report was everywhere. Televisions. Radios. Phones. Even the cracked digital billboards above Gotham Square carried his name in trembling text.
The anchors struggled to contain their expressions. It wasn't fear. It wasn't horror. It was something else.
Approval.
One of them even whispered it live on air:
"I know it's wrong to cheer, but... it's hard not to."
Because this time, Matthew hadn't gone after supervillains or mob bosses. He had found five men who had walked free after serving token sentences. Five men who had torn lives apart and were now living as if nothing had happened. Matthew found them in their beds. No struggle. No screaming. No escape.
He killed them quietly, methodically. A blade across each throat. One by one.
By dawn, they were cold.
And for once, Gotham didn't mourn.
Mothers clutched their children tighter and whispered thank you to a name they once feared. Fathers turned to their wives and nodded, solemn and quiet. Victims sat in front of their TVs and cried, not because someone had died—but because finally, someone listened.
The Bible. The Quran. The Torah. Every scripture carved by divine hand had said the same thing in different tongues: the rapist must be punished. Yet for years, Gotham turned a blind eye, coddled justice, handed out parole.
But not him.
The Raven of Death listened. The Raven of Death did the work.
---
In a small, dirty motel on the edge of the Narrows, Matthew sat shirtless on the bed, cleaning his blade. The moonlight shone through the cracked blinds, and the television flickered silently in the background.
The news was still talking about him.
He didn't smile this time. He just smoked.
And for a second, in the quiet of that room, with his scarred chest rising and falling, Matthew whispered to himself:
"God sees everything... And i do his job"
He picked up the next file.
There were more names. Always more.
And the Raven of Death was far from done.
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